I still don’t know what made me go. The 10-year high school reunion invite sat in my inbox for weeks, a digital ghost I kept opening and closing. Why go back there? Fort Collins High. The place where I perfected the art of invisibility, where being ignored was a good day. Where she reigned. Trina.
But something pulled at me. Maybe proving I survived? Maybe closure? Maybe just morbid curiosity. So, I clicked RSVP. Yes. One night only. What could possibly go wrong?
Turns out, everything. And then, spectacularly, nothing I could have ever predicted.
Roach Girl and the Queen Bee
Fort Collins, Colorado wasn’t exactly glamorous for me. Mom and I lived crammed in the back room of my aunt’s already small house off Shields Street. Mom worked nights cleaning office buildings, weekends pulling shifts as a gas station cashier. Money wasn’t just tight; it was a constant, suffocating anxiety. Dad? He vanished when I was eight. No calls, no cards, no child support. Just… gone.
High school was a masterclass in social stratification. I was at the bottom. Shy, perpetually broke, rotating the same three worn hoodies. I ate lunch alone behind the auditorium, reading library books to escape. Teachers barely noticed me – quiet, no trouble. But the other students? They noticed. Or rather, Trina noticed.
Trina Dubois. If you went to FCHS in the early 2010s, you knew her. Blonde, rail-thin, with a wealthy stepdad who funded her seemingly endless supply of Abercrombie and attitude. She wasn’t the loudest mean girl, but she was the most venomous. She could dismantle you with a single smirk. And for reasons I’ll never understand, I became her favorite project.
“Roach Girl.” That was my name. Because, she announced loudly in the cafeteria sophomore year, I probably lived in filth. She said my house likely smelled like “cat piss” (we didn’t even have a cat). She’d “accidentally” trip me in the hallway, sending my books flying. She’d dump water on my chair before class. Her masterpiece? Stealing my official school photo from the display case, scribbling “LICE” across my forehead in Sharpie, and passing it around. It made the rounds for weeks. I stopped getting school pictures after that.
And the worst part? The silence. No one ever stepped in. A few pitying glances, maybe, but mostly just averted eyes. Everyone knew it was wrong, but no one wanted to become her next target. Senior year, she was crowned Prom Queen. I didn’t go. I was washing dishes at a pizza place off Mulberry Street, the smell of grease and burnt cheese clinging to my clothes. That felt like the appropriate end to my high school experience.
Ten Years Later: The Reunion
Flash forward ten years. I’m 28. Living in Denver. I run my own small business – “Maggie’s Frames.” Custom framing, mostly local artists and Etsy sellers. It’s not glamorous, I don’t drive a fancy car, but it’s mine. Built from scratch with savings from years of waitressing and sheer stubbornness. Tiny one-bedroom apartment, a rescued tabby cat named Gus, a few solid friends who know the real me. For the first time, looking in the mirror doesn’t feel like staring at garbage. I’m… okay. Stable. Content, even.
So, I decided to go. Prove to 18-year-old me that things got better. Booked a cheap hotel room back in Fort Collins. Bought a navy blue wrap dress on clearance at Nordstrom Rack. Simple, clean, fit well. Curled my hair. Drove up I-25 feeling a weird mix of dread and determination.
The reunion was at some swanky new event space downtown, near Old Town Square. Exposed brick, fairy lights, open bar – clearly, some classmates had done well. I walked in, grabbed a sparkling water (Dutch courage wasn’t my style), and scanned the room. Familiar faces, aged ten years. Some looked happy, some looked tired. Some looked exactly the same, just slightly puffier.
My cautious optimism lasted exactly five minutes. That’s when Trina spotted me.
She hadn’t changed, fundamentally. Just… amplified. Blonder hair, tighter face (Botox? Fillers?), lips that looked unnaturally plump. Huge diamond earrings glittered. She was poured into a tight, metallic gold dress that screamed “Look at me, I peaked in high school but refuse to admit it.” And slung over her arm, practically a weapon, was a massive, logo-heavy designer purse. The kind that costs more than my car.
Her eyes landed on me. That slow, assessing scan. Then, the mouth curled. That specific, venomous smirk I hadn’t seen in a decade but recognized instantly.
“Oh. My. God,” she drawled, loud enough to turn heads. “Is that who I think it is?”
I froze. Tried to turn, blend into the small group discussing real estate near the bar. Too late. She strode over, heels clicking aggressively on the polished concrete floor. Grabbed my wrist, her grip surprisingly strong. Pulled me towards a circle of vaguely familiar faces – people who’d probably watched her torment me back then.
“Guys, look!” she announced, beaming like she’d discovered a particularly interesting insect. “It’s Roach Girl! She actually came!”
Every muscle in my body seized. The air felt thick. Roach Girl. Ten years, and that’s the first thing out of her mouth.
She turned to me, still holding my wrist hostage, her voice dripping with fake sympathy but her eyes glittering with malice. “Wow, Maggie, look at you.” Her eyes did a slow, deliberate scan from my clearance-rack dress down to my sensible flats. “Still broke? Still lonely? Still… this?”
A few people in the circle chuckled nervously. A couple looked away, suddenly fascinated by their drinks. No one spoke up. Just like old times.
She shoved the enormous purse practically under my nose. “This,” she declared, tapping the logo, “is Hermès. Ever heard of it? Retails for about… oh, never mind. What’s yours? Goodwill special?”
My face flushed hot. I tried to pull my arm away. “Trina, I don’t want any trouble.”
“Trouble?” She laughed, a high, brittle sound. “Honey, you are the trouble. Always were.” She blocked my path when I tried to step around her.
And then, it happened. Fast. Calculated. She flagged down a passing waiter carrying a tray of drinks. Plucked a full glass of red wine off the tray with predatory grace. Turned back to me. And without a word, with that same chilling smirk firmly in place, she deliberately, slowly, poured the entire glass of dark red wine down the front of my navy blue dress.
Shock. Cold liquid soaking through the fabric, hitting my skin. Dripping down my chest, onto my legs, pooling in my shoes. The smell of cheap Merlot filled the air. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Just stood there, frozen, dripping red wine like a B-movie horror victim.
Trina stepped back, admiring her work. Laughed again. Then, turning to the horrified waiter, she gestured towards me like I was a spill, not a person. “Ugh, can someone clean this mess up? She’s leaking.”
That got the bigger laugh. Crueler this time. Someone – I didn’t see who – actually pulled out their phone. The flash went off. A photo? A video? Didn’t matter. The image was burned into my brain: me, soaked in wine, Trina smirking triumphantly, the crowd laughing or looking away. Ten years. Nothing had changed. I was 16 again, trapped in that hallway, utterly alone, utterly humiliated. I thought I might actually pass out.
And then, just as the shame threatened to swallow me whole, everything shifted.
The Storm Breaks: Enter the Husband
The heavy doors to the event space burst open with a bang that silenced the room. A man stood framed in the doorway, tall, maybe early 30s, wearing an expensive suit, but it was askew – jacket unbuttoned, tie loosened, hair messy. His face was flushed, eyes scanning the room frantically. He looked furious. Unhinged.
“WHERE IS TRINA?” he roared, his voice echoing in the sudden, absolute silence. “WHERE THE F* IS SHE?!**”
Every head turned. Trina’s smirk vanished, replaced instantly by a mask of pale fear. Not confusion. Pure, unadulterated fear. She knew exactly who this was and why he was here.
He spotted her. Stormed across the room, ignoring the parted crowd, eyes locked on Trina. He was shaking, vibrating with rage. Didn’t glance at me, didn’t notice the wine, didn’t see anyone but her.
He stopped inches from her face. His voice dropped, low and menacing, but carried in the dead silence. “You forged my name.”
Trina started to stammer, trying to play it off. “Alan, honey, what are you talking about? Are you drunk?”
“Don’t,” he cut her off, his voice tight. “You cleaned out our joint account. You stole over $200,000.”
Gasps rippled through the room. People who’d been laughing moments ago now looked horrified.
He pulled a crumpled folder from under his arm, shoved it towards her. Bank statements, documents, papers spilling out. “You signed a loan application in my name! Took out credit cards! Lied to my lawyer! Used my company – my father’s company – to lease that ridiculous car you drive!”
Trina reached for the papers, maybe to hide them, maybe to rip them up. He snatched them back. “You think you’re some kind of mastermind?” he spat, voice thick with disgust. “You’re a fraud! A parasite! I gave you everything, and you used me! Bled me dry! I’m done protecting you. Done covering for you. The cops are on their way.”
Dead silence. No one breathed. Trina looked like she might collapse.
Then he delivered the line that became the stuff of Fort Collins legend. He glanced down at the ridiculously large, logo-emblazoned purse still clutched in Trina’s white-knuckled hand. He sneered.
“And by the way? That Hermès bag?” Pause for effect. “It’s fake. Just like you.”
The Unraveling
If the room was silent before, it was now a vacuum. You could hear ice clinking in glasses three tables away. People started whispering, murmuring. Phones came out again, but this time, every single one was pointed at Trina.
A few people subtly backed away from her, creating a small, clear circle of condemnation around her. Her face, under the expensive makeup, went stiff, then began to crumble. She looked around desperately, scanning the faces – former friends, admirers, people she’d intimidated for years – searching for an ally, a defender. Someone to step in, smooth things over, make it go away like people always had.
Nothing. Not even the girls who used to flank her like designer-clad bodyguards in high school. They stared at their shoes, at the ceiling, anywhere but at her.
The husband – Alan – wasn’t finished. His voice cracked now, not just with rage, but with raw pain. “I opened that company with inheritance money from my father! You drained it in less than a year! Lied to every investor! Blew thousands on clothes, cars, dinners, fake Instagram followers! For what? So you could pretend to be someone you’re not?”
Trina tried again, “Alan, please, let’s talk about this privately…”
“NO!” he roared, making several people jump. “You don’t get to talk now! You had years to talk! I begged you to be honest about the finances! You looked me in the eye and swore everything was fine! While you were emptying our goddamn savings!”
Trina looked like she might genuinely faint. Her perfect facade was shattering, revealing something ugly and desperate underneath. I thought that might be it. Cops arrive, arrest her, whispers follow, I slip out the back. Humiliated, but vindicated in a strange, second-hand way.
But the universe, apparently, wasn’t done with Trina Dubois that night.
Because then, a woman stepped forward from the edge of the crowd. Tall, elegant, Black, impeccably dressed in a way that made Trina’s gold dress look cheap. Maybe late 30s. I hadn’t noticed her before. She looked directly at Alan, her voice calm, clear, carrying easily.
“I’m sorry,” she said, politely but firmly. “But she told me she was single.”
The room collectively held its breath. Trina whipped around, eyes wide with panic. “Monica? What are you doing?”
The woman – Monica – didn’t flinch. Held up her phone. Scrolled briefly. Turned the screen towards Alan. “We’ve been seeing each other for six months. She told me she was escaping a bad marriage. Said her husband was controlling, emotionally abusive. Said you tried to restrict her access to funds, sabotage her ‘startup’.”
Gasps. Someone actually whispered, “Jesus Christ.”
Alan’s jaw clenched so tight I thought it might crack. He stared at Trina, the betrayal now layered, complex, unimaginably deep. “You told… you told someone I was abusive? To cover your theft? To justify screwing around while you ruined my life?”
Trina reached for him, tears finally spilling, mascara starting to run. “Alan, no, she’s lying…”
He recoiled like she was toxic. “Don’t.” His voice broke completely. Not anger now. Just raw, devastating hurt. “You didn’t just wreck me financially. You lied about me. Slandered me. And now I’ve got cops, lawyers, probably reporters calling my mother. My mother, Trina! The woman who still thinks I married someone with a soul!”
Trina’s perfectly applied mask dissolved. Fake lashes peeled at the corners. Streaks of black ran down her cheeks. She looked ragged. Desperate. And because her lifelong instinct was to deflect, to find a scapegoat, her wild eyes landed back on me. Still standing there. Still soaked in wine. Still silent.
“YOU!” she shrieked, pointing a shaking finger. “You did this! This was your plan all along! You’re obsessed with me! Always been jealous! You planted her here! This is your pathetic revenge, isn’t it?!”
Every head in the room swiveled towards me. Caught in the spotlight again. But this time, something was different. I wasn’t scared. I wasn’t ashamed. I just felt… tired. And strangely, pityingly, clear.
Before I could even formulate a response (not that I planned to), Monica spoke again, her voice laced with dawning realization and disgust. She looked confused, shaking her head slightly. “You mentioned her name once,” she said to Trina, then looked at me. “Just once. Called her… ‘Maggot Girl’… from high school?” The room winced collectively at the name. “Said she was some creepy stalker, obsessed with you online, trying to be you.”
There it was. The final, pathetic twist. She hadn’t forgotten me. She’d been thinking about me. Weaving me into her web of lies. Painting herself as the victim of my supposed obsession. Ten years, and she was still fighting high school battles in her head. While I hadn’t thought about her in years, hadn’t even followed her curated life online. She remembered every slight, real or imagined. And now, cornered, her instinct was to drag me down with her.
That’s when the police arrived. Two uniformed officers, calm, professional. They spoke quietly with Alan first. He handed them the folder of documents. People watched, whispered, kept their distance. Trina tried to slip out a side exit. An officer intercepted her calmly. “Ma’am, we need you to come with us.”
“This is insane! A setup!” She looked around frantically, begging with her eyes for someone, anyone, to intervene. Nothing. Silence. Even her old high school clique stood frozen, faces blank. Everyone saw her now. Not the Queen Bee. Just a thief. A liar. A fraud. Rotten underneath the shine.
Trina’s Last Stand & Collateral Damage
The officer gently took her arm. But Trina wasn’t done. She yanked away, spun towards the crowd, face contorted. “You’re all a bunch of fakes!” she screamed, voice cracking. “You laughed at her too! Don’t pretend you were better! You called her names! You played along!”
People shifted uncomfortably. Ian, the guy from chem class, stared at his shoes. I remembered him laughing when Trina dumped soup on my textbooks.
She pointed at a woman near the bar. “Danielle! You made those lice posters! Don’t act brand new!” Danielle flushed scarlet, turned away.
She pointed at another guy. “Wes! Didn’t you text me pictures of her eating alone? ‘Roach feeding time?’ You think I forgot? You think she forgot?!”
Silence. Thick with guilt. I hadn’t forgotten. Just never expected to hear it acknowledged.
“You all used me to feel better about yourselves!” Trina shrieked, tears and mascara streaming. “Now you act like heroes ’cause I got caught! F* you! All of you!**”
The officer gently guided her again. “That’s enough, ma’am.” As they led her out, the room stayed quiet, stunned. She’d exposed not just her own rottenness, but the complicity of the crowd. Danielle left quickly. Wes slipped out a side door.
Ten minutes later, another figure appeared. A short woman, graying hair, tear-streaked face. Looked exhausted, broken. “Is… is Trina gone?” she asked the room. Someone nodded. She walked in slowly. “I’m her mother.”
I barely recognized her. Last time I saw Mrs. Dubois, she was dripping in pearls at a school fundraiser. Now, she looked frail. She turned to Alan, who stood numbly by the wall. “I didn’t know,” she whispered. “About the money from your company. The other woman. Any of it.” He didn’t respond. “She forged my name too,” the mother added, voice barely audible. “On a second mortgage. I might lose my house.” A collective intake of breath. Trina had even victimized her own mother.
Then, the final, bizarre twist. Monica, Trina’s girlfriend, spoke again, piecing things together. “We didn’t meet on Instagram. It was a real estate seminar in Boulder.” She looked at Alan. “She said she was single. Showed me photos of you, told me you were her bankrupt business partner. Said she took over the company to save it from your theft.” More stunned silence. “She said you’d stolen from her, that she covered it up.” Alan just rubbed his face, speechless.
Then Monica looked at me. “I looked up your name. After she called you… that name. Found your framing business online. Saw your work.” Pause. “I showed Trina one of your pieces – a frame with pressed wildflowers. She got really quiet. Said she copied you. Said she always wanted to be you.”
It hit me then. The obsession wasn’t mine. It was hers. She’d followed me. Watched my small, quiet business. Compared herself. That’s why seeing me at the reunion, not broken, not a ‘failure,’ but just… okay… had triggered her attack. Because under all her noise and fake Hermès, she felt like the failure.
The room emptied quickly after that. No music, no dancing, just people escaping the wreckage. I stayed. Watched the cleanup crew start sweeping up spilled wine and shattered illusions. Alan sat slumped in a chair, head in hands. Monica quietly apologized to me again, then left.
Justice, Slowly Served
The video – Trina screaming, wine pouring, handcuffs clicking – was all over local social media by morning. Viral in Fort Collins. Everyone saw.
But seeing her downfall wasn’t enough. Not quite. Too many years of her voice echoing in my head. The posters. The whispers. The teachers looking away. She stole money, yes. But she also stole years of peace.
So, I did something quiet. Strategic. Went home. Cleaned my dress (the stain never fully came out). Started compiling. Screenshots from the viral video. Old yearbook photos showing her victims. Posts from her fake business pages. Put it all in a digital folder. Emailed Alan. Subject: Evidence. Body: Let me help.
He responded in an hour. Yes. Please.
He had lawyers, yes, but was drowning in the chaos she left. Fake licenses, potentially stolen art pieces she passed off as hers (some looked suspiciously like prints from local artists I framed for). He had no idea where to even start untangling her web.
I let him use my small framing studio back room for meetings. He brought coffee. We spent weeks, then months, sifting through papers, screenshots, timelines. Somewhere in the meticulous work of documenting Trina’s fraud, we started talking. About life. Losing trust. His dad dying young. My mom working three jobs. He never looked at me like I was small or broken. He just… understood. The silence, the need to survive.
Trina’s case dragged. But Alan, armed with organized evidence (much of it compiled by me), had an airtight case. $280,000+ stolen. Multiple forgeries. Fake brand identity. Tax fraud. Sentence: 4 years, state prison.
Her mugshot hit the local news. No fake lashes, no spray tan, no Hermès (fake or otherwise). Just orange jumpsuit. Hollow eyes. Unrecognizable.
Rebuilding & Unexpected Beginnings (UPDATE)
The fallout continued. Trina’s mother lost her house to foreclosure. Monica pressed charges (fraud, emotional distress). Danielle and Wes posted public apologies on Facebook years too late; no one cared.
Me? I didn’t gloat. Didn’t need to. I just kept living. Kept building my business. Kept showing up.
Six months after the trial ended, Alan and I started dating. Slowly. Carefully. Rebuilding trust, not just with each other, but with the idea of partnership itself. He didn’t try to fix me or take over. He just stood beside me. Quiet. Solid. Supportive in ways I hadn’t known existed.
One year later, we opened a second location of my framing shop, this time in Boulder. We brainstormed names for weeks. Finally settled on one that felt right. “Wildflower Frames.” (I decided against including ‘Maggot,’ figuring subtlety was its own kind of power). Some people get the reference; most don’t. But I know. She gave me those names to break me. I kept one to remind myself I survived, and transformed the other into something beautiful.
That’s real revenge. Not loud or dramatic. Just quiet, persistent survival. Building a good life, a real life, on the ashes of the past. It’s simple. It’s sharp. And it’s mine.