Bully Yanked The Freshman's Ponytail — Didn’t Know She Was Trained in Krav Maga
Chapter 2
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The dining hall at Harlow was called Whitmore Commons. It was a wide, bright room with long wooden tables and tall windows that looked out over the quad. It was Tuesday, four days into the fall semester. Claire had been eating alone all week. Not because she was unfriendly, but because she was still learning the geography of the place: which tables were loud, which corners were quiet, which routes between classes took you past the courtyard where the oak trees were old enough to give real shade. She was a student of spaces; her grandmother had taught her that.She picked up her tray—chicken sandwich, side salad, water. She scanned the room and found an open spot at one of the middle tables. She sat down, opened her notebook, and started reviewing her notes from Introduction to American Legal History. She did not notice the way a few people nearby glanced at her and then glanced toward the far side of the room. She did not notice the table she had chosen—not until she heard the voice."Excuse me."She looked up. Derek Moss was standing at the end of the table. Tyler Greer was to his left, Bryce Holland was to his right, and three other people she did not know were standing just behind them. Derek was looking at her with an expression that was not quite a smile and not quite a frown—something in between, something that expected to be found amusing."That's kind of our spot," he said.Claire looked around. The table had eight seats; she was occupying one of them. "The other seven were empty. I don't see any names on it," she said. Not aggressive, just factual.The three people behind Derek made a small sound—not quite a laugh, something like the breath before one. Derek's almost-smile shifted. "You must be new," he said."I'm a freshman," Claire said."Yes, right." He nodded slowly, like she had confirmed something. "So here's how this works: this table is for the lacrosse team and their people. Has been for three years. So if you could..." He gestured toward the rest of the dining hall.Claire looked at her tray, then at her notebook, then back at him. She had two options: she could move without a word, or she could say something she would regret. She chose a third option, which was to take one slow, full breath and look at Derek Moss the way her grandmother had taught her to look at people she was trying to understand.She noticed his jaw was tight. She noticed his eyes move to Tyler before they came back to her. She noticed his weight was shifted slightly toward the group behind him. He needed them to see this; he needed them to see her move. That told her something.She picked up her tray without hurrying. She took her notebook. She stood up, and she did not look away from him as she did it."Sure," she said.That was all. She walked to a table by the window, sat back down, and opened her notebook again. From where she sat, she could see the reflection in the glass: Derek watching her go, Tyler saying something, Derek's jaw still tight. She turned a page in her notebook and kept reading. But she stored it, all of it. Her grandmother had a word for that kind of storing: she called it inventory.