In the fluorescent-lit corridors of Westview High, everyone wore their labels like price tags stitched into their skin. I was “Unmarketable.” Not flashy like “100% Ambition,” or unreliable like “May Contain Traces of Anxiety.” Just bad product. My badge pulsed a dull gray. Kids like Lila, labeled “People Pleaser,” shimmered in soft pink, always smiling. Or Jared, “Overthinker,” whose badge flickered blue with every nervous tic—he’d probably analyze his own funeral. Then there were the golden ones: “Prime Talent,” “Future Leader.” They walked the halls with their head hung the highest.

I’d learned to keep my head down, blending into the beige wall.

That was until he showed up.

His name was Ezra, the new kid, and his badge read “Defective” in stark red letters. The word pulsed like a warning sign, drawing stares and whispers. As he slipped into homeroom on the first day, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, there was a weight to his presence, unshakable, almost deliberate. His dark hair fell over one eye, and the other glinted with something sharp—pride, maybe, or defiance.  I couldn’t tell. All I knew was that “Defective” wasn’t supposed to look so alive.

The teacher barely glanced at him. “Sit back there,” she muttered. We were sorted into aisles: premium stock up front and clearance in the back. Ezra dropped into the seat next to mine, and I felt the air shift. I wondered what made him defective. A glitch in the scan? Is a trait too messy to categorize? I didn’t ask. You didn’t talk to someone else’s label.

But he talked to me.

“Unmarketable, huh?” His voice was low but smooth. “What’s that even mean?”

I shrugged, “Means I don’t fit anywhere. ”

He smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds like freedom.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. Freedom? My label wasn’t freedom—it was a void, a nowhere place where I belonged.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

“Ashley,” I said, almost unsure of myself. Most people just used labels, not names.

Over the next few weeks, we started talking. Ezra had a way of seeing through the labels, peeling them back like stickers on fruit. Jack’s “Prince Charming” badge gleamed with an intense gold, a symbol of bravery, kindness, and reliability. But Ezra couldn’t help noticing the way Jack’s eyes flickered nervously and how his smile sometimes stretched just a little too wide. It was as if the weight of perfection was beginning to crack him, as if that charm wasn’t entirely natural.

Anida, a “Future Leader,” could organize school events, but the minute she was a bit immature or impulsive, kids sneered like she’d broken some unwritten rule. Ezra saw it all: how the golden ones, the “Prime Talents,” tensed up if they showed any doubt, how even the smallest slip outside their categories earned them cold shoulders or snide remarks. To him, the labels weren’t truths—they were cages, and the social fallout for rattling the bars was proof. To Ezra, they were just people, messy and mismatched, not the polished products everyone pretended they were.

One day, we ditched lunch to hide out in the art room. My badge flickered faintly as I sat cross-legged on the floor, sketching in a thick, filled notebook I never showed anyone. Ezra sprawled beside me, fiddling with a busted pencil sharpener.

“They labeled me ‘Defective’ because I broke their machine. Literally. Kicked it when I was six. Guess they didn’t like that.”

I laughed, startled. “You kicked it?”

“Yeah. I guess I didn’t want some box telling me who I was.” He tossed the sharpener aside, and it clattered against an easel. “Still don’t.”

“What I want is to be a news anchor,” he said, still not looking at me. “I’ve got the voice for it, the way with words. I know I could do it. But this?” He tapped his red badge. “They’ll never let a ‘Defective’ near a camera.” There was no bitterness, just fact, and somehow that made it heavier. Then he turned to finally look at me. “What about you? What do you want to be?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Never thought about it.” It was a lie, and he knew it.

He leaned closer, “Come on. There’s something. What is it?” I hesitated; his gaze wouldn’t let up. Finally, I mumbled, “A dancer. I want to dance.” Saying it out loud felt foolish. “Unmarketable” didn’t pirouette across a stage. But Ezra didn’t laugh. He nodded, “Then do it. You’ve got no label holding you back—not really. It’s a blank slate. Take it and move.” His words stunned me, igniting something in me I hadn’t let myself feel. “Okay, then promise I’ll see you on the morning news one day,” I said.

He smiled and held out his pinky. I wrapped mine around his.

“Promise,” he said.

After that, we were a pair. The golden kids stared, a mix of curiosity and unease. What did we have that they didn’t? Freedom, maybe, to want something bigger than our labels allowed. I started to wonder, too, and for the first time, I let myself imagine steps instead of a void.

But it all came crashing down during the annual Assessment Fair. Every spring, juniors were re-scanned, and their labels updated for college apps. The gym was a marketplace: booths with recruiters eyeing us like produce. I stood in line, stomach twisting. What if they doubled down on “Unmarketable”? What if I stayed labeled like this forever?

Ezra was ahead of me. When he stepped into the scanner, the machine whirred, then sparks flew, and the screen flashed: “ERROR: UNREADABLE.” The recruiter, a stiff woman in a gray suit, frowned.

“Step aside,” she demanded. “We’ll recalibrate.”

But Ezra began to walk away. “Nah. No need.”

As the recruiter barked orders and the machine sputtered behind him, he just kept walking, like he had somewhere better to be. The gym fell into stunned silence as he pushed through the double doors and disappeared.

He got suspended the next day.

“Two weeks,” he messaged me. “They called it ‘insubordination.’ I call it a vacation.”

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bigger was happening. The whole school was buzzing—whispers about the machine breaking down, about Ezra walking out like the labels didn’t matter. And maybe they didn’t. Maybe that was the point.

That’s when the idea hit me.

After multiple emails with the art teacher, I posted the flyer: “Unlabel Me” Club — Where You’re More Than A Label. Wednesdays @ the Art Room.

At first, I thought no one would come. But when I walked into the art room that afternoon, the tables were already half-full. Lila sat near the window, twisting a pencil between her fingers. Jared hovered by the door. Even Jack showed up, his golden “Prince Charming” label dimmer than usual.

We talked about the pressure of obeying our labels, the fear of slipping up, and showing the parts of ourselves we never showed because they didn’t fit our instructions. And slowly, the room filled up week after week.

When Ezra came back from his suspension, the club was waiting.

“Not bad,” he said, leaning in the doorway with a half-smile. “Starting a revolution without me?”

The administration noticed. The teachers started talking, and the principal called me in. “I am worried this club might be disruptive,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “The labels exist for a reason, Ashley.”

“So do we,” I replied.

We didn’t get the labels banned, not nationwide, not even district-wide. But by the end of the year, the school made one change: the badges went private on school grounds. No more glowing tags on our chests. You had to ask someone their name, not their label, to know who they were.

On the last day of school, Ezra found me by the lockers. “So,” he said, “when’s the first dance recital?”

I laughed. “When’s the first news broadcast?”

He grinned, holding out his pinky. I wrapped mine around his.

“Promise,” he said.