EDEN
Savannah Langley walks like she owns the hallway.
Not in a cocky way—no, that would be too easy to ignore. She walks like the floor was laid for her, like the lockers bend around her orbit, like she doesn't even know the power she has. And that's what makes it worse.
I watch her float past the sophomore lockers, practically glowing in her pastel blazer and glitter eyeliner, flanked by two other girls who dress like they're in a Broadway prep school. She tosses her blonde curls over her shoulder and laughs at something no one else heard.
I hate her laugh.
I hate how the drama teacher thinks she's brilliant.
I hate that the posters for the Senior Showcase auditions still have her face on them—centered, smiling, chosen.
And most of all, I hate that after two years of going unnoticed at this stuck-up arts academy, I finally beat her.
And now I have to work with her.
"You're staring," Milo says from beside me, his paint-stained hoodie pulled halfway over his eyes. He pops a gummy worm into his mouth and offers me the bag without looking.
I shrug. "No, I'm observing."
"Right. Observing Savannah Langley like you don't want to fight her or… kiss her."
I glare at him. He grins.
"Please," I mutter, yanking my film camera out of my bag like it's a weapon. "If I wanted to kiss her, I'd trip over her stupid shoes and die from shame."
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SAVANNAH
I should be excited. I was excited.
Until Eden Reyes took what was supposed to be mine.
The Senior Showcase slot—the solo feature that determines which of us walks away with the academy's full scholarship—was mine. I choreographed my own scene. I made people cry in the auditions.
And then Eden strolled in late, said three words to the board, and showed them some black-and-white photos that looked like they were developed in a haunted basement.
And they loved it.
Now we're "partners." Showcase co-leads. Forced into collaboration. Forced into hours after school together.
It's like a tragic Shakespeare twist where the princess gets stuck with the ghost.
"Are you okay?" Taylor asks, slipping her arm through mine as we walk to class.
"Peachy," I say, smiling just enough to make it believable.
I turn the corner and nearly crash into her.
Leather jacket. Smudged eyeliner. Camera slung over her shoulder like she's about to shoot a war documentary.
Eden Reyes.
She doesn't say sorry. She just lifts one eyebrow and steps around me like I'm invisible.
I spin on my heel, every polite instinct screaming at me to breathe, smile, and rise above.
Instead, I mutter just loud enough:
"Try looking where you're going next time, Wednesday Addams."
She stops.
So do I.
For a second, the whole hallway holds its breath.
She turns slowly, eyes dark, tired, and sharp. "Try minding your own fairy tale, Langley."
She walks away.
My heart's still pounding long after she's gone.
And I hate that it's not just from anger.