Invisible To Her Bully (Jessa and Noah) novel Chapter 103

Chapter 103

Jessa

By Saturday morning, the quiet in my room felt like it was mocking me.

The only sound was the constant ping of my phone lighting up on the nightstand mentions. Every time I picked it up, I regretted it.

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– texts, notifications,

Someone had posted a video from the party. Multiple someones, actually. Different angles, different captions – all showing the same thing: Noah Carter decking Daniel right across the jaw.

And then me. Standing there, wide–eyed and stunned, like I didn’t belong in the frame.

The comments were brutal.

“Guess we know what sets Carter off.”

“Didn’t realize Lombardi’s sister was the reason for the drama.”

“She’s been hiding all that under those hoodies?”

I tossed my phone aside and pressed the heel of my hands into my eyes. I didn’t want to see any of it. Didn’t want to know what people were saying.

For years, I’d survived Ridgeville High by being invisible. I’d learned how to shrink myself down — hide behind baggy clothes, keep quiet, stay out of the spotlight.

But last night had blown that strategy to pieces.

Before I could sink too far into the hole I was digging for myself, my phone buzzed again Mariah’s name flashing on the screen.

I sighed and answered. “Hey.”

– this time with

“Good, you’re alive,” she said, voice bright but sharp. “Now get dressed. We’re going shopping.”

I blinked, “What?”

“You heard me. Shopping. I’m outside in twenty.”

“Mariah, are you insane? Everyone’s still talking about the party-

“Exactly,” she cut in. “Since people love a show, we might as well give them one. You’re not invisible anymore, Jess. Thanks to your brother and Noah, you’ve got the spotlight. Might as well look fabulous while you’re in it.”

“Fabulous?” I echoed. “I looked like a deer in headlights while my brother’s best friend committed assault in front of half the senior class.”

“Details,” she said breezily. “Fifteen minutes.”

17:27 Sat, Oct 18

Chapter 103

She hung up before I could argue.

1. FO.

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I groaned and flopped back against my pillow. The idea of showing my face anywhere right now made my skin crawl. But when Mariah set her mind to something, there was no stopping her.

So, fifteen minutes later, I was sitting in the passenger seat of her car in sweats and a hoodie, hair in a messy braid, still half asleep.

Mariah gave me a look over the rim of her sunglasses. “Wow. Witness protection chic. Bold choice.”

“Remind me again why I agreed to this?” I muttered.

“Because,” she said, putting the car in drive, “we are going to remind the world that you are not some poor girl caught in a football fight. You’re Jessa freaking Lombardi. And you, my friend, have curves women pay money for.”

I snorted. “Curves that don’t fit into 90% of the clothing in existence, you mean.”

Mariah grinned. “Then we’ll find the 10% that does.”

She said it so confidently that, against all odds, I started to believe her a little.

–

The mall was crowded, which only made my anxiety worse. I could feel eyes on me that probably weren’t even there. Every burst of laughter sounded like it was about me.

Mariah, of course, didn’t notice. She was on a mission. Within five minutes, she’d piled her arms high with tops and jeans and shoved them into my hands.

“Go,” she said, pointing to the dressing rooms. “Don’t come out until you’ve tried them all.”

“Mariah…” I started, but she gave me the look – the one that dared me to argue.

So I went.

Inside the tiny dressing room, under the harsh fluorescent lights, I stared at myself in the mirror.

Same body I’d spent years trying to make smaller.

My chest, the thing that drew stares and snickers since middle school. My waist, actually small enough that clothes never fit right. My hips–wide enough that jeans either gaped in the back or refused to button at all.

I pulled on the first top–too tight across the bust, the neckline slipping too low. I yanked it off and tried another too loose, shapeless, like I was swimming in it. The jeans were no better. Some fit my legs but not my hips. Others wouldn’t get past my thighs.

With every failed outfit, the knot in my throat grew tighter.

I’d forgotten how much I hated this built completely different than me.

“Barely.”

She took one look at me at the shirt that was just a little too tight, the jeans that pinched

“Okay,” she said, “first of all, the sizes in this store are criminal. Second-” She grabbed my shoulders. “You look amazing. You’ve got shape, Jess. Real shape. You have curves people actually pay to get. Half the girls at Ridgeville would kill for your figure.”

She rummaged through the pile of clothes she’d brought and handed me a different top — soft cream fabric, v–neck but not too low, just fitted enough to show my waist. “Try this one.”

“It’s just a sweater,” I said quietly.

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