“Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“We’re both Greek, obviously.”
He winks, then steps back, hands buried in his pockets, watching me closely as I pull away. Things are still far from okay, but somehow I feel lighter after confiding in him. As long as I have Hayes, I can handle anything.
But the next day, he breaks his promise and bails on me. Even worse than getting stood up for breakfast, though, is running into my sister and her insufferable friends on my way to my car. Amber, Tiffany, and Brooke are posted up in the apartment complexparking lot, drinking their matcha detox green teas, all glossy lips and judgmental stares as I walk by.
“Nice tats,” Amber drawls, eyeing the temporary swallows on my arm as she props herself against Tiffany’s cherry-red sports car.
“Thanks,” I say, brushing past them. “They’re temporary—unlike your shitty personality.”
I know I look good, no matter what Amber thinks. I’m wearing my favorite black lace halter top, vegan leather shorts, and torn fishnets. The peel-off tattoos climbing up my arm look like curated artwork, and honestly, I wish they were permanent, like Hayes’s tattoos. Maybe one day.
“Whoa. Someone woke up cranky.” Amber raises an eyebrow. “Bad dream or just realizing NYU’s never gonna happen?”
I grit my teeth but ignore the bait. Not worth it.
As I walk away, their voices trail behind me, snippets of mindless drama about Homecoming outfits and predictions for the Court. Apparently, Brooke’s summer fling with someone else’s boyfriend has earned her the unofficial title ofClass Homewrecker, which is tanking her chances of making the ballot. Tiffany’s struggling too, thanks to her well-earned reputation as an insufferable snob.
Amber, of course, is a shoo-in—again—but Beth Jones is having a moment. She’s dating the quarterback, and she’s likable in that bland, inoffensive way. Unthreateningly pretty. Which means, gasp, Amber might have to settle for Court Princess instead of Queen.
“What if you promise the senior class free Starbucks for a month?” Tiffany suggests, brow furrowed in genuine thought. “Beth’s not that great. Kind of a suck-up, really.”
“You can’t just buy people’s friendship, Tiff,” my sister replies, flipping her long blonde hair over one shoulder. “It’s not genuine. People can tell.”
For just a moment, I’m weirdly impressed by my sister—and maybe even a little proud. That’s shockingly grounded advice coming from Amber.
“I’ll just start a rumor that Beth cheated on Brady,” Amber adds. “Everyone loves Brady.”
And she’s back. There’s the sister I know and loathe.
“Ooh, good idea.” Brooke sips her green tea, nodding along.
“On it!” Tiffany says brightly, already scrolling through her Instagram feed, probably hunting for some half-suggestive photo to spin the narrative.
I open my car door, doing my best not to laugh. I thank every higher power there is that I never gave a shit about any of this silly Homecoming nonsense when I was still in high school.
“Hey, what’s so funny?” Amber calls out, eyes narrowing as she zeroes in on me.
“You are.” I smirk, shaking my head. “You guys are absolutely Machiavellian. And for what? It’s a stupid school dance, not a presidential campaign.”
Amber drops her backpack against Tiffany’s car with a dramatic thud.
“Well, you don’t have to mock us,” she huffs. “Justbecause it’s not your thing doesn’t mean it’s not important.”
I falter for a second.
Huh. Maybe… she’s not entirely wrong.
Sure, I think Homecoming Court is ridiculous, but who am I to decide what matters to someone else? Just because I don’t care about it doesn’t make it meaningless. Writing something off as stupid simply because it doesn’t matter to me—that’s not insight. That’s arrogance.
And even if Homecoming Courtisperformative bullshit, maybe that’s the point. It gives shape to something otherwise formless: the need to be seen, to feel significant, to matter, even if only for a moment in time.
The truth is, I’ve spent so long rejecting that kind of validation—mocking it, distancing myself from it—that I sometimes forget I’m not immune to the same ache. The same quiet desire to be chosen. To fit in.
Even if I’d rather die than admit it.
“You know what? You’re right.”
