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They taped cruel pictures to his locker.
They made group chats about him.
They passed comments in the hallway just loudly enough for him to hear.
Every time I tried to step in, he gave me the same answer.
“Mom, please don’t. I’ll handle it myself.”
But I didn’t know how much more he could handle.
One night, I found him sitting at the kitchen table long after dinner, the glow of his laptop reflecting in his glasses.
“You barely sleep anymore,” I said. “You hardly eat with me. What are you doing?”
He closed the laptop gently.
“School project.”
“For which class?”
He gave me a small smile.
“You’ll see.”
That answer should have worried me more than it did.
For weeks, he worked after school with a focus I had never seen before. Typing. Editing. Clicking through files. Every time I walked into the room, the screen closed with that same calm click.
I told myself it was good that he was busy.
I told myself he was finding a way through.
Then prom night came.
Mason went alone.
No girl had agreed to go with him, but he still dressed carefully. He wore a navy suit, brushed his hair, adjusted his tie in the hallway mirror, and asked me if he looked okay.
“You look wonderful,” I said.
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
At the school gym, I helped at the parent check-in table, mostly because I wanted to be nearby. I told myself I was volunteering. Really, I was watching.
Mason sat at a corner table with a cup of punch he barely touched.
Across the room, Brielle stood near the snack bar in a silver sequined dress. She was the kind of popular that made other kids nervous. Cheer captain. Perfect photos. Perfect smile. Perfect cruelty hidden behind the kind of charm adults often mistook for confidence.
I saw her glance toward Mason.
Then she leaned toward her friends and whispered something.
A few girls giggled.
One girl, Hannah, stared at the floor.
My stomach tightened.
“Please,” I whispered under my breath. “Let him have one good night.”
Then Brielle started walking.
Not toward the dance floor.
Not toward her friends.
Straight toward Mason.
He looked up when she reached his table.
For one heartbreaking second, his face filled with disbelief.
“Hey, Mason,” Brielle said sweetly. “Wanna dance?”
He blinked.
“With me?”
“With you,” she said. “Come on before the song ends.”
Slowly, Mason stood.
And for the first time all night, he smiled.
My throat tightened.
I wanted so badly for it to be real.
They walked to the center of the floor. Brielle placed one hand lightly on his shoulder. Mason kept a polite distance, careful and respectful.
Around them, students began to stop dancing.
Then I saw the phones.
At first, only a few.
Then more.
Screens lifted at chest level.
Recording.
I turned to another parent.
“Why are they filming?”
She shrugged.
“Kids film everything.”
I wanted to believe that.
But Brielle’s friends were laughing near the punch bowl, hands over their mouths, eyes bright with anticipation.
The song neared its final notes.
Brielle stepped back.
Then she threw her head back and laughed.
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