Chapter 3 : Cracks in the Armor

My mistake was that I failed to relate that subtle crack in Elodie’s demeanor to her distain at her studies, her terrible scores and everyone else, but assumed it was simply because she didn’t find the correct way to do it. To make our sessions smoother, I researched ways to make Elodie focus, to make her find the right way. But this added section impacted my already hard-to-keep-up daily routines like an atom bomb.

     “Serena, quit sitting in front of your computer for so long!” my mother would yell at me every day. “You have yet to finish your physics practice pages, and don’t forget to practice ballet and piano!”

     “I know, mother!” I would reply, even though a part of me questions the purpose of this struggle.

     On the other hand, nothing seems to work on Elodie. No matter how far I went to help her, she just flings everything back into my face.

     “Okay, so what are some of Shakespeare’s famous plays?” I would ask her something like this every day.

     “I forgot,” is the answer I always get from her.

     Frustration burned through me every time she gave that answer. It wasn’t just the words; it was the way she said them—dismissing my effort like it didn’t matter, like I didn’t matter. I tried everything I could think of. I made flashcards. I came up with games. I even found videos that explained information in a way I thought Elodie might actually enjoy. But no matter what I did, her attitude stayed the same.

     “You’re not even trying,” I snapped one afternoon, my patience finally breaking.

     Elodie looked up from her phone, her expression blank. “Maybe because it’s a waste of time,” she said coolly.

     My chest tightened. “It’s not a waste of time! You’re smart enough to understand this if you just—”

     “If I just what?” she interrupted, leaning forward. Her voice was sharp, almost daring me to continue. “Start acting like you? Start pretending I care about all this crap? Newsflash, Serena, I’m not you, and I don’t even want to be.”

     Her words hit harder than I expected. I stared at her, unable to respond. Elodie leaned back in her chair, her smirk returning. “Thought so,” she muttered under her breath. The rest of the session passed in tense silence, and I left the library that day feeling defeated.

***

     The next few days followed the same pattern. I stopped trying to get through to her. What was the point? No matter how much effort I put in, Elodie would just shut me out or turn everything into a joke. Instead, I focused on my own studying, though I couldn’t stop feeling her eyes on me.

     It wasn’t long before her attitude escalated.

     “Elodie, this is a library,” I whispered harshly one afternoon when she started humming during a particularly important review session.

     She tilted her head at me, her expression dripping with mock innocence. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was I disturbing Serena the Scholar? My bad.”

     I ignored her and went back to my notes, but she didn’t stop there. She tapped her pen against the desk in a maddening rhythm and let out exaggerated sighs. Finally, she leaned closer, her voice a low murmur.

     “Bet you think you’re better than me, don’t you? Sitting there all high and mighty, like you’ve got life all figured out.”

     I froze, gripping my pen tighter. “That’s not what this is about.”

     “No?” she asked, her smirk widening. “You think I don’t see the way you look at me? Like I’m some dumb, hopeless charity case.”

      Her words stung, but I refused to take the bait. I kept my focus on my notebook.

    “You’re so pathetic,” she continued, her tone sharper now. “Always pretending you’re so perfect. Bet you’ve never failed at anything in your life.”

     I couldn’t stay silent anymore. The bitterness in her voice, the way she twisted my intentions, it hit too close to home. I glanced up from my notes, locking eyes with her, my voice low but firm.

     “Why don’t you stop pretending you’re better than everyone else?” I retorted, my words cutting through the tension. “Maybe if you stopped acting like you don’t care, people wouldn’t think you’re just a joke. But you care, Elodie. You just don’t know how to show it.”

     Her eyes flickered, and for a moment, her smirk faltered, but she quickly masked it again.

     “That’s rich coming from you,” she muttered, her voice tinged with something darker.

     But I wasn’t finished. “No, Elodie. You’re the one who can’t admit that you care. That’s why you keep pushing everyone away. It’s easier than dealing with what’s actually bothering you.”

     I was about to continue, but then I saw her expression. So full of hurt, of pain, of fear —— vulnerable. It’s as if my words pierced through her armor and reached her soul, the Elodie who is hiding inside her, a better, angelic version. But just as quickly, the defiant expression she always wore came back on. Without another word, she shoved her stuff into her bag, stood up and headed for the door.

     “Elodie!” I called. She didn’t even turn back.

     That night, I’m unable to focus on anything, not my schoolwork nor my piano and ballet practices. I keep thinking about Elodie’s reaction to my simple retort. Why is she like that all of a sudden?

     Frustrated, I grabbed one of the intensive readings from the pile the teacher handed out, ones I’ve never bothered to look at because they’re so easy. This one is about a girl who overcomes trauma she developed when getting a serious disease with the help of her nurse. It was a very interesting story, but what truly caught my eye is a scene when the girl acts coldly to everyone, being rude and distractive, so different from her former self.

     I think I know exactly how to help Elodie.

***

     Five years ago, little Elodie stood in the corner of a different schoolyard, her arms wrapped tightly around her books. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cracked pavement, but the warmth did nothing to soothe the chill running through her.

     “Hey, loser!” a voice rang out from behind her.

     Her heart sank, and she clenched her jaw, willing herself not to react. But they were already closing in. A group of three girls, all older and taller than her, loomed over her like vultures circling prey.

     “Too good to say hi to us now, huh?” one of them sneered, her voice dripping with mockery.

     Elodie kept her eyes fixed on the ground, her fingers gripping the edge of her books so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

     “Look at her,” another chimed in, laughter in her tone. “Thinks she’s better than us. Little Miss Perfect.”

     The words stung more than they should have. They always did.

     “I—I don’t think that,” Elodie muttered, her voice barely audible.

     “Then why do you act like it?” the leader shot back, stepping closer. “Always sitting by yourself, nose in your books, like you’re too good to talk to anyone else.”

     Elodie opened her mouth to defend herself, to explain that it wasn’t like that, that she wasn’t stuck-up—just scared. But no words came out.

     “Pathetic,” the leader spat, her voice low and venomous. “That’s what you are. A pathetic little girl who thinks she’s better than everyone else just because she can read a stupid book.”

     Elodie flinched as the words hit her like a slap. She felt the burn of tears welling in her eyes but refused to let them fall.

     “Let’s go,” one of the others said, her tone bored. “She’s not even worth it.”

     The group walked away, their laughter echoing in her ears long after they were gone. Elodie stood frozen in place, staring at the ground as their words replayed in her mind, carving themselves deep into her heart.

     Pathetic. Better than everyone else.