Middle School Girls Get Revenge Story

For several remarkable days, Kyle convinced us all. He was charming—kind of in a way where you know something is wrong but can't quite figure out what it is. He had the swagger, smirk, the air around his head that defied gravity and shampoo instructions.

And then came the betrayal. 

"Twelve days," Mei wept, sprawling dramatically across my bedroom's fiber carpet as a Jenga tower had fallen. "Twelve stupid days. And right just before our two-week anniversary! 

Always ready for such occasions, Zoe offered her a Capri Sun, and its straw was already impaled. Mei slapped it as if it was poison. She was in full mourning. 

"She wailed that, "He told me I was special." "He gave me that." 

She flung out one arm, still pinched shut with eyes still closed, finger wildly darting toward her piano's favorite peach JanSport backpack. The object of betrayal shined dimly on top: a mood ring. Not just mood rings but sacred symbols of middle school commitment. 

Is its current color? Midnight black. 

The room matched its mood: dim, quiet, filled with betrayal. We felt like we were preparing for a funeral. 

I sighed, watching Mei unravel. Classic Kyle. 

He was known to me from science class. While we were learning how photosynthesis worked up, Kyle performed a completely different experiment—on his hair. He would sculpt it with a cauldron of hair gel that I could only describe each period. He was as wide as a mad scientist; only where the mad scientist would brew potions, he brewed helmet heads and body spray clouds powerful enough to bring down the entire school's ventilation system. 

Kyle never took notes. His most significant contribution to our class was his passing around of Wite-Out as if it were an illicit drug. He and his crew would huff it under the table while Ms. Malone buzzed about chlorophyll. 

He was a genius at using shortcuts. Once, I watched him scribble formulas on the rubber soles of his Converse shoelaces and casually sprinkle away with Wite-Out when there was a quiz at the break, like some hen-pecked gangster overlord out of a 70's B movie. 

And still—somehow, Mei still loved him, brilliant, artistic, Avril Lavigne worshipping Mei. Hard. 

Zoe and I had felt a surge of envy when she'd first arrived for lunch, and all she'd brought was that ring, and she had been playing with it like a trophy. A congregation of orange took a turn into a pale pink at the center— a bottled sunset she had narrated dreamily. 

Back then, it was proof. Kyle liked her. She was someone's someone. 

But mood rings lie. Or at least they don't share the whole truth. 

"Okay," I replied, standing up; the air filled around us with the injustice of middle school. There is only one thing that is left to do. 

Mei's tears let up just capillary enough for her to croak, "What?". 

I leaned in. "We have to destroy him." 

Even without a name, Zoe nodded thoughtfully, pulling out Gelly Roll pens like a witch readying for a fight. 

Mei blinked. "Isn't that a little… extreme?" 

"He left us no choice." 

"Digged his own grave," Zoe parroted. 

"But—" 

"I meant 'Mei'," I said softly, "he gave another girl a bracelet." 

Her eyes widened. 

"From Claire's," Zoe added. 

"Your Claire's," I reminded her. 

"And gave it to Brittany L." 

There was a pause—a shift in the atmosphere. Mei slowly propped herself up from the table, and her grief twisted into something sharper. 

"Where do we start?" 

— 

Step one: Exorcise the backpack.

We somehow managed to turn Mei's JanSport inside out like possessions, and when we removed the lid, a tornado descended on us of middle school necessities: glitter pens, notebooks with doodles all over them, butterfly clips, a broken tube on a Lip Smackers, and a stomach-turningly numerous amount of Cheeto crumbs which had way passed their expiry date. 

Then we found it. 

The sacred pencil case. The vault. 

Within it: all Kyle-related artifacts. Folded notes. Scraps of sentimental garbage. An armband- no one should have ever worn. Possibly biohazardous. 

I opened it up like it would burst. 

A stash this large was absolutely out of place for a relationship that hadn't even been two weeks. I looked at my chunky Baby-G watch. Time began to run out. Zoe's mom was cooking lasagna, and there was only one hour left before she called us to dinner. This mission had to act with haste. 

Zoe extracted a note and read it as flatly as she could: 

"Hey, what's up." 

"nm u?" 

*nm This class is boring. Lol, you're cool. 

"You're cool, too." 

She paused. "The poetry," she deadpanned. "It's Shakespearean." 

Mei grabbed, with glassy eyes. "Wait—" 

Too late. I tore it in two like it was a signed confession. One of those floated to the carpet. The other, I fell, crumpled, and slam-dunked into the trash with so much drama. 

Mei sniffled. 

"I had to do it," I said. 

She nodded solemnly. 

Next came the bracelet. A faded, frayed jelly band that says "LIVE, LAUGH, LOL" etched in. 

"This is a war crime," I pronounced. 

Zoe gasped, laughing. "He really believed that was romantic, didn't he?" 

Mei giggled, only very slightly, but it was all needed. We were getting somewhere. 

Step by step, we created a heap of garbage memories: the bracelet, a KitKat wrapper he gave her once and said, "You can have the rest," a note with his home phone on it, a drawing he may have done of a dragon, but it looked suspiciously like a potato with wings. 

Then came the final relic: the mood ring. 

She had it in her hand with the grip of a potential bite. 

"It's still pretty," she whispered. 

"It's cursed," Zoe said. 

We just stood there for a minute. Then—into the pile, it went. 

The air shifted. Lighter. 

Step two: The Yearbook Erasure. 

We flipped to Kyle's photo. There he was, amid his smirk, his hair still striking straight even in glossy, grayscale. 

Zoe produced a red Sharpie. 

"Do it," Mei said. 

Clean X. Thick and final. Goodbye, Kyle. 

Now, step three: the most significant sacred ritual of all. 

— 

We crept like spies down the hallway, evading Zoe's parents as we entered the den. Her home PC stood in the corner and hummed like it knew what we had in store. 

We fired up The Sims. 

And we got to work. 

Step 1: Create Sim Kyle.

Spiky auburn hair? Nailed it. Baggy cargo jeans? Naturally. His aspiration? To be the worst. 

We endowed him with a permanent scowl and walk that emitted awkwardness. 

Step 2: Build the house.

Four walls. No windows. No doors. Just one lone armchair in the middle of things and a fireplace somewhat suspiciously near shag carpeting. 

Step 3: Let the simulation begin.

Sim Kyle walked around the little room waving his arms and speech-bubbling things such as "Help!" and "Toilet?" 

In silence, we watched; grins crept up. Flames crept closer. He panicked. We munched on Gushers. 

And then—he appeared. 

The Grim Reaper. 

Flickering, sinister, floating off-screen with cold and measured focused intent, a shadowy figure in digital dread. 

A small tombstone rose a few moments later. Kyle was no more. 

Mei broke first; her giggle stirred up like the fizz of a cap-rocketed bottle. Zoe and I got in on it, howling with that uncontrollable glee that only sugar-fueled revenge and pre-teen friendship could churn up. 

(Okay," Mei puffed out between giggles, "maybe that was a little dramatic.”) 

"But satisfying," I said. 

"We did what we had to do," Zoe added seriously. 

We were seated under the weary glow of the computer screen, the fish oil and strawberry Lip Smackers thick in the air. The room was cozy and weightless, enveloped in our headquarters' comfortable, ridiculous magic for overnights. 

LET'S DO IT AGAIN said Mei, BUT THIS TIME, give him pigtails. 

We started to laugh out loud again, more loudly. 

The sun was about to fade, extending its long golden fingers on the carpet. The world outside was fading as we remained in our little bubble, us and now. The pain still lingered but was smaller. Less sharp. 

At some point in the distant future, we'd sit in cafes and laugh about this night. Regarding mood rings, red Sharpies, and pretend justice. 

But tonight, we were twelve. Bold. Reckless. Righteously angry. And together. 

Kyle was officially gone. 

And Mei? 

Mei would live.