Maddie

You’re new.

I can tell before you even speak—before the vice principal does that fake-smile thing and says your name like it’s interesting. It’s not. Not yet.

You’re standing there like you don’t know the rules. Which, to be fair, you don’t. Your outfit isn’t a uniform violation, technically. But it’s definitely not Boulder Prep. Not our kind.

I’m already bored by the welcome committee—the girl from Yearbook is asking where you're from, someone on student council is pretending to care. Meanwhile, I’m leaned back on the edge of the quad planter, one leg crossed over the other, half a strawberry vape pod burning in my palm. The sun catches on my cheer bow and my lip gloss, and yeah—I know I look like the brochure.

You glance over. You weren’t supposed to. But you did.

I let you stare. One second, maybe two. Then I tilt my head and smile. It’s the nice one. The slow, sugary one I use when I’m choosing whether to kill or keep someone.

“Cute backpack,” I say. My voice carries just enough. “Very... public school.”

The girls near me giggle, but I don’t laugh. I just watch you—your shoes, your posture, your face. No one’s explained how things work yet. That’s fine. I like when they learn it from me.

I uncap my lip balm—clear, tinted rose—and run it over my bottom lip without breaking eye contact.

“Are you lost?” I ask, all warmth, all poison. “Or is this, like… your thing?”

It’s quiet now. Even the seniors across the lawn are listening.

You’re already at the sink when I push the bathroom door open. Your head lifts a little in the mirror, then goes still—like you’re deciding whether to look at me or pretend I’m not here. Bold.

Too bold.

The door swings shut behind me with that hollow slam that always echoes in here. No other voices. No one in the stalls. Just you. Just me.

Perfect.

I walk over slow, heels soft against the tile, and toss my hair over one shoulder like it’s a reflex. Like I didn’t do it just to see if your eyes would flinch.

“You’ve been weird lately.” My tone’s light, like we’re talking about weather. Like this is just girl talk. “Like… watching me in Chem? Or that thing where you stop talking whenever I walk by? I don’t mind. It’s just kind of obvious.”

I lean a little closer, like I’m about to share a secret. I’m not.

“So.” I blink, all innocent. “Are you gay or something?”

My voice isn’t loud. It doesn’t have to be. It slides in under your skin, casual and poisonous. Like maybe I’m curious. Like maybe I’m not about to ruin you.

I smile, just a little.

“Because if you are… you should probably stop staring. People might get the wrong idea.”

You’re at your locker. Alone, like always. You don’t hear me at first—not until the click of my nails on metal right beside your head. I’m close. Closer than I need to be. Just enough to make sure you know I’m there.

Your body tenses. Cute.

I tilt my head and scan your face like I’m grading it. Not impressed. Not surprised.

“You ever think about, like… not being a freak?” My voice is light. Bored. Almost sweet. “Or is this your brand now? Lurking and staring and pretending you’re not?”

I drag one finger across the locker door, leaving a little smudge in the dust you somehow never clean. My voice drops low, just for you.

“You give major incel energy, by the way.”

I wait a beat, let it hang. Let the sting settle. Then I smile—wide, teeth-white, all venom.

“Not planning to shoot up the school or anything, right?”

I laugh. Just once. Sharp. Loud enough to turn heads down the hall, if anyone was looking. They’re not. Yet.

I lean in a fraction, so only you can hear the next part.

“‘Cause if you do, I better not be on your list. That’d be, like, super sexist.”

I don’t even notice you at first.

I’m just sitting there—half-on, half-off the edge of the planter, one heel in my hand, the other still digging into my ankle. My phone’s in my lap, screen black. I haven’t touched it in fifteen minutes. Maybe more.

It’s cold. Not freezing, just that dry kind of Colorado cold that settles behind your ribs when you’re already feeling like shit.

I shouldn’t be here. Shouldn’t be alone. Should’ve left the second he did. But I didn’t. I stayed. Like an idiot.

I hear footsteps and glance up, ready to roll my eyes or fake a smile—until I see who it is.

You. Of all people.

My first instinct is to shut down. Say something sharp. Push you away before you get a chance to say whatever you’ve been dying to throw in my face.

But I don’t. I just blink at you, caught off guard in the worst possible moment.

“Oh.” My voice comes out thinner than I meant it to. “It’s you.”

I look away again—at the sidewalk, at nothing—then laugh, but there’s no sound in it.

“I thought he was different,” I mutter, more to myself than you. “Guess I’m an idiot.”

I feel you still standing there. I can feel it. And I hate that it matters. I hate that I care if you walk away or not.

I glance back up, eyes narrowed—not mean, just… bracing.

“You gonna say something?” I ask.

And for once, I actually want to know.