Abigail "Abba" Harper

The frat house is vibrating. Bass so loud the red Solo cups on the tables tremble like they’re scared. Blue and gold streamers everywhere, the St. Claire Saints just crushed Vanderbilt 42-17, and the entire campus is drunk on victory and cheap vodka.

In the back living room, the cheer squad is lined up like soldiers. Twelve girls in tiny gold-sequined crop tops and white pleated skirts, still in full makeup and high ponytails, pom-poms abandoned in a corner. They’re exhausted. Three hours of stunts, two hours of post-game photos, and now this.

Abigail “Abba” Harper stands in front of them like a general inspecting troops that have already disappointed her. She’s changed into a white silk mini dress that costs more than most people’s rent, Louboutin heels sharp enough to kill, and her platinum hair falls in perfect waves over one shoulder. A fresh glass of champagne dangles from her manicured fingers. Her ice-blue eyes sweep the line slowly, deliberately, like she’s deciding who bleeds first.

She stops in front of Madison (sophomore, flyer, always a half-beat late on the last toss).

“Madison, sweetie,” Abba’s voice is honey laced with arsenic, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Did you gain weight since Tuesday? Because I swear that liberty stunt almost dropped. I felt the wobble. Everyone felt the wobble.” Madison’s cheeks burn crimson. She opens her mouth, nothing comes out. Abba smiles, tilts her head. “Bless your heart. Fix it by Monday or you’re benched. Next.”

She moves to Kayla (base, strong as hell, but her eyeliner smudged during the second half).

“Kayla, what is that?” Abba gestures at her face with the champagne flute. “You look like a raccoon that lost a fight. We’re St. Claire, not community college. Go fix your face before someone tags you in a story.”

Kayla’s bottom lip trembles. She doesn’t move fast enough. Abba raises one perfect eyebrow. “Now, Kayla. Or do I need to post the video from practice where you dropped Taylor on her head? I still have it.”

Kayla practically runs.

Abba turns to the rest of the line, voice sugary and lethal.

“Let’s recap tonight, girls. We were sloppy on the third-quarter pyramid. The transitions looked drunk. And don’t even get me started on the halftime routine. I saw smiles that didn’t reach the eyes. Do you know how embarrassing that is for me? I’m the one who has to explain to Daddy why his donation money is being wasted on mediocrity.”

She takes a slow sip of champagne, letting the silence stretch until someone sniffles.

“Oh, are we crying already?” She laughs, light and cruel. “Save the tears for when Daddy cuts the funding because his little princess looks bad on national television.”

Her gaze lands on the freshman in the back (Emily, tiny, new, still thinks Abba might be nice deep down).

“Emily, darling. Come here.” Emily steps forward like she’s walking to the gallows. Abba reaches out, tucks a loose strand of hair behind Emily’s ear with fake tenderness. “You’re replaceable,” she whispers, just loud enough for the whole line to hear. “All of you are. Remember that.”

Then she smiles, bright and beautiful and terrifying, raises her glass.

“But tonight we won, so drink, dance, pretend you’re somebody. Just know that tomorrow at 6 a.m. practice, I will remember every single face that disappointed me tonight.”

She turns on her heel, hips swaying like she owns gravity itself, and walks toward the kitchen where the football players are already chanting her name.

Behind her, twelve girls stand frozen. Some are crying silently. Some are staring at the floor. None dare move until she’s out of sight.

The party rages on around them, but in that corner, the temperature just dropped twenty degrees.

And Abba? She’s already laughing with the quarterback, phone in hand, filming the squad from across the room, because even now, she’s still watching. Always watching.

---

The party is still raging, the air thick with sweat, alcohol, and testosterone. Strobe lights flash like they’re trying to hide every sin happening in every corner. Abba has just finished her “motivational” speech to the squad and is now gliding between the girls with that smile that could freeze hell itself.

She stops in front of Sophie (junior, base, always looks one second away from shattering). Sophie’s eyes are red from holding back tears, but Abba has zero mercy.

“Sophie, sweetheart,” Abba says, voice soft as a razor wrapped in silk. “Go over to Tyler, the running back. Cheer him up. Be sweet, twirl your hair, laugh at his stupid jokes. And for the love of God, don’t cry. Nobody wants a cheerleader who looks like a widow at a victory party. If he sees you crying, you’re cut. Go. Now.”

Sophie swallows hard, nods like a broken doll, and stumbles off toward the players, forcing a smile that looks more like a grimace.

Abba watches her go, satisfied. Pathetic. But useful. They all are... until they’re not.

Then, as she turns her head to hunt for her next target, her eyes lock onto the bar.

There she is. The scholarship girl. The nobody who doesn’t belong here, with her pathetic academic scholarship and second-hand clothes she tries to pass off as vintage. She was drinking alone at first, but now... oh, now she’s making out with Jake, the backup quarterback. His hands on her waist like he has any right to touch something that isn’t his.

A wave of ice-cold rage floods Abba’s veins. Who the hell does she think she is? A nobody invading my territory. Pretty, yeah... those eyes, that body. She could almost be something if she weren’t a social insect. But she is. And she’s touching what’s mine.

She slams her champagne flute onto a nearby table and crosses the room like a panther. People part without being told; they know when Abba walks like that, someone is about to bleed.

She reaches the bar and plants herself right beside them. Jake sees her first, pulls away with a nervous grin.

“Abba, hey! What’s up? Great game, right?”

Abba doesn’t even look at him at first. Her ice-blue eyes are fixed on the girl, sizing her up like a cheap dress on the sale rack. Then she turns to Jake, voice low and lethal.

“Jake, darling. Your parents are so devout, aren’t they? Good Catholics. What would they think if they found out about last spring’s party? You and those two lacrosse guys. Photos included. I could accidentally forward them to Mommy. Or the dean. Get lost. Now. Leave us alone.”

Jake goes white, mutters something incoherent, and vanishes into the crowd like the coward he is.

Abba turns to the girl. Her smile is a sharpened blade. She steps closer, invading every inch of personal space, expensive perfume wrapping around the girl like a trap.

“Well, well. The scholarship girl playing pretend. You really think you can waltz in here and steal what doesn’t belong to you? You’re pretty, I’ll give you that. Shame it doesn’t stop you from being a bug I crush under my heel.”

The girl says nothing. Just stares. And Abba feels a thrill crawl up her spine. Come on. Fight back. Make it fun.

The party roars on around them, but at that bar, the world narrows to just the two of them. Abba waits, ready to tear whatever’s left to pieces.