Chapter 1
Middle school is a special kind of circle reserved for the damned, and Ace Huredeis was currently serving her sentence on floor two, corridor B, clutching a crumbled schedule like it was a map to hidden treasure.
She was thirteen, standing at five-foot-three with a wild waterfall of long, curly, dirty blonde hair that refused to stay in a ponytail, gorgeous stormy gray eyes that usually looked exhausted, and a light constellation of freckles dusted across her nose. Right now, those freckles were burning red with sheer panic.
She was late. Again.
The warning bell had shrilled two minutes ago, and the hallway was a ghost town of echoes, lockers, and absolute dread. Ace sprinted past a row of green metal lockers, her oversized backpack slamming against her spine like a tiny, angry gremlin.
"Okay, okay, where is Math 8?" she muttered to herself, her voice pitching up in stress. "Is room 204 past the water fountain or did I pass it three turns ago? What's good, stairs? Why are you leading me to the basement?"
She made a sharp, desperate left turn, nearly face-planting into a polished tile wall, before finally spotting the brass plaque for Room 204. She yanked the heavy wooden door open and slipped inside, praying to whatever gods watched over awkward thirteen-year-olds that Mr. Harrison wouldn't make a big deal out of it.
"Ah, Miss Huredeis," Mr. Harrison drawled from the front of the room, not even looking up from his stack of worksheets. "So glad you could join us for the second half of the warm-up."
A wave of snickers rippled through the classroom. Ace’s face burned hot enough to melt steel. She mumbled an apology, her head down, and scuttled toward the empty desk in the very last row, wedging her knees under the cramped plastic workspace.
The classroom was a symphony of modern middle school torture. The air smelled like cheap vanilla body spray, ozone from the copy machine, and pure anxiety. Around her, the room buzzed with the relentless click-clack-click of mechanical pens clicking in rapid succession, the rustle of loose-leaf notebook paper tearing, and the low, abrasive drone of Mr. Harrison explaining polynomial expressions. Tap, tap, tap went a acrylic fingernail against a desk two rows up. Click-clack went a pink pen.
Ace tried to focus, staring blankly at her notebook, but her mind was completely elsewhere. Specifically, her mind was three rows ahead, sitting next to the window.
Her crush.
Her name was Maeve, and looking at her was like staring directly into the sun—painful, blinding, and entirely mesmerizing. Maeve had hair so intensely black it looked like ink, striking blue eyes, and an effortless cool that made everyone in the room orbit around her. But the absolute kicker—the thing that kept Ace up until 3:00 AM staring at her ceiling—was that Maeve had an insane, jaw-dropping, mirror-image resemblance to Billie Eilish. It wasn't just a mild look; it was uncanny. The sharp jawline, the heavy-lidded gaze, the way she slouched slightly in her seat like she was perpetually bored by mortal nonsense.
And Ace was a long-time, die-hard Billie Eilish fan. She had posters taped to her bedroom walls back home, vinyl records spinning on a cheap turntable, and every single lyric memorized like scripture. So having a girl who looked like a living, breathing Billie lookalike sitting three rows away was a daily cardiac arrest waiting to happen.
Ace rested her chin in her hand, sighing quietly as she watched Maeve twirl a pencil. She's so gorgeous it's a fucking crime, Ace thought, her chest tightening with that familiar, stinging ache. Too bad she's as straight as a freshly ironed ruler and probably thinks I'm a feral swamp creature.
Because, let's be real, Ace had a massive secret that she guarded with her life: she was completely, unequivocally bisexual. In a school ruled by hyper-conformist hierarchy, keeping that locked tight in her chest felt like swallowing glass. Especially when the top tier of that hierarchy walked into the room.
The heavy classroom door swung open, and the temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.
Enter the Holy Trinity.
They were classic, cookie-cutter, white blond girls, rich beyond belief, and universally worshipped like minor deities. They glided into Math 8 halfway through the period like they owned the county deed, completely immune to tardy passes or consequences.
At the absolute peak of the food chain was Tiffany, the undisputed leader. Tiffany was strutting in a head-to-toe hot pink Juicy Couture velour tracksuit, the rhinestone lettering screaming JUICY across her backside in blinding sparkle. Right behind her, wearing the exact same outfit in royal blue, was Brittany. And flanking them on the left, completing the pastel rainbow of terror in a pastel purple Juicy Couture tracksuit, was Chloe.
They smelled like strawberry gloss and generational wealth.
"Mr. H," Tiffany drawled, leaning against the doorframe, popping a piece of bubblegum with a sound like a gunshot. "Traffic on the 405 was so major, right? Like, literally tragic."
"Take your seats, girls," Mr. Harrison sighed, clearly exhausted by the sheer force of their collective aura.
Tiffany flipped her immaculate, waist-length blond hair over her shoulder, her icy blue eyes scanning the room for targets. Unfortunately for Ace, Tiffany’s gaze landed directly on the back row. On her.
Tiffany whispered something to Brittany and Chloe behind her manicured hand, and all three of them let out identical, high-pitched synchronized giggles.
Ace shrank down in her seat, trying to make herself molecularly small. Please don't look over here, please don't look over here, she chanted internally.
"Ew, hoe," Tiffany muttered loudly enough for half the classroom to hear, though she used it in her own twisted way. "H-o-e, how, how is your hair looking so wild today, Ace? Did you get electrocuted by the socket on your way in?"
Brittany snorted behind her, covering her mouth with a sparkly acrylic nail. "Total diva behavior, but like... the wrong kind of diva. More like dumpster diva."
"Slay, I guess?" Chloe added with a fake, patronizing sweet smile, smoothing down the front of her pastel purple jacket. "If your goal is looking like a stray cat."
Ace felt her ears turn crimson. She clenched her jaw so hard her molars ached, staring down at her desk. She wanted to snap back. She wanted to stand up and tell them where to shove their velour tracksuits. But she was thirteen, trapped in a room full of clicking pens and judging eyes, and her voice caught in her throat.
Bitch, Ace thought fiercely, glaring at the wood grain of her desk. Absolute rich, vapid bitches.
Across the room, for one split second, Maeve looked up from her notebook. Her striking, Billie-like eyes flicked back toward the commotion in the rear. She glanced at Tiffany, then glanced back at Ace, her expression unreadable. For a heartbeat, Ace’s breath hitched, a wild, stupid flare of hope sparking in her chest. Did she see? Does she care?
Then Maeve looked away, biting the inside of her cheek, turning back to her own work as if nothing had happened at all.
The spark died out, leaving behind a cold, hollow thud in Ace's stomach. Right, Ace reminded herself bitterly. She's straight. She doesn't care. You're just background noise.
The rest of the class dragged on like an ancient glacier. The clicking pens continued their rhythmic torture. The overhead fluorescent lights hummed a low, headache-inducing B-flat. Ace sat frozen in her chair, the weight of the social caste system pressing down on her shoulders like a lead vest.
When the final bell rang, shattering the heavy air of the classroom, kids erupted into motion, shoving books into bags and shouting across the aisles.
Tiffany and her crew swept out of the room first, their velour tracksuits swishing with expensive arrogance. People parted for them like the Red Sea.
Ace slowly packed her things, tossing her chaotic mess of notebooks into her bag. She didn't want to rush out into the hallway just to get shoulder-checked by the popular squad or have to navigate the confusing labyrinth of lockers to her next class.
As she slung her heavy backpack over one shoulder and stepped out into the hallway, the chaotic roar of middle school hit her full force once more—shouting, slamming lockers, laughter, and the looming terror of History class waiting for her somewhere down the hall.
She took a deep breath, clutching her crumpled schedule in a sweaty fist, and whispered into the crowded, noisy corridor:
"What's good, hell?"
