The wedding anniversary: new chapters added

[Revengedpirate]

Ella stood motionless by the wall outside Room 3B, her arms locked around her middle, the hallway around her gradually filling with students as the bell rang, sharp and final. The start of Lesson 1. Everyone moved with purpose — bags slung over shoulders, schedules in hand — but Ella stayed fixed, like someone had nailed her shoes to the floor.

Her legs felt like jelly. Her face still burned from the moment she wished had never happened — the moment her own voice had betrayed her.

“I hate being in here. Everyone looks at me like I smell… I wish I was invisible or pretty like Kelly…”

She hadn’t even meant to share it. It had just spilled out, raw and messy and human. And he’d made her read it aloud like a punishment.

“Now maybe you’ll think twice about throwing pity parties during tutor.”

Her throat tightened again just remembering it. The note wasn’t even meant to be seen. Not really. Just something to pass under the desk — just a thought. A feeling.

A voice broke through the hum of students.

“Ella.”

It was Leah, pushing through the flow of bodies in the corridor, her braid swinging as she rushed to her.

“He wants to see you,” she said quietly. “Mr. Leonard. He told me to send you back in.”

Ella stared at her.

“Is he still mad?” she asked, though she didn’t know what kind of answer she was hoping for.

Leah hesitated. “Just… go. I don’t think it’s about talking. I think it’s about control.”

Ella nodded slowly. Her limbs felt stiff as she turned back toward the classroom door she’d stormed out of only ten minutes earlier.

She knocked once. Then pushed it open.

Mr. Leonard was still at the front, his arms crossed over a stack of papers. The room was empty now — students long gone. He didn’t sit. He didn’t ask her to.

“You don’t walk out of my room without permission,” he said without preamble. “I don’t care how upset you are.”

Ella’s voice caught. “You made me—”

“You embarrassed yourself,” he interrupted. “And you disrupted the group. You’re not five years old, Ella. You don’t get to sulk and storm out like a toddler.”

She swallowed hard, trying to keep her voice level. “You humiliated me.”

“You wrote the note,” he said. “You passed it. You read it. Actions have consequences.”

There was no anger in his tone. Just that measured, clipped disapproval that somehow cut deeper.

“Breaktime,” he continued. “Room 1C. You’ll serve your detention there. Do not be late.”

She didn’t argue. She just nodded, barely. Her voice had gone somewhere else — out of reach.

“You can go,” he said, already turning back to his desk.

Ella slipped out of Room 3B, the corridor now nearly empty.

Ten minutes into her school day.

And already, the day had decided who she was going to be.

[Somebody]

Man, that was heavy and really made me feel for the poor girl. Do people really not understand that teens, or anyone really, aren't going to be at their best when they haven't slept? That teacher was a jerk and his lesson felt weirdly 1984. But also who names two of their kids Alessia and Ella? That's just irresponsible. I just want to scoop up Ella and take her to a better setting lol.

[Legoman2]

Can’t wait for the real humiliation to start wonder what going to be first pantsing or Kelly having some fun with Ella in the locker room or detention

[Revengedpirate]

The real humiliation is coming I’m just going into a little more depth and detail about the main characters. It’s only Monday got a long way to go before Saturday and the party.
But I’m glad the characters are starting to build

[Legoman2]

Can’t wait

[Revengedpirate]

Ella walked the second-floor corridor with her head down, bag slung over one shoulder. She wasn’t running — just walking fast enough not to be obviously late.

The spiral stairwell from Room 3B to 2A had taken less than two minutes. On the way down, she’d passed the usual dumb posters: “Stop Pantsing, Start Prancing” with cartoon dancers in their underwear, and that weird one with a stick figure holding a fig leaf: “Naked Isn’t a Costume — Even on Book Day.” She didn’t laugh, but they distracted her enough not to think too hard.

Still, Mr. Leonard making her read the note out loud in form time stuck in her mind.
“I wish I was invisible or pretty like Kelly…”
She’d meant to pass it quietly. Instead, the whole room heard it.

Whatever. She was over it. Sort of.

She turned into the east corridor. Sunlight pooled across the polished floor. Room 2A came into view.

9:24. Not that late.

She tugged her jumper down, fixed the strap of her bag, and pushed open the door. Her eyes were still slightly stinging, but she kept her face blank.

No one needed to know how much it got to her.

[Revengedpirate]

Ella Cooper pushed open the door to English, four minutes late.

Not dramatically late. Not worth a detention. But just enough to make everyone look.

The room fell into a hush—the kind of silence that prickled your skin and made your chest tighten. Twenty-nine heads turned. One teacher didn’t.

Mr. Travers, hunched over his desk with a blue pen tucked behind one ear, didn’t even glance up. “You’re late,” he said flatly, still writing the register.

Ella froze for a heartbeat, caught in the quiet like a spotlight had snapped onto her. She swallowed. The hush grew heavier, the weight of dozens of eyes pinning her in place.

“She was busy basking in the fame from form group,” Kelly’s sharp voice cut through, sugar-coated but venomous.

“I’m the prettiest girl in the year,” Kelly sang mockingly, “as approved by Ella.”

Soft chuckles rippled around the room.

Ella’s cheeks flamed a harsh red. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor and hurried to her seat in the middle row, her heart hammering like a trapped bird. Every step felt like walking a tightrope.

Hannah Bridges glanced up as Ella passed—not with malice, but with that quietly scathing disapproval that could freeze you in place. Everything about Hannah was perfect: her tie sat flush against her buttoned collar, her pleated skirt crisply ironed, her pens colour-coded and lined up as though their order held the secrets to the universe. She sat like an exam-ready statue, posture impeccable, a rival sharpening her claws in silence.

Ella slumped beside her, sleeves pulled over her palms, bag slipping to the floor at her feet. She wished she could disappear — fade into the beige linoleum or the pale walls.

“Maybe next time write about how you’re always smelling because you’re sprinting between lessons,” Hannah whispered, sharp and cold, like an icy breeze sliding down Ella’s spine.

Mr. Travers finally looked up. “Good of you to join us, Miss Cooper. Would you like a spotlight and entrance music next time?”

The class snickered, a low ripple of amusement that made Ella’s skin crawl.

She blinked, swallowed, and muttered, “Sorry.”

“Poetry anthology. Page sixty-three. Blake,” he said. “And if anyone speaks out of turn today, you’ll annotate every copy of The Tyger in the library.”

He stood slowly, tall and tired, pacing the front of the room with the air of a man who’d long given up on enthusiasm but hadn’t yet given in.

Behind Ella, the usual classroom noises stirred — a textbook thudded, a pencil case zipped, a whisper rose too loudly.

Then —

A metallic clang shattered the quiet.

Erin O’Connell had dropped her water bottle. Again.

“Sorry! Sorry!” she gasped, hair tumbling over her flushed, freckled face as she scrambled beneath her desk like a startled hare.

Nathan Perry, sitting beside her, bent down at the same moment. Their heads collided with a dull thunk.

“Ow! Oh god—sorry! I didn’t mean to—oh.”

Nathan winced, then smiled gently. “It’s okay. Still alive, right?”

Their faces hovered inches apart. Her bright green eyes caught his pale blue ones for a second that felt like a secret shared between two shy strangers.

Erin’s skirt caught on the chair leg and was yanked into the air slightly revealing her cartoon panties. As the chair legs came back down Erin’s skirt came down to her ankles with it. Before she could react, the skirt pooled on the floor beneath the chair. In her surprise, Erin stumbled backward and sat down abruptly—right on the chair—as Nathan bent down to lift it.

The chair with Erin’s weight added to it fell suddenly and landed heavily on Nathan’s hand, pinning it under the leg. Erin’s skirt remained tangled as Nathan gritted his teeth but kept hold of the chair.

With a grunt, Nathan lifted the chair—and Erin, still sitting on it—off his hand. Erin Losing her balance, Erin started to fall backward, but Nathan acted fast. With his left hand, he caught the fallen skirt from the floor, and with his right, he grabbed hold of Erin’s left ankle.

Upside down in just her pants and socks and off balance, Nathan skillfully pulled the skirt back over Erin’s waist. Using both hands now, he lifted her into a proper carry, her arms thrown up in the air as if it were all part of a performance.

Erin landed gracefully back in her seat, perfectly dressed as if nothing had happened.

Both their faces flushed deep red.


The class erupted into laughter.

“When you two are done with your double act,” Mr. Travers drawled, voice dry, “unless you’re re-enacting the Charge of the Light Brigade, kindly remain seated.”

“Y-yes, sir,” they stammered together, cheeks aflame.

Mr. Travers offered a small, almost imperceptible smile. Ella watched from her seat, clutching her pen like a lifeline. She couldn’t decide what was worse — Erin’s charming chaos or the fact she still somehow looked endearing doing it.

“Alright,” Mr. Travers said. “Who’ll read some Blake aloud? Volunteers?”

Silence.

“Fine. Ella. Board.”

Her stomach sank to her knees.

“What?”

“Annotate stanza two on the screen — imagery, structure. Warm-up exercise.”

Slowly, she rose. Every step felt amplified in her ears, knees knocking uncontrollably, anthology in one hand, the other shoved deep in her jumper sleeve.

The interactive board glared at her like an interrogator.

Ella raised the stylus, circling words nervously.

“In what distant deeps or skies…” she mumbled.

From behind, Kelly’s voice slithered out, mocking sweetly, “Oh, doesn’t she annotate so well.”

Maya snorted quietly.

Ella’s pulse thundered in her ears.

She glanced sideways, eyes on the screen. “So this line shows… um… duality? Like fear and beauty. Heaven and Hell.”

“Pretty, and ugly,” Kelly added, just loud enough for the whole class to hear.

Laughter rippled around the room. Ella’s cheeks burned. She spun sharply back to the board.

At the front, Imogen sat at the teacher’s desk, watching like a cat ready to pounce.

Ella brushed past her as she approached.

Suddenly, Imogen’s fingers darted out and tugged sharply at a tie on Ella’s skirt.

Ella’s skirt caught on the finger and twisted tightly, wrapping itself around Imogen’s hand.

Unluckily for Ella, the string had looped tightly around Imogen’s fingers during Ella’s sharp turn. The skirt was no longer around Ella’s waist but stuck to Imogen’s grip.

A stunned silence dropped like a stone.

Ella felt a sudden cold breeze hit her legs.

She froze.

Looking down, she saw her granny pants and knee-high socks fully exposed to the merciless glare of the projector light.

Laughter exploded — wild, cruel, unforgiving.

Imogen tugged desperately at the string still wrapped around her fingers. With no choice, she pulled a pair of scissors from her bag and cut the skirt’s ties. The skirt was ruined.

For one agonising second, Ella stood there, her school shirt too high to hide the pale granny pants fully visible, the flicker of the projector casting an unforgiving spotlight.

Whispers, laughter, even camera phones—hidden flashes capturing her humiliation.

Mr. Travers barked, “Enough!”

Ella yanked her shirt’s hem down, turning it into a makeshift dress, though the edges of her pants peeked out awkwardly.

“Sit down,” he snapped.

Ella rushed back to her desk, heart pounding like a frantic drum, promising herself she wouldn’t cry.

Mr. Travers calmly picked up the ruined skirt from the floor. His eyes blazed with silent fury.

“Detention, Miss Imogen Smith,” he said firmly, voice cold.

He placed the torn skirt on Ella’s desk, then turned on his heel, walking back to the front.

Kelly bit her lip, clearly struggling not to laugh.

Nathan looked away, jaw clenched.

Hannah’s expression flickered—half amused, half horrified.

Erin’s eyes widened, mouth slightly parted in shock.

Mr. Travers’s voice cut through the simmering chaos again, clipped and biting.

“Miss Cooper, see the nurse. Maybe she’ll have a spare skirt. And next time, perhaps something less embarrassing underneath. Like—ah—a nappy.”

The class erupted into uncontrollable laughter as Ella fled the room.

The door slammed behind her.

“Stanza three. Erin. Go.”

Erin’s voice trembled as she read, “And what shoulder, and what art, could twist the sinews of thy heart…”

The classroom buzzed with aftershocks.

Ella ran down the corridor, tugging her blouse lower, hands stuffed into her sleeves, wishing desperately to vanish.

Not pretty.

Not invisible.

Just… not here.

⸻

Back in the classroom, barely a minute had passed before another commotion stirred.

Nathan, trying to recover from the embarrassment, knocked his water bottle over — sending a splash of cold water skimming across the desk and soaking the open poetry anthology in front of Hannah.

Hannah gasped, pushing the soaked pages away like they’d bitten her.

“Seriously, Nathan?” she snapped, glaring daggers.

Nathan’s cheeks darkened. “Sorry, Hannah. Clumsy today, I guess.”

Erin gave a helpless laugh. “At least you’re consistent.”

The class chuckled nervously.

Mr. Travers pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Alright, everyone, settle down. Let’s just focus on Blake and maybe keep the water in the bottles this time.”

[Revengedpirate]

Ella ran.

She didn’t think — she just bolted for the stairwell to her right, feet hammering the lino as her sneakers slid with each step. Her breath caught in her throat, half-strangled by panic and the useless flapping of her school shirt tugged down hard to cover what it couldn’t. The cold stung her bare thighs, the echo of laughter still ringing in her ears like a siren.

She reached the top of the stairwell — but froze.

Footsteps.

Someone was coming up.

She couldn’t face them. Couldn’t risk it. Not now.

In a blind surge of fear, Ella spun and bolted right, down the north corridor, trainers slipping slightly on the polished floor. Doors blurred past her. Windows reflected her red face, her hunched figure, the ridiculous grey granny pants that clung to her like a punchline.

No one. Just silence.

She reached the opposite stairwell, near Classroom 2G, and took the steps two at a time, heart jackhammering. Her knee clipped the wall on the turn, but she didn’t stop. At the bottom, she pushed through the double doors and collapsed behind them, crouched low, chest heaving.

She peeked through the narrow glass.

Empty.

The coast was clear.

Ella pushed forward again, breath coming in hot gulps as she darted past the boys’ toilets and the dark, echoing entrance to the changing rooms. The east corridor was deserted. Just her and the hum of the strip lights.

But as she neared the turn toward the west corridor — the final stretch to the nurse’s office — she heard them again.

Footsteps.

Close. Quick.

Her breath caught. She spun, panic taking over.

The girls’ toilets.

She shoved the door open and slipped inside, the air cooler, damper. Safe.

Ella stumbled to the wooden bench between the sinks and the shower cubicles and dropped onto it, every limb shaking. Her shirt bunched awkwardly at her hips, unable to do its job. Her fingers gripped the edge of the bench, nails digging into the wood.

She closed her eyes, forcing air into her lungs.

But the silence here wasn’t comforting. It was too thin, too fragile — like a held breath that could collapse at any second.

She wasn’t safe.

Not really.

Not yet.

[Revengedpirate]

The girls’ toilets were silent, but Ella could still hear the laughter. Distant now — diluted by walls, floors, and plumbing — but still sharp in her head. A sound that had lodged itself somewhere just behind her ears.

She stood between the sinks and the back wall, arms clamped around her middle. The mirror above the basin was speckled with lime stains, its surface too warped to offer a clean reflection. That suited her fine. She couldn’t bear to see herself right now.

The grey granny pants reached up high over her hips, the waistband biting slightly into her stomach. Her white knee-length socks sat uneven — one sagging toward her ankle. Her blouse, too big at the collar and tugged down as low as it could go, barely covered her thighs. She knew it wasn’t enough. Not now. Not without the skirt.

And underneath it all, of course, was the stuffed bra. Grey, padded out with careful layers of folded tissue paper — placed and reshaped with obsessive precision every morning. She’d spent years hating the flatness of her chest, hating the way clothes hung on her like laundry on a wire. So she faked it. Quietly, secretly, determinedly.

No one knew. Not her family. Not the teachers. Not the girls at school.
Especially not the girls at school.

She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, fingers curled against her ribs.

I need to move.

Sooner or later, someone would come in. And she couldn’t be found like this — not with just her blouse, socks, trainers, and no skirt. Not with her granny pants one gust of air from full display.

The corridor might be clear by now. If she went fast. If she stayed low.

Ella pushed open the door.

The east corridor greeted her with an unwelcome glare. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long, faintly yellow shadows across the floor. The breeze-block wall directly ahead held rows of posters and peeling notices — exam dates, canteen menus, a list of lunchtime clubs no one ever read.

She turned left, heading north toward the northeast stairwell.

To her left, as she passed, the girls’ toilets door swung shut behind her. Beyond that, the boys’ toilets loomed — its door propped half-open with a bin. Ella’s steps grew faster, her trainers tapping too loudly on the polished floor.

Her hands gripped the hem of her blouse. It flared with every motion.

Just ahead — the blue double doors of the northeast stairwell.

She shoved them open and passed through, the cooler air inside prickling her skin. She didn’t look at the stairs — up or down. She veered sharply left, pushing out the second set of doors that led onto the north corridor.

The windows on the right would show an astroturf students doing p.e. Also the playing fields are out of that window. Again with p.e. Students as the weather is hot and dry.

The corridor was narrow, about two meters wide, with polished linoleum reflecting the harsh strip lights overhead. To her right, long windows stretched almost the entire length of the corridor, offering a clear view of the astroturf pitch, where a group of students in navy and white PE kits were practicing drills under the blazing sun. The grass beyond the pitch was dry and yellowed, a testament to the week of hot weather that had baked the playing fields.

The shouts and whistle blows floated faintly inside, mixing with the hum of the corridor lights. A couple of students kicked a ball back and forth, sweat gleaming on their foreheads, their breaths sharp and quick.

Ella’s eyes flicked toward the scene but quickly dropped to the floor. The world outside felt far away — bright, careless, normal.

On her left, the corridor walls were lined with smooth painted lockers and the heavy, green door of the boys’ shower room, followed by the boys’ changing room, both silent and deserted this early.

On her left, the corridor walls were lined with smooth painted lockers and the heavy, green door of the boys’ shower room, followed immediately by the door to the boys’ changing room — both quiet and locked at this time in the period. No voices. No footsteps. Just the low, buzzing hum of the overhead strip lights and the faint sound of whistles and shouts drifting in from the pitch through the long windows on her right.

Ella kept her eyes down, the floor gleaming beneath her trainers. Her blouse swayed against her thighs with every step. She tugged it lower again — a useless gesture. The wind from the corridor’s open windows stirred the hem, exposing the tops of her pale socks and, worse, the visible stretch of grey fabric above them.

She had to find something. Now.

As she passed the boys’ toilets and the darkened shower entrance, her eyes caught a splash of bright colour across the corridor — just to her right, on the far wall.

A poster.

Several, actually. A whole strip of them, taped in a loose row to the breeze-block wall opposite the boys’ toilets. One flapped with the breeze from an open window. Pink, bold, thick paper. Bright lettering.

Ella’s eyes fixed on it.

She didn’t think. Just moved.

In two long strides, she was across the corridor. Her hands shot out — too quickly — and tore the poster from the wall, the masking tape curling away with a papery hiss.

She didn’t read it.

Her fingers shook as she turned it sideways and wrapped it around her waist, tugging it tightly until the bottom edge met the tops of her knees. The thick card dug into her thighs, the corners sharp, and the knot she tied at her right hip was messy, uneven — but it held.

It covered her, just barely. That was all she needed.

Something solid. Something not white and flapping and obvious.

She smoothed it down with both palms, her breath catching in her throat.

The paper was stiff, cold, and ridiculous. But it was a barrier. That was all that mattered now.

She started walking again — faster this time — the corridor narrowing slightly as it neared the intersection with the building’s central crossroads. The echo of her trainers grew sharper with each stride. The corners of the poster brushed against her legs.

Ella kept moving.

The pink poster clung to her awkwardly with each step, edges stiff against her legs. The masking tape itched where it pressed into her hip, but she didn’t dare loosen it. Her blouse flared slightly with each motion, sleeves swinging empty around her wrists. She tugged it again, as if that could somehow erase the shape of what had happened.

On her left now was the boys’ changing room — locked, silent. On her right, the windows gave way to the rest of the astroturf, where a PE class had broken into smaller drills. A student in a bib ran laps alone. Two others stood red-faced by a row of cones, holding hockey sticks and glaring at the sun.

Then came the gym office on her left — the last room before the corridor shifted. Ella’s pace slowed as the double doors of the T-junction loomed ahead. A dull hum vibrated through the floor — the kind that came from distant footsteps or voices. She hesitated.

Too late.

The doors swung open ahead of her. Mrs Nolan stepped into view, flanked by two Year 7 girls in smart, pressed uniforms. One held a clipboard, the other a pair of netballs.

The three were mid-conversation, voices light and animated.

“I didn’t mean to hit her in the head,” said the blonde girl with the clipboard, trying to stifle a laugh. “I was aiming for the hoop!”

Mrs Nolan gave her a sharp but indulgent look. “Aiming requires at least looking in the right direction, Daisy.”

The other girl — Imara, tall and composed, her netballs held tightly against her chest — added, “She ducked right into it. I was trying to help her up and ended up falling on the cones.”

“Literally everyone in Year 7 saw it,” Daisy said proudly. “Even Mr Choudhury laughed.”


“Well, maybe next time you’ll save the slapstick for drama club,” Mrs Nolan replied dryly.

That was when they saw her.

[Revengedpirate]

I’m not sure how this next scene comes across as it’s the first time I’ve ever done a scene on just thoughts and voices but it seems to work well