Chapter 170 The Version People Believe

Chapter 170 The Version People Believe
At Fletcher, a girl could survive almost anything except becoming the wrong story.

I knew that before I even reached the east atrium.

Conversations thinned when I stepped through the glass doors, like someone had pressed a finger against the school’s mouth. Girls by the marble directory pretended to fix their lip gloss while watching me through the reflection.

It had never felt heavier. I kept walking.

My hands were cold around my bag strap, but I made my face behave. That was Fletcher’s first rule. If you were afraid, do not look afraid. If you were breaking, do not make noise. If everyone was staring, pretend you had somewhere more important to be than inside their judgment.

A notification lit up my phone. Then six more. I did not open them. This felt mature for approximately three seconds.

Then someone whispered, “That’s her.”

My stomach tightened.

I passed the Founder’s Wall, where gold-framed Fletcher men stared down like they had personally invented pressure. Beneath them, a group of juniors moved aside too quickly, creating a path no one had asked for.

Blocking me would have been honest. Letting me pass like I was contagious felt like a verdict.

Krizzy appeared from the west corridor so fast I almost collided with her. Her ponytail was slightly crooked, which meant she was either furious, late, or both. Her eyes swept over my face, then dropped to my phone.

“Tell me you haven’t checked your phone,” Krizzy said.

“I saw the notifications.”

“But not the posts?”

“No.”

“Good.” She caught my wrist and pulled me behind one of the tall stone columns near the trophy alcove. “Don’t read them where people can watch your face.”

That made my stomach drop more than the notifications had.

“It’s that bad?”

Krizzy’s mouth tightened.

“It’s worse because it doesn’t look bad at first.”

I looked at her phone.

“I know.” Her voice lowered. “But you need to see what version they’re believing before you walk into it.”

This feels more mature and emotionally grounded. It also makes Krizzy useful instead of just comic relief, and it keeps the tension moving.

Then Krizzy held up her phone. The first post was from Fletcher After Dark.

Some girls get one dance and think they’re untouchable.

Under it was a blurred photo from the Founder’s Ball. Isaac crossing the ballroom. Me standing still in the light. Farrah in the corner, face soft and wounded in that perfect way only rich girls managed without smudging anything.

The next screenshot was worse.

Farrah handled that so gracefully. Clara looked like she was falling apart.

Another one.

Imagine embarrassing yourself at Founder’s Ball and still showing up.

The words did not stab all at once. They entered slowly, like cold water finding every crack in me.

Krizzy’s jaw tightened. “She’s good.”

I looked at her. Krizzy turned the phone off and lowered her voice.

“She’s not attacking you. She’s narrating you.”

My throat felt too small.

“That’s worse.”

“Exactly. If she calls you desperate, people question her. If she says she’s worried about you, people praise her for being kind.”

I looked down at my scholar pin. Farrah did not need everyone to hate me.

She only needed them to repeat her version first.

And by morning, they had.

The first warning that the rumors had grown legs was not from a student.

It was from Ms. Delacourt.

She stood at the front of Advanced Literature with her tablet tucked against her blazer, her silver glasses low on her nose, and the expression of someone who had already been briefed by people who used words like concern when they meant liability.

When I slipped into my seat, her gaze paused on me.

“Miss Smith,” she said, voice smooth. “I trust you’ll be able to remain focused today.”

My fingers tightened around my pen.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” She turned back to the board. “Discipline is not proven when things are easy.”

A few students lowered their eyes to their notes. One girl near the windows smiled at her page. I wrote the date at the top of my notebook even though my hand was shaking.

The lesson moved on to narrative reliability, which felt personally rude. Ms. Delacourt asked a question about how public perception shapes a character before the character can defend herself.

No one answered. I could feel Krizzy looking at me from two rows over, silently begging me not to volunteer for emotional irony.

I raised my hand anyway. Because if I stayed quiet, I would feel like the rumor had entered the room and taken my seat.

Ms. Delacourt’s brows lifted. “Miss Smith?”

“A story becomes dangerous,” I said, keeping my voice steady, “when people care more about who tells it first than whether it’s true.”

Silence. Then Ms. Delacourt gave one small nod.

“Precisely.”

Across the room, Farrah Valdez smiled.

By midmorning, she was standing beneath the arched windows outside the old music wing, surrounded by girls who looked expensive even when they whispered.

I was almost past them when Farrah’s voice floated after me, soft enough to sound accidental.

“I really hope Clara is okay. Last night seemed overwhelming for her.”

Someone murmured, “You were so graceful about it.”

Farrah gave a tiny, wounded laugh. “I just didn’t want things to become uglier.”

My feet stopped for half a second. Krizzy’s hand brushed my elbow. A warning

I kept walking.

Isaac found me outside the archive stairwell before third period.

He did not touch me. He only stepped into my path, close enough that the noise from the corridor thinned around us.

His eyes moved over my face once.

“You saw them.”

It was not a question.

“Yes.”

His jaw tightened. “Let me say something.”

“And prove their point?” My voice came out quieter than I wanted. “That I need you to clean up after me?”

“That’s not what this is.”

“That’s what they’ll make it.”

For a second, the anger in his face sharpened into something colder.

“I meant what I said last night,” he said. “You don’t face this alone.”

The words hit the part of me that wanted to lean closer and forget there were walls thin enough for rumors. But I made myself breathe.

“Then don’t give them another scene.”

His eyes stayed on mine. “Tell me what helps.”

The question almost undid me. Because Isaac Fletcher did not ask people where to stand. He decided. He moved. The world adjusted. Now he was waiting for me.

“Let me walk into this first,” I whispered.

Something flickered across his face, but he nodded.

“Then I’m right behind you.”

By noon, I had almost convinced myself that surviving the morning counted as winning. Then a student aide stopped at our table in the east conservatory and handed me a folded ivory slip.

Miss Clara Smith, please report to the Scholarship Office during the noon interval.

Krizzy went very still. Across from me, Franco’s expression darkened.

Farrah’s version was no longer just embarrassing.

It was official.