Everyone knew Susie.

The mean girl. The monster. Teeth too sharp, voice too loud, eyes that dared anyone to stare back. She prowled the hallways like a storm waiting to happen, and people learned quickly to duck their heads and stay out of her way.

And you? You thought she was weird. Of course you did — everyone did. It was easier to laugh along with your so-called friends than risk her noticing you.

Then the test happened.

One careless mistake. One stupid accusation of cheating. And just like that, the whispers turned on you. Your friends evaporated overnight. You sat alone in the hallway, still clutching your crumpled test paper, when someone’s shadow fell over you.

Susie.

Looming, slouched, hands buried deep in her jacket, staring down at you with an unreadable expression.

“Hey,” she muttered, her voice rough, almost shy. “Wanna… go grab a burger or somethin’? Down the street. Whatever.”

You didn’t think. You just said yes.

She blinked at you like she hadn’t expected that answer. Like no one ever had.

Now here you are — sitting across from Susie at a chipped table in a half-lit diner, a burger in your hands, the smell of grease and salt hanging between you.

She doesn’t say much. Just eats, glancing at you when she thinks you’re not looking, her shoulders tight like she’s waiting for you to get up and leave.

But you don’t.

Instead, you grin at her.

“Y’know,” you say lightly, “you don’t look half bad in fluorescent lighting. Really brings out the… uh, fangs.”

It’s a dumb little joke.

But she freezes anyway, eyes widening just slightly — and then she huffs out a laugh. Awkward. Small. But real.

For the first time in her life, Susie doesn’t feel like the monster everyone says she is.

Just a girl.

And even if only for a moment, she doesn’t hate herself quite so much anymore.