"Let me go or I swear you'll—"
"What?" Brett interrupted. "Tell Daddy? Go ahead. By then it'll be too late."
Kyle stepped forward with the scissors. Amaya thrashed wildly, but Brett and Troy held her firmly. With rough hacking motions, Kyle began to cut chunks of her hair.
Amaya screamed, the sound echoing off the tile walls.
"No one can hear you," Brett whispered. "And no one would believe you anyway."
Long, beautiful sections of Amaya's natural hair fell to the floor. Tears streamed down her face, not of sadness, but of pure rage. Through her tears, she noticed Mason filming with his phone, his expression a mixture of reluctance and twisted fascination.
"For the yearbook," Brett explained, seeing her notice. "Special memories section."
When they finished, Amaya's hair was a chopped, uneven mess. Brett finally released her, shoving her toward the mirror above the sinks. "There," he said. "Much better."
Amaya stared at her reflection, barely recognizing herself. Her hair—the hair her mother had loved, had taught her to care for—was destroyed. Short, jagged pieces stuck out at odd angles. Longer sections hung limply, emphasizing the damage.
"You're going to regret this," she said, her voice low and trembling with fury.
Brett laughed. "What are you going to do? It's your word against ours. And in case you haven't noticed, my dad runs this town."
The boys filed out, leaving Amaya alone in the locker room. She stayed there, frozen before the mirror, until the janitor found her 30 minutes later and gently suggested she go home.
Outside, the sun had set completely. Amaya walked home in the dark, her gym bag pulled up to cover her ruined hair. Tears continued to fall, mixed now with anger and humiliation. With each step, she felt something hardening inside her: a resolve, a promise.
When she reached home, she slipped in through the back door, hoping to make it to her room before her father saw her. But Elijah was in the kitchen preparing dinner. He turned as she entered, a greeting dying on his lips as he took in her appearance.
"Amaya," he whispered, setting down the knife he'd been using to chop vegetables. "What happened?"
She couldn't speak. The tears came again in a flood, and she collapsed into her father's arms, sobbing against his chest. Elijah held her tightly, one hand gently touching the ragged remains of her hair.
"Who did this to you?" he asked, his voice deadly calm.
Between sobs, Amaya told him everything: Brett, his friends, the ambush, the scissors, the phone recording.
Elijah listened, his expression growing darker with each detail. When she finished, he led her to the bathroom and gently helped her wash what remained of her hair. Then, with careful hands, he tried to even out the worst of the damage.