PE was the last period of the day, and for the first time since I'd stepped onto campus, I felt a genuine sense of relief.
It wasn't that I had some burning passion for the track — I was good, but it wasn't my identity.
I was grateful because, after a morning spent navigating social landmines, being told to run laps was the only uncomplicated thing on the menu. The mechanics of breathing and movement didn't require a double meaning.
The changing rooms were a chaotic symphony of slamming lockers and body spray. Nobody paid me any attention, which was a luxury I hadn't expected to last. I changed fast, pulled my hair into a tight, utilitarian ponytail, and was heading toward the double doors when a girl fell into step beside me.
She wasn't Tessa. This girl was tall, built with the kind of lean, functional muscle that suggested she lived in a gym. She had two tight French braids and a level of comfort in her own skin that felt like armor.
"You're the scholarship girl," she said. It wasn't an insult. It was an observation.
"Mila."
"Remi." She glanced at me, her eyes tracking the way I carried my bag. "Bianca had lunch with you today."
"She did."
"Hm."
That single syllable was heavy. It carried the weight of a thousand warnings I hadn't asked for.
"Is there something you want to say, Remi?"
"Nope." She shoved open the heavy door to the field, the bright afternoon sun spilling over us. "Just observing the weather."
The field was massive, a manicured sea of green. The boys' class was already out there, running drills alongside ours. My eyes moved before I could give them permission not to, and I found Ace almost immediately.
He was mid-conversation, gesturing with an easy, casual grace that suggested he'd never felt a moment of social friction in his life.
He caught me looking. He didn't just smile; he grinned, a sharp, knowing flash of white.
I looked away so fast I felt the pull in my neck.
"Okay, ladies," the coach barked, her whistle glinting against her chest. "Two laps to warm up, then timed sprints. Move."
I began running.
Running was the one thing I could do without a script. I found my rhythm within the first hundred meters, letting my lungs catch the pace until my brain finally went quiet.
The wind stripped the heat from my face. My feet hit the track with a dull, rhythmic thud that drowned out the echoes of the cafeteria.
Halfway through the second lap, I realized the pack had thinned. I didn't slow down. If anything, I pushed harder, leaning into the burn until I crossed the line with a gap between me and the next girl that made the coach look up from her clipboard.
She scribbled something down, her eyes narrowing.
Remi came in second, barely winded. She wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead and looked at me with new interest. "Okay," she said. "You've got gears."
"I told you. Mila."
She actually smiled at that; a real one, without the Crestwood gloss.
The timed sprints were more of the same. I ran like something was chasing me or like I was trying to outrun the version of myself Bianca was trying to create.
When the session ended, the coach beckoned me over.
"Hendricks. You're trying out for the athletics squad. Monday."
"I'll think about it," I said, my chest still heaving.
"Don't think. Just show up." She walked off before I could argue.
Remi appeared at my shoulder, throwing a towel over her neck. "For the record, joining the squad is the only thing that might actually save you here."
"Save me from what?"
She looked at me with an expression that bordered on pity. "You had lunch with Bianca Harlow on your second day. You've been marked by both Ace Monroe and Zane Calloway in under forty-eight hours. And you're on a scholarship, which means half the people in this building already hate you for things that have nothing to do with your name."
She picked up her bag, her voice dropping an octave. "Athletics gives you a reason to be somewhere else when the drama starts. It's a sanctioned exit. Trust me."
She walked away, leaving me standing on the grass with the wind pulling at my hair. I thought about what she'd said. Then I thought about Zane and the way he'd looked at me in the corridor, those two seconds of ice-cold measurement while Bianca watched from the shadows.
My phone buzzed in my kit bag. I dug it out, my fingers still trembling slightly from the sprints.
One message. Unknown number.
"Don't go to Bianca's party on Saturday."
I stared at the screen. My thumb hovered over the glass before I typed back: Who is this?
The three dots appeared. They danced for a moment, disappeared, then came back.
"Someone who's been at this school longer than you."
The dots vanished. No more replies.
I looked at the number, then scanned the field. Remi was gone. The other girls were heading back to the lockers in blurred clusters of laughter and gossip. Nobody was watching me. Or if they were, they were doing it from a distance I couldn't bridge.
I saved the number under a question mark and headed for the showers.
I'd completely forgotten Ace had even mentioned a party.
Now, it was the only thing I could think about...