The scene opens with a chubby boy named Westly Johnson standing in front of the gates to a massive school called Brookwood High. As Westly stood in front of the towering iron gates of Brookwood High, his heart was pounding in his chest. The school was enormous, its gray brick walls stretching high into the sky. Despite its size, it wasn't anything special—a regular high school with plain architecture and an unremarkable reputation. Yet, to Westly, it felt like a fortress he wasn't sure he was ready to enter.
He swallowed hard and adjusted his backpack, which strained against his broad shoulders. The thought of starting over at a new school made his stomach churn.
'Will this place be any different? Will they treat me better here? Or is it going to be the same nightmare all over again?'
Taking a deep breath, Westly pushed the gates open and shuffled along the stone path leading to the main building. His eyes darted down to the crumpled schedule in his hands. Room 268 is read in bold black letters. He clung to the paper like a lifeline, his sweaty fingers smudging the ink.
Navigating the maze-like halls, Westly finally found his classroom. His hands trembled as he reached for the doorknob. 'Here goes nothing,' he thought, stepping inside.
The moment he entered, it felt like every pair of eyes in the room turned to him. Conversations hushed to whispers, then to silence, as his classmates sized him up. Heat rushed to his face, and he forced himself to move, clutching the straps of his backpack like they might anchor him in place.
'Just get to your seat. Don't trip. Don't mess this up.'
But fate had other plans. As Westly made his way toward an empty desk near the back, a foot shot out from the aisle. His sneaker caught on it, and he went sprawling forward with a loud, involuntary, "AGH!"
He hit the floor with a thud, his papers scattering around him. His face burned hotter than ever as laughter erupted across the room.
'Oh no. Oh no, no, no.'
Westly scrambled to his knees, trying to gather his things. His chubby arms trembled as he pushed himself upright, his body jiggling with effort. The snickers and giggles seemed to grow louder.
He stood up, his cheeks a vivid shade of crimson, his breath hitching. Then, as he brushed the dust from his pants, his eyes met a pair of piercing ones staring directly at him. The person who was staring at him was the person who tripped him, a tall, brown-haired boy. He smirked at Westly after seeing how scared he was of him.
He quickly moves towards his seat, too afraid to even look back at the person who tripped him; he didn't even bother saying anything to him.
Westly slumped into his desk, staring at the scuffed tile floor beneath his sneakers. His cheeks still burned as he replayed the scene in his mind. 'I can't believe I embarrassed myself on the first day!' he thought, the weight of the laughter still ringing in his ears.
With a heavy sigh, he forced his gaze upward, focusing on the whiteboard as the teacher began the lesson. It was a struggle to concentrate, but the hour passed mercifully fast. When the bell finally rang, Westly shoved his books into his bag and stood, eager to leave the room and escape the suffocating stares of his classmates.
As he trudged down the bustling hallway, something bright caught his eye—a poster pinned to the bulletin board. "Track Tryouts—November 25th!" It read in bold, inviting letters. Westly stopped in his tracks, staring at it.
'Track, huh?' he thought, a small smile creeping onto his face. 'Maybe I should give this a try. It could be a good way to lose weight... and maybe even make some friends.'
He let himself drift into a daydream, picturing a version of himself surrounded by smiling teammates, laughing and celebrating victories. For once, he wouldn't be the odd one out, the target of jokes—he'd belong.
But the pleasant fantasy shattered as a voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Hey, your name's Westly, right?"
Westly turned sharply, his stomach sinking as he recognized the brown-haired boy who had tripped him earlier. Chad stood there with two other boys, their expressions dripping with mockery.
Chad smirked, his tone syrupy and condescending. "Well, I'm Chad. Nice to meet ya." He nudged the blonde boy beside him, who took his cue with a cruel grin.
"Never heard of someone named Westly before," the blonde said, his lanky frame towering over Westly. "That's a really shitty name. Oh, and I'm Steven, by the way." He let his gaze linger on Westly, his smirk deepening as he slowly licked his lips.
Westly's stomach churned. 'What the hell is wrong with this guy?' he thought, fighting the urge to back away.
"Can you, like, not do that right now?" The shortest of the trio, a black-haired boy with a muscular build, snapped at Steven before turning his attention to Westly. His lips curled into a smug grin.
"You're pretty fat," he said bluntly, tilting his head as if examining a puzzle. "How many chins do you have?" He began counting mockingly, his fingers ticking the air.
Westly's face burned with humiliation, and he turned away, unwilling to meet their gazes.
The black-haired boy rolled his eyes. "The name's Jacob," he added, smirking as if introducing himself was a favor.
Westly swallowed hard, his throat dry. He didn't know what to say, and truthfully, he didn't want to say anything. Every instinct in his body screamed for him to leave. Before he could muster a response, Steven lunged forward, reaching for him.
On pure reflex, Westly dodged, barely avoiding the grasp. 'I can't believe I actually dodged that!' he thought in amazement. Without a second glance, he bolted down the hallway, his legs pumping furiously.
"Get him!" Chad shouted, and the three bullies took off after him.
Westly ran as fast as his legs could carry him, his backpack bouncing against his shoulders. His lungs burned, and his heavy frame slowed him down, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins kept him moving.
"Is he serious?" Jacob barked behind him, his voice laced with disbelief. "How is he this fast?"
Westly darted around a corner, narrowly avoiding a collision with a middle-aged old man. He barely paused to mumble, "Sorry!" before sprinting away again, leaving the man to stare after him in confusion.
The chase spilled out of the school building and onto the streets. Westly's breath came in desperate gasps as he turned another corner, his legs wobbling beneath him. He skidded to a halt when he realized he had reached a dead end—an alleyway with no way out.
'No. No, no, no!' he thought, spinning around just as the bullies entered the alley, blocking his escape.
Chad stepped forward, his smirk sharper than ever. "End of the line, fat boy."
From far away, the old man groaned as he picked himself up from the floor, brushing off his slacks. His knees protested the movement, a reminder of his glory days on the field now long behind him.
"Damn kids," he muttered under his breath, rolling his shoulders until a satisfying crack echoed through the hallway. "Always running like it's a marathon."
He adjusted his slightly crooked tie, shaking his head with a mix of annoyance and bemusement. His thoughts lingered on the boy who had crashed into him—a chubby kid, but quick. Surprisingly quick.
'Haven't seen a kid move like that in a long time,' the old man thought, a faint smile breaking across his weathered face. He chuckled quietly, rubbing his chin as he started down the hallway. The boy's panicked sprint had been awkward, sure, but there was something there—a spark of raw, unpolished potential.
"Kid's got wheels," he murmured, stepping aside to let a gaggle of students pass. His mind began to turn, piecing together what he'd seen.
Reaching his office, the old man paused to fish out his keys. The plaque on the door glinted under the harsh fluorescent lights: Coach Emerson—Track and Field. He pushed the door open and flicked on the light, the familiar smell of old sneakers and liniment greeting him.
He dropped into his chair with a sigh, leaning back and propping his feet on the desk. His thoughts refused to shift away from the boy. 'Out of shape, sure. But he's got the foundation—speed, instincts. Maybe even heart, if he gets the right push.'
He stared at the framed photo on his desk, a picture of his last championship team, their faces glowing with the triumph of victory. It had been years since he'd coached a team like that, and a part of him itched for the thrill of nurturing another diamond in the rough.
"Maybe I'll keep an eye out for him," Coach Emerson muttered to himself, pulling a notebook from his desk drawer. He jotted down a quick reminder—chubby runner, hallway. Potential sprinter?
A grin tugged at his lips as he set the pen down. "Who knows? That kid might just have what it takes."
Now back to Westly's, he hit the cold brick wall of the alleyway, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. Chad and his lackeys loomed over him, their faces lit with cruel delight.
"Look at him," Chad sneered, cracking his knuckles. "Too slow to run, huh?"
Before Westly could respond, Chad's fist slammed into his stomach. Pain erupted through his gut, and he doubled over, gasping. His lunch, barely digested, surged up his throat, and he vomited onto the pavement. The bullies recoiled for a moment, then burst into laughter.
"Gross! He puked!" Steven shouted, holding his nose. "What a pig!"
Jacob chuckled, his arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. "He's full of surprises, isn't he?"
Westly clutched his stomach, tears streaming down his face as they took turns hitting and shoving him. His body ached, each blow leaving a fresh bruise. The world blurred through his tears, and he could barely hear their taunts over the pounding in his ears.
Time lost all meaning as the assault dragged on. By the time they were finished, the sky had turned dark. Chad gave him one last shove, sending him sprawling onto the filthy ground.
"Let's get out of here," Chad said, wiping his hands on his jeans. "I'm bored."
The three of them laughed as they walked away, their voices echoing in the narrow alley. Westly lay there for a moment, curled in on himself. His body throbbed with pain, his face streaked with tears and snot.
"W-why does this happen to me?" He choked out between sobs, his voice barely audible. He wiped his nose on his sleeve, the motion weak and shaky. "Why do I have to be so different from everyone else?"
He struggled to his feet, wobbling as his legs protested every movement. His clothes were stained with vomit and dirt, and he didn't bother brushing them off. Slowly, he made his way home, his tears falling silently now.
When he finally reached the small apartment he shared with his mother, he hesitated at the door. She wouldn't understand. She never did. He pushed the door open quietly, slipping inside and avoiding the living room.
"Westly? Is that you?" his mother's sharp voice called from the kitchen.
"Y-yeah," he replied, keeping his face turned away.
"Go study. Don't waste time," she ordered, not even looking up.
Westly's throat tightened. "Okay, Mom," he whispered, slipping into his room and shutting the door. There, he let himself collapse onto the bed, burying his face in his pillow to stifle his sobs.