By breakfast the next morning, the music room had been cordoned off with yellow caution tape and someone had painted "HELLFIRE" on the burned-out door in bright red nail polish.
"Subtle," Zara muttered as we passed the scene. "So, who's your boyfriend? The arsonist or the crime scene?"
I rolled my eyes. "He left a note. That doesn't mean he's my boyfriend."
"Aria, he risked Sister Margaret's wrath and possibly eternal damnation to send you a compliment. That's courtship around here."
I tried to look unaffected, but the truth was I hadn't stopped reading that note. The paper was folded in my hoodie pocket right now, warm against my hip like it was whispering, Get ready for trouble.
I didn't know if I liked him or wanted to fight him. Possibly both.
We made it to the cafeteria with minutes to spare before the bell. But just as I grabbed a tray of something mushy and allegedly potato-based, she arrived.
Bianca Hargrove.
Hair in a glossy ponytail so tight it could cut glass. Lip gloss so shiny it probably had solar power. And that walk—the kind of walk you only develop if your parents paid someone to teach you how to enter a room like a Disney villain.
She paused in the doorway, eyes sweeping across the cafeteria like a general surveying her kingdom.
"Good morning, peasants," she said sweetly.
The air around her shifted like the temperature dropped ten degrees. The Gaggle—three girls with matching hairbands and no independent thought—flanked her like bodyguards.
Bianca sauntered over to our table, her heels clicking with calculated intimidation. Her eyes landed on me.
"You're new," she said.
"And you're not," I replied, biting into a piece of suspicious toast.
She tilted her head. "Aria Monroe, right? I've heard things."
"Same," I said. "Like how you once cried because the vending machine ate your daddy's credit card."
Zara choked on her juice.
Bianca's smile didn't falter, but her nostrils flared just slightly. "I run things here, Monroe. Just thought I'd be generous and give you a heads-up."
"Appreciate the warning," I said, licking jelly off my fingers. "But I've never really been good at following queens. I tend to dethrone them."
Silence.
Then a single, dramatic gasp from the Gaggle.
Bianca leaned closer. Her perfume smelled like money and judgment. "You've made a mistake."
"No, I made toast," I said. "You're just standing near it."
She spun on her heels and walked away, but not before tossing her ponytail with the power of a medieval sword swing.
I turned to Zara. "Is she always like that?"
"Yeah," she sighed. "But usually, she waits until Week Two before declaring war."
"Guess I'm just special."
The rest of the day went about as well as a root canal in a thunderstorm.
In English Lit, Sister Camille gave us a pop quiz on Shakespeare's lesser-known tragedies, which I failed so badly I think the ghost of Shakespeare cried a little. In Biology, I spilled formaldehyde on my skirt. By History, someone had stuffed an anonymous note in my locker that read: New girl thinks she's funny. Let's see if she laughs when she's alone.
Cute.
After dinner, I headed to the art room to clear my head. Sister Lucia let students work on extra credit murals—probably to channel our rebellion into brushstrokes instead of chaos. I liked it there. Quiet. No rules, except "Don't eat the paint."
I was sketching an upside-down nun with devil horns when I heard the door creak open.
"Didn't peg you for the artsy type."
I looked up.
Jace.
Still wearing his hoodie despite the school's zero-tolerance dress code. He walked in like he owned the room—or at least didn't care if it blew up behind him.
"You shouldn't be here," I said, erasing a crooked line.
"You're here."
"Yeah, but I'm me. You're on Sister Margaret's Most Wanted list."
He smirked, sitting beside me. "Thought I'd come say hi to the girl who laughed while I got dragged away yesterday."
"You did look ridiculous."
He leaned in. "And you looked interested."
I felt my stomach betray me by flipping. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
He pointed at my sketch. "Is that supposed to be Sister Joan or Satan?"
"Bit of both."
He nodded. "Nice horns."
Silence stretched between us, comfortable in the way only two troublemakers could manage. Then he pulled something from his pocket and slid it onto the desk.
A tiny paintbrush, still stained with red.
"I heard you're the reason Sister Margaret looked like a tomato last week."
My eyes widened. "That was not my fault. I was just experimenting with exploding paint bags."
He laughed. "I approve."
A beat.
Then he leaned closer, voice lower. "So what's your plan, Monroe? Gonna survive St. Agatha's? Or burn it down one glitter bomb at a time?"
I shrugged. "Why choose?"
And just like that, something unspoken passed between us. A pact. A promise. A spark.
Of fire.
Of chaos.
Of whatever this insane story was turning into.
Just as he stood to leave, he whispered, "Careful with Bianca. She plays dirty."
"I bite."
He grinned. "Knew you'd be fun."
And then he was gone, leaving behind the paintbrush and the echo of a thousand bad decisions waiting to be made.