High school is the definition of predictable. The same people dating, breaking up, and pretending it all matters more than it actually does. I barely know anyone at Green Village Post-Secondary—yes, that's the name of our high school, and no, I don't know why either. And just like most people don't know me, I don't particularly care to know them.
The highlight of my day? Seeing the three girls I call my people.
Today, like every other, we're sprawled across the hallway floor during lunch. The "model squad" sits inside the cafeteria, hogging three tables like their faces are endorsed by Gucci. Out here, the lighting is worse—but at least it's real.
Stella, my best friend since first grade, lets out a loud cackle. A poor ninth grader had just face-planted over a redhead's intentionally-placed leg. Stella lives for chaos like that. Her laughter rings out like a bell, her blue eyes practically gleaming with mischief as she flips a golden lock of hair over her shoulder.
"I'll never understand why you find public humiliation so entertaining," I said, giving her a sideways look.
"Because the way he fell was comedy gold," she said, still cracking up, her hair bouncing as she giggled.
Stella is all curves and confidence, barely five feet tall, but impossible to ignore. I, on the other hand, am tall and lanky, with long hazel hair and brown eyes. We're visual opposites, but we work.
Lola, seated beside me, snorted. "That boy is going to have a perfectly round bruise tomorrow."
That's Lola for you—calm, observant, and always trying to land the best punchline. Her strawberry-blonde curls framed her face like a halo, which didn't at all match the mischievous spark in her hazel eyes.
Piper, our resident rebel and blunt-mouth truth-teller, pulled a soft fruit out of her oversized purse. "Wanna talk ripe? I'll show you ripe!" she yelled, pretending to launch a sad-looking banana at Lola.
Piper's wild curls—dyed blonde in streaks—bounced with her laughter. Her tan skin shimmered in the fluorescent light as she tossed sass like confetti. She was all fire and zero patience.
As the girls screamed and laughed over rotten fruit, I sat back and smiled. These girls? They were my world. I didn't need popularity or attention—I just needed them.
I had just picked a tomato off my salad when it happened.
Sticky. Cold. Wet.
Something sugary soaked through the fabric of my shirt, chilling my skin instantly. The smell hit me first—something sweet and artificial. Fruitopia?
My head jerked up.
Drops of red liquid slid down my forehead, and standing in front of me was a tall boy with tan cheeks and unruly dark hair, his green-gold eyes sparkling with amusement. He was trying hard not to laugh.
"What the actual hell?!" Lola shrieked, her eyes wide.
That was all it took. He cracked, letting out a deep, uncontrollable laugh.
I didn't say a word. I just stood up and rushed to the nearest washroom, red liquid dripping down my face. I knew the girls would follow.
After scrubbing my hair and soaking half my shirt in cold water, I changed into the sweater Piper had in her bag. I sighed, stuffing my soaked shirt into my backpack.
"You okay, Hope?" Piper asked. Her voice had that rare older-sister tone she only used when she was genuinely concerned.
"Yeah, it's just a stain. Nothing life-shattering," I said, brushing hair out of my face.
"Alright, but… who even was that guy?" she asked, glancing at Stella and Lola.
Good question.
And a weird one too.
At Green Village, everyone knew everyone. The school's small—maybe 10 to 20 students per class—and we're all connected in some way. So how did I not know this guy?
Stella shrugged. "Whoever he is, he's hot."
I gaped at her. "You do realize he poured an entire drink on me and didn't even apologize, right? I'm sorry, I missed the part where assault-by-Fruitopia was attractive."
"He's still a jerk," Piper muttered, slapping Stella lightly on the arm.
"He didn't do it on purpose," Lola chimed in. "I saw him trip."
"Oh, come on. You really think that was an accident?" I said, exasperated.
"I recognized the guy he was walking with. Lives down the street from me. Didn't even know he went here," Lola added thoughtfully.
"Well, I don't care who they are," I declared, standing up just as the bell rang for third period. "I'll be perfectly happy never seeing them again."
As I walked off, I barely heard Piper whisper, "Okay, drama queen."
Four hours later…
After sitting through the world's dullest lecture on why phones are banned during class and being threatened with detention for my "attitude," courtesy of Mrs. Katherine (aka: my least favorite English teacher), I was finally free. Apparently, texting memes during Shakespeare gets you on the naughty list.
Thanks, Stella.
I trudged down the hall, pulling open my locker. The halls were eerily empty—Mrs. Katherine had kept me late. I glanced at my watch.
3:10 PM.
Ugh. Twenty-five minutes of my life I'll never get back.
I reached for my sweater, mind already halfway home when the sound of heavy laughter hit me like a slap.
Male voices. Footsteps. Too loud.
I turned slightly, peering over my shoulder.
Nope. Nope. Nope.
There he was. Drink-boy. The fruit-slinger. Along with three of his friends.
Just my luck.
He probably wouldn't even recognize me. We only saw each other for a few minutes, and I looked like a red-drenched raccoon. He'd walk by. I'd breathe again. No big deal.
I turned back to my locker and pretended to dig for something like I'd lost a secret map to Narnia.
The footsteps came closer. Still laughing. Still talking.
Then silence.
Everything stopped.
No footsteps. No voices.
And then—
"Hey, aren't you the girl I spilled my drink on?"
Great. Just great.