Spring unfurled slowly across the school grounds, brushing the grass with green and shaking pink blossoms loose from the trees. The air tasted like sunshine and endings. Hallways buzzed louder than usual, laughter swelling through lockers and doorways.
Because prom was coming.
Bulletin boards exploded with glitter and pastel posters, hand-painted crowns, cursive promises of A Night to Remember. A countdown calendar appeared near the gym, each number marked off with stickers and lipstick kisses. The drama club offered to choreograph a royal entrance. The art department competed to paint the dance backdrop. Someone donated a chocolate fountain.
The girls—especially the girls—turned electric. Sequins, whispers, perfume. Lunchtime became a contest of loud opinions: which dresses, which colors, which dates. And above it all, the simmering war for Prom Queen.
The reigning empresses of popularity gathered in high corners of the lunchroom, their voices lilting like music boxes stuffed with knives.
Amanda Vale.
Cassie Bryne.
Talia Reed.
Three girls who walked in a triangle, always heels clicking in sync. Their laughter could freeze a room. Their stares could curdle milk. And they watched Lyra like something they'd scraped from under their shoes.
"She looks like a stray cat someone fed once," Amanda once muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"More like roadkill," Talia corrected.
But this month, their cruelty had sharpened with purpose. Because only one of them could be queen.
They sabotaged one another's lockers with glitter bombs. Spread rumors about spray tans gone wrong. Amanda even cried in the bathroom after someone posted a photo of her in sweatpants.
They smiled at teachers. Took selfies during community clean-up. Wore tiaras to class.
And through it all, Lyra watched from the shadows. Not because she wanted the crown—but because the whole world felt louder than usual. Faster.
She hadn't realized how much the school was alive. How many stories and rivalries bloomed between desks.
And maybe, for once, she didn't feel like a ghost in the corner.
---
Because when midterms came and grades returned, Mr. Ellis called her name with the faintest surprise in his voice.
"Lyra Thorne. Perfect score."
The room hushed.
Her pen slipped.
Elias looked over from the row beside her and offered a crooked smile. He mouthed, Told you so.
After class, he caught up to her in the hallway, his voice warm with pride.
"Four-point-oh. That's impressive even for someone not battling the entire weight of the world."
She flushed. "I just studied."
"You mean we studied," he teased.
"Fine. You get, like, ten percent credit."
He grinned. "You're generous."
She was still smiling when she got home.
---
Later that week, Elias approached her with something in his eyes that looked like hesitation.
"My family's doing a little celebration dinner. You know, end of the year, grades and all that. Mom made pie. My sisters made a playlist. Want to come?"
She blinked. "Me?"
"Yeah, you. Top of the class. Star of the library. Honorary Marchenko."
She hesitated. Part of her still didn't believe it. That this boy—this beautiful, strange, smart boy—wanted her near his world.
But she remembered the warmth of his home, the soft candlelight, the laughter. And the bread.
And maybe—just maybe—she wanted to feel safe again.
"Okay," she said.
---
The night of the celebration, the Marchenko house glowed like a lighthouse. Someone had strung fairy lights across the porch. Music drifted through open windows. A second car sat in the driveway, doors still swinging open.
Inside, the table overflowed with dishes—roast chicken, sweet potatoes, green beans with almonds, strawberry tarts, and two kinds of pie. The girls wore matching aprons, flour on their noses.
When Lyra walked in, they cheered.
"Genius girl!"
"Top of the class!"
"We knew you had it in you!"
They pulled her into a group hug, handed her a soda with a paper umbrella, and made her pick the first song.
Elias hovered nearby, watching her with quiet satisfaction.
Later, after dinner and bad karaoke, his mom pressed a box into Lyra's hands. Inside was a set of watercolors.
"For when you want to create something instead of surviving."
Lyra's hands trembled.
No one had ever given her something so delicate. So hopeful.
---
That night, she walked home alone.
The bruises from weeks ago had faded, but new ones bloomed where her uncle had grabbed her last. She'd learned to walk quietly. To sleep with one eye open.
But still, the pain came.
He didn't ask about the gifts or the smile on her face.
He only saw that she was late.
---
She cried herself to sleep again, hugging the watercolor set to her chest. Outside, thunder cracked across the sky.
In her dreams, the car spun again. Metal screamed. A child cried.
And in the shadows behind the wreckage, something watched her with eyes like silver knives.
Waiting.
Listening.