By the end of the week, school wasn’t just buzzing — it was frothing.

You’d think someone discovered a secret passage in the janitor’s closet or that a substitute teacher went viral on TikTok. Nope. The gossip was about Jaxon Reed.

Specifically: Jaxon and Madison.

At lunch, Leah cornered me before I could even unwrap my granola bar.

“So,” she said, sliding into the seat beside me with that you’re-not-gonna-like-this-but-I’m-gonna-say-it-anyway look. “Are Jaxon and Madison a thing now?”

I nearly inhaled my iced coffee through my nose. “What? No. Ew.”

Macy leaned over the table. “I mean… she reposted one of his thirst traps last night. The one with the hoodie and the jawline. You know the one.”

“She reposts everything,” I said, waving it off.

“Not with a fire emoji and a devil horn sticker,” Macy added. “That’s elevated.”

Jamie joined in, sliding his tray across from me. “And Jaxon liked her ‘gym selfie’ from 2019.”

I blinked. “From 2019?”

He nodded, deadpan. “Which is either a power move or a cry for help.”

I let out a laugh that was too loud and about six shades too forced. “You guys are reading into it. Seriously.”

They weren’t.

But they didn’t know that.

What they did know was that Liam had been brooding across the quad like he was preparing for a role in a CW drama, Jaxon had been suspiciously visible in every hallway, and I had stabbed a baby carrot so hard it launched off my tray like a missile.

Macy caught the carrot. With her fork. Because of course she did.

“You ever think Maddie’s just… always been like this?” Leah asked after a moment, her voice quieter. More curious than gossipy.

I glanced up.

She continued, “Like, she was always kind of… pushy. A little ruthless. But we liked that about her, right? She was the one who got us into Spirit Week early. The one who convinced the principal to approve that overnight debate trip. Maddie made things happen.”

“She also made a spreadsheet for our group Halloween costumes and got mad when Jamie wanted to go rogue,” Macy said.

“I still stand by vampire cowboy,” Jamie muttered.

I chewed on my straw. “She was intense. But I liked her for it. She cared. About everything. The yearbook, the school paper, the school Instagram page. She wanted to win.”

“She wanted us to win,” Leah added. “As a group.”

I nodded. “Which is why it doesn’t make sense. She didn’t just hurt me. She almost seemed to enjoy it.”

For a moment, we were all quiet.

Maddie had always been the sharp one. The one who reminded you when you missed deadlines, corrected your grammar in real time, sent texts with bullet points. She could be exhausting. But she was ours.

And now she wasn’t.

Now she was reposting Jaxon Reed thirst traps and getting manipulated like a character in a romcom noir reboot.

***

That afternoon, I found Jaxon in our usual library corner. Hoodie up. Spreadsheet open. Looking like the softest villain in a heist movie.

“She bought it,” he said before I could sit. “Told Liam she doesn’t know who to trust anymore.”

I dropped into the seat beside him — a little closer than necessary — and crossed my arms. “You’re kind of terrifying, you know that?”

He shrugged, eyes still on the screen. “You started this.”

I bumped his shoulder with mine. “So now it’s my fault you’re irresistible?”

He grinned without looking at me. “Didn’t say that.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t say it.”

He finally turned to face me, eyes dancing. “Torres, I’m simply a tool in your master plan.”

“You’re a tool, all right.”

He laughed — actual, teeth-showing, eye-crinkling laughter — and something flipped in my stomach like a coin in the air.

There was a pause. The kind that usually led to another strategy update or a new bullet point. But not this time.

This time, he said it too casually — so casual it was suspicious.

“You wanna come over tomorrow?” he asked, eyes back on the screen. “No plotting. No spreadsheets. Just… junk food and bad movies.”

I blinked.

Once. Twice.

I looked at him.

And kept looking.

Long enough that my heart forgot how to keep time properly.

His hoodie sleeve brushed my wrist.

I didn’t move.

“Yeah,” I said, softer than I meant to. “Okay.”

I didn’t ask what we were doing. I didn’t ask what it meant. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t stop to wonder what the old version of me — the one who color-coded her calendar and thought revenge was a personality flaw — would have said.

Because this version of me?

She said yes.

And then my phone buzzed.

JAMIE: Parents’ lake cabin. Whole grade. Friday to Sunday. Bring swimwear. No swimwear = exile.