Especially when it was about me.
Lydia ruled our high school.
I was the quiet kid. The scholarship girl. The one whose mom worked nights cleaning the school.
Most students didn’t know that last part, but Lydia did. And once she learned it, she made sure everyone else did too.
If my shoes looked worn, Lydia noticed.
If my backpack had a tear in it, Lydia pointed it out.
If I answered a question in class, Lydia would lean back in her chair and whisper loud enough for everyone to hear, “Careful, guys. The janitor’s daughter is about to teach the class.”
