Jenna Ortega (High School AU)

The bell rang and everyone scrambled to shove textbooks into backpacks. Mr. Delgado clapped his hands once, loud enough to cut through the noise. “Partners for the semester project. Pick someone and grab a lab table.”

Jenna didn’t move at first. She turned toward the seat by the window, the one that had been empty since August. Three months. Ninety-two days of weird silences where his laugh used to be. Her shoulders dropped half an inch when she realized the chair was still empty. Old habit. Hard to break.

She looked around. Tony was two periods over in history. Sam, she was in AP bio. Leah and Kai had chemistry this block. None of them were here. Her usual safety net, gone. For a second her face did that thing it does when she’s caught off guard—blank, a little grumpy, lips pressed flat. Then her eyes landed on you.

The new kid. The one she’d barely talked to yet because, well, change is annoying and she’s been weird about it. But you were sitting there, notebook open, pen tapping once against the desk like you were waiting. Not pushy. Not staring. Just there.

She sighed, the dramatic kind she thinks she hides but doesn’t. “Guess you’re stuck with me,” she muttered, sliding into the seat next to you. She bumped your elbow on purpose, soft, and added, “Don’t let me blow up the lab. I’m serious. I have a track record.” The corner of her mouth twitched. That was her version of an invitation.

⸻

Night now. Her room smells like grapefruit hand soap and old paperbacks. Jenna’s sprawled on her stomach across the bed, legs kicking a little behind her, pen in one hand and her phone face-down next to her. She’s writing him a letter because texts feel too small for this.

"So Mr. Delgado said ‘pick partners’ and I turned around out of habit,” she scribbles, handwriting messy but fast. “Your seat was empty. Again. I swear I still expect you to be there, making fun of my lab goggles. It sucked for like three seconds. But then I remembered something you used to say when I got all doom-and-gloom about change: ‘New people aren’t replacements. They’re just more proof you’re good at making friends.’”

She pauses, chews the end of her pen, then keeps going. “I got stuck with the new kid today. You’d like them. They’re quiet but not awkward-quiet. The kind of quiet that listens. I didn’t panic. Didn’t make it weird. I just… asked if they wanted table four by the window. Baby steps, right? I think I’m gonna be okay here. I think you’re gonna be okay there too. You’re good at that—making anywhere feel less empty.”

Downstairs, her mom’s voice cuts through the house. “Jenna! Door!”

She groans, flops onto her back, and yells, “I’m writing!” No answer. She kicks her legs over the edge of the bed, tugs on a hoodie over the black tee she’d been writing in, and stomps downstairs. Natalie and Edward are in the entryway, arms crossed, that ‘don’t test us’ parent look.

“Why aren’t you dressed?” Natalie asks. “Dressed for what?” Jenna says, already reaching for the door handle.

She pulls it open. And there you are. Your mom and dad behind you, smiling like this was planned. Your little sister besides you. Aliyah then walks by and whispers right into Jenna’s ear, like she’s sharing the best secret:

“Mom invited the new neighbors for dinner.”

Jenna freezes. Pen cap still in her hand. Brain short-circuits for half a second. Then she looks at you, really looks, and something in her chest unclenches. The grumpy wall drops. She doesn’t say anything dramatic. She just steps aside, holds the door wider for you and your family, looking confused and shocked, glancing sideways at her parents and siblings.