Shit.
We reach the locker room doors, the familiar scent of teenage desperation wafting out as Hollis pulls them open. But I barely notice. My mind is spinning as I try to process everything that has just been laid out for me.
Asha Fairfield wasn't just some ice queen who threw milkshakes for sport. She was Hollis's cousin, and just because their relation is news to me, doesn't mean my name hasn't come up in one of their conversations. It's possible my attendance isn't news to her. Asha is smart enough to manipulate student council elections before they even happened, resourceful enough to track down the source of her ruined uniform, and apparently vindictive enough to exact immediate revenge. And I have managed to piss her off before we've even officially met—well, at least for the second time.
The worst part about all of this is I'm actually impressed, even if it's at the expense of my own discomfort. It took balls to corner someone in broad daylight and nail them with a milkshake in front of an audience. It took a complete disregard for social consequences that I can't help but admire, even with the scent of strawberry still clinging to my skin.
Hollis was right about one thing: she isn't mean. Mean implies petty cruelty without purpose. What Asha did was calculated justice, swift and public, and probably exactlyproportional to the offense in her mind. She'd made me look like an idiot because I'd made her look like one first, even if it had been an accident.
Ice queen. The nickname doesn't sound fitting to me. Ice is predictable. It freezes and then it melts, following the laws of physics. What I'm dealing with is something far more dangerous and infinitely less predictable. Asha Fairfield isn't ice. She is pure, undiluted trouble wrapped in a pristine uniform and armed with a smile that could probably convince teachers to give her extra credit while she plotted their downfall.
And I'm starting to suspect that getting on her bad side is going to be the most interesting mistake I'll make in a very long time. Because I'd rather be on her bad side than no side at all. At least this way, she knows I exist.
"Is this AP Biology?" I ask one of the students in the first row as I check the slip of paper in my hand one more time.
She peers up at me, annoyance plastered across her face for having to look up from her phone. "Yes," she clips out, only to do a double take and put on a smile. "I’m Emma. Are you new here?” She leans forward, flipping her phone over. “I don't think I've seen you around campus before."
"Yeah," I answer plainly before making my way to the back of the class and putting as much distance between me and her as possible.
She was rude and then tried to fake charm after noting that I was new on campus. I could tell by the way she batted her eyelashes and changed her tone that she was interested. That's not me being vain; that's just me being able to spot a wolf insheep's clothing. A genuinely kind person isn't only nice when it's convenient.
As I take my seat and watch the class fill up, I note who's not here. It’s my second day and last class of block scheduling, which also means it's my last shot at having a class with Asha. Hollis said she takes all AP classes, and this is the only advanced course I’m taking this semester. I tap my pen against the desk, my eyes now zeroed in on the motion, perturbed that we’re not sharing any classes together, when suddenly a flyer is slammed down on my desk.
The bright-yellow paper reads:Your Freshman Student Body Elects Trigger Hale and Asha Fairfield. Who will have your vote, New Energy or Experience that Works?
Damn! That was fast. I was literally selected less than twenty-four hours ago.
"Do you want to win?" she asks, her words pulling my eyes away from the flyer to hers.
Do I want to win?Not necessarily. I know exactly why she haunts every corner of my mind. It's the same reason I'm sitting in this chair and now running against her. Because any attention from Asha Fairfield is better than being invisible to her, even if it means she hates me.
Before I can even process what my answer would be, the classroom door swings open, and Mrs. Chen walks in, her heels clicking against the linoleum.
"Seats, everyone! Quickly now!" She claps her hands twice, and Asha shoots me one last dark glare before retreating to her own chair.
Mrs. Chen waits at the front, arms crossed, until the noise settles and everyone has taken a seat. "Good afternoon," she begins, adjusting her glasses. "I know you're all eager to dig into the class curriculum, but before we do, the administration has a special project to introduce. One that will span your entire highschool career. And if you're wondering…yes, it's mandatory, and yes, it counts toward your graduation requirements."
A collective groan ripples through the classroom.
Mrs. Chen holds up a hand. "This project is called Pen Pals, but we won’t be assigning the pen pals in the traditional sense, i.e, writing letters—we are in the twenty-first century after all. Instead of pens and paper, we will use cell phones. This project, at its core, is designed to foster genuine communication and understanding between students who might never otherwise interact. In a moment, our student aid will be distributing phones, basic models with limited functionality. Each phone has been assigned exactly one other number. That person will be your secret pen pal for the next four years."
Four years. The words echo in my head, and I want to laugh at how ridiculous that is. Fouryearsof texting some random person. Four years of playing this stupid guessing game. I'm not the only one who thinks this is bullshit. The entire room erupts in groans and complaints, and someone yells, "Are you kidding me right now?" The girl to my right drops her head on her desk with a dramatic thud.
Mrs. Chen doesn't even blink. She just walks around to the front of her desk and crosses her ankles like she's got all day. Like she'senjoyingthis. The room slowly goes quiet, and I swear she's trying not to smirk.
"If everyone is finished..." She raises an eyebrow before continuing. "The rules are non-negotiable," she continues, her voice taking on a stern edge. "No exchanging names. No physical descriptions. No clues about your identity whatsoever. The person on the other end must remain completely anonymous until graduation. Any violation of these rules will result in a failing grade for this project, and you'll be assigned fifty hours of community service to make up for it."
Four years. Through all of high school. I glance around the room, suddenly aware of how many people this could be when the door opens again, and a student aid pushes in a cart stacked with small boxes. Each one has a name label on top.
"When you receive your phone," Mrs. Chen says, "it will already be charged and activated. You may text your pen pal whenever you wish. The only rule besides anonymity: be authentic. This project is about genuine human connection, not performance. Now, when I call your name, come collect your phone."
She starts reading from her roster, and one by one, students shuffle to the front. My heart's beating faster than it should. Somewhere in this room or maybe in another class, there's someone who's going to be assigned to me. Someone I'll talk to for the next four years without knowing who they are.
The yellow flyer still sits on my desk, Asha's name printed next to mine.
"Trigger Hale," Mrs. Chen calls.
I stand, weaving through the desks. As I return to my seat, the bright-yellow flyer staring back at me, I can't help but wonder:What are the chances?
