McQueen's POV.
I didn't just dislike the way girls were treated.
I hated it.
There was this science teacher.
I don't think I ever said his name without anger sitting somewhere in my chest.
To him, everything bad had one answer—
Girls.
One day, a beaker broke in the lab.
The sound was sharp, like something important had snapped.
"Who did that?" he shouted.
Silence filled the room.
Even the boys, who were always loud, suddenly remembered how to keep quiet.
His eyes scanned the class for barely a second…
Then settled on us.
The girls.
"Stand up."
We looked at each other.
Confused.
Because for once—we actually didn't do anything.
But that didn't matter.
It never did.
"Always causing trouble," he muttered.
I felt something rise in my chest.
Not guilt.
Not fear.
Something else.
Something hotter.
Meanwhile, the boys sat comfortably.
Some of them were even smiling.
Because they already knew how this story would end.
When something good happened, it was different.
"Oh, my boys!" he would say proudly.
Even when it wasn't his boys.
Even when it was us.
I remember answering a question correctly once.
A difficult one.
The kind that makes your heart beat faster because you know—you know—you got it right.
He nodded slowly.
"Good," he said.
Then added—
"That's how my boys should think."
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
But because I didn't understand anymore.
Was intelligence now a male property?
Did knowledge have a gender?
Punishment was worse.
Girls were made to sweep the yard under the hot sun.
Clean bathrooms.
Kneel during devotion until your knees forget what comfort feels like.
And the boys?
They watched.
I used to wonder—
Were we students?
Or were we training for suffering?
And it wasn't just him.
Some teachers would say it openly:
"Girls are not good at math."
"Physics is for boys."
"Chemistry will confuse you."
One teacher even said:
"If a girl learns too much, she becomes arrogant. No man will marry her."
That one stayed with me.
Because I didn't know education came with a warning label.
I would sit there sometimes, quiet, thinking:
So… we should stay small so someone can love us?
It didn't make sense.
None of it did.
The boys would harass girls—words thrown like stones.
Laughter that cut deeper than it sounded.
And nothing happened.
No punishment.
No warning.
Nothing.
I was one of them.
A victim.
Not of hands—but of words.
And words… they stay longer.
I told my parents.
But what could they do?
Change schools?
With what money?
So I stayed.
In a place that kept reminding me where I belonged.
Or where they thought I did.
There were days I felt powerful.
Like I had something inside me waiting to be seen.
And there were days I felt trapped.
Like a magician with magic in her veins—
But chains on her hands.
The chains had a name.
Society.
They said I was rude.
That I didn't respect tradition.
That I was "too much" for a girl.
But deep down…
I think they were just afraid.
Afraid of a girl who refused to stay at the back.