Chapter 1
The hallway at Lincoln High felt like a narrow cage today. Grace kept her head down, her oversized hoodie acting like a shield. She just needed to get to her locker, then to Calc, then home.
But the silence was wrong. It wasn’t quiet it was pointed. People were huddled in small groups, their phone screens glowing, eyes darting from their devices to the girls walking past.
“Grace! Don’t look at it,” Pierson’s voice cut through the buzzing. He grabbed her arm, his face pale. “Seriously, just keep walking.”
“Look at what, Pierson?” Grace felt a cold pit form in her stomach.
Before he could block her view, a loud laugh erupted from the center of the hall. Brooke was standing there, leaning against a trophy case, her polished nails tapping on the back of her gold iPhone. Olivia was right beside her, whispering and pointing.
“Oh look, it’s Number 50,” Brooke called out, her voice dripping with fake pity. “Don’t worry, Grace. Someone had to be the floor.”
Grace’s heart hammered against her ribs. She pulled her phone from her pocket. Her notifications were exploding.
[LHS OFFICIAL RANKING: THE DEFINITIVE LIST]
She scrolled. Past the “Elites” (Brooke was #1, obviously). Past the “Mid-Tiers.” Past the “Forgettables.” Her thumb trembled as she reached the very bottom.
50. Grace Miller.
Notes: Human background noise. Needs a bag over her head. Total ghost.
The comments were already rolling in. “Who even is that?” “Ouch, brutal but true.” “Literally the ugliest girl in school.”
Grace didn’t look at Pierson. She didn’t look at Prescott, who she could see standing near the gym doors, looking at his phone with a frown that wasn’t quite a defense of her. She just turned and ran.
She didn’t stop until she was home, buried under her duvet, her face hot with tears that wouldn’t stop. She felt invisible, yet somehow, for the first time, everyone was looking at her and they hated what they saw.
Buzz.
Her phone vibrated against her mattress. She ignored it.
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
She wiped her eyes and looked at the screen. It wasn’t a notification from the app. It was a text from an unknown number.
Unknown: It hurts to be the floor, doesn’t it?
Grace froze.
Unknown: I can make them look at you differently. I can make them look at you the way they look at Brooke.
Unknown: Do you want to be beautiful, Grace?
Grace stared at the glowing words. Her thumb hovered over the screen.
Grace: Who is this?
Unknown: The person who is going to fix you. First task: Go to your mirror. Take a pair of scissors. Cut off the hoodie. It’s hiding what I need to change.
Unknown: Do this, and the glow-up begins. Grace’s thumb hovered over the “Block” button. This is a prank, she thought, her heart racing. It has to be Brooke or Olivia messing with me.
She hit block. The number disappeared. She let out a shaky breath and tossed the phone across the bed.
Buzz.
She froze. The phone screen lit up again. Same number.
Unknown: Blocking me won’t make you pretty, Grace. But I can.
Unknown: Imagine Prescott looking at you. Not with pity. With hunger.
Grace looked at her reflection in the vanity mirror red-rimmed eyes, frizzy hair, the baggy hoodie that felt like a shroud. She felt a surge of desperate, reckless anger. Why should Brooke get everything? Why should she have to be the “floor”?
She reached for her desk drawer and pulled out a pair of sharp sewing scissors.
Grace: What do I do?
Unknown: The hoodie. Destroy it. Show me you’re ready to stop hiding.
The fabric resisted at first, then snip. She shucked the mangled sweatshirt off, standing in her thin tank top, feeling exposed and shivering.
Unknown: Good. Now go to sleep, Grace. When you wake up, the first layer of the ‘old you’ will be gone.
Grace lay in the dark, her heart thumping against her ribs like a trapped bird. She didn’t believe it. She couldn’t. But as she finally drifted off, a strange, tingly warmth began to crawl across her skin, like a soft electric current.
