Phones come out.
Mindy giggles, snapping more shots of her own.
X leans into her ear and murmurs, “I can always say I was shitfaced later.”
She beams.
A star is born.
A new alliance is forged.
And the first crack in the perfect senior-girl empire splits wide open.
We finally have our path.
We can’t leave yet.
If we walk out right after Mindy drops nuclear intel, every girl in this place will smell blood in the water. So we stay. We drink. We smoke. We blend back into the circus.
I slide into a leather chair, refill my glass, and take a long drag from the cigar. Play the part. Slip into the old version of myself like putting on a costume.
Girls notice instantly.
A few freshmen.
Maybe a sophomore.
Not Bianca, Vivian, Nadia or Rosalie—those vultures I avoid on purpose. But the younger ones? They giggle, whisper, drift over like moths to the wrong flame.
I let them.
I have to sell it.
I have to make them believe Jade meant nothing, that I’m “back,” sliding into their world again. It’s disgusting, but it’s strategy.
One girl traces her nails down the back of my neck.
Another leans on my shoulder.
Another curls against my side, head on my arm.
Phones are out.
Snaps firing.
Videos rolling.
Everyone capturing the downfall of the “scholarship girl era.”
I don’t let anyone kiss me.
That’s the line.
But they nuzzle.
Whisper.
Giggle.
