Chapter 1: Traitor Scores and Chicken Scratch

After the SATs finally ended, my so-called arch-nemesis—okay, maybe that's a little dramatic, but it fits—posted an Instagram Story: "I like you, only you can see this."

Honestly, I stared at my phone, not sure if I was supposed to laugh or roll my eyes. The nerves from the exam still hadn’t faded, and there he was, already causing drama online. Classic Carter—just drop a cryptic bomb, then disappear. Typical. My thumb hovered over the reply, and I couldn’t help myself.

I jumped right in, feeling mischievous and a little too excited, and replied: "Dude, you forgot to block me, lmao!"

Honestly, it felt pretty great to fire back, even if it was just over a screen. For a second, I paused—half expecting a joke, half bracing for his comeback. My heart did this weird flip. I could practically hear his annoyed sigh coming through the pixels.

Not even a second later, he shot me a voice message. I could just imagine him gritting his teeth as he said, "My English teacher was right—you really are a 'traitor,' and honestly, dense as a brick!"

The way he spit out those words—I almost dropped my phone, I was laughing so hard. Carter’s voice always gets this extra edge when he’s mad, like he’s chewing on nails or something. But still, traitor? Over an Instagram story? Wow, he really knows how to crank up the drama.

Seriously, all I did was mess with him a little—why’d he have to go for the low blow? I mean, come on.

Maybe I should’ve felt bad, but honestly, it was all in good fun. Or at least, it was supposed to be. Carter never really did know where to draw the line between playful and personal. Go figure.

Becoming sworn enemies with Carter Brooks was totally an accident. No, really.

If you’d told me last year that I’d be stuck in this weird rivalry with the school’s golden boy, I would’ve laughed in your face. But here we are. I swear, it just happened—one dumb moment at the worst possible time.

After the monthly exam scores came out, I went to the teacher’s lounge as usual to get roasted. You know, the usual.

It’s kind of a tradition at this point—walk in, brace for impact, maybe score a donut if the teachers are in a good mood. In my head, I was already rehearsing my excuses.

Right as I walked in, I stepped on a test paper.

It crunched under my sneaker. I froze. My eyes dropped to the floor. I couldn’t help but snort.

I looked down and laughed: "Whose handwriting is this? Looks just like the chicken scratch my little brother leaves all over his homework."

The whole lounge burst out laughing, but I had zero clue why. Still, I got this weird chill down my spine.

There’s always that split-second when you realize you’ve said something you probably shouldn’t have. The laughter felt a little too loud, a little too sharp. The hairs on my arms prickled. Uh-oh.

"Excuse me, could you move?" a voice cut in.

A cold, sharp voice came from behind me. I turned around… and wow, that was a seriously nice jawline. Honestly, not what I expected.

He was tall—like, really tall—and somehow managed to look both annoyed and perfect at the same time. His eyes were icy, like he’d been born rolling them. I swear, he could win a gold medal for it. Yikes.

He leaned down, and a face I knew all too well came into focus. Wild, sharp eyes, high cheekbones, and messy bangs that swayed as he moved.

There was something about the way he looked at people—like he was sizing you up and finding you lacking. I tried to look away. Couldn't. It was like being caught in headlights.

I stared, a little spaced out, until his sharp voice snapped me back to reality.

"You really like stepping on my test paper, huh?"

He bent over, tilting his head to look at me. His long fingers pinched the corner of the paper.

The way his fingers curled around the edge, it was almost delicate—like he cared about that paper more than most people care about their phones.

I yanked my foot back and started apologizing over and over: "Sorry, sorry, I—" Total embarrassment overload.

My face was burning. I was pretty sure I looked like a tomato in a hoodie. I stammered, desperate to make it right. Ugh.

Before I could finish, he turned away, cool as ever, leaving me staring at his retreating, arrogant figure.

He didn’t even give me a second glance. That walk—shoulders straight, chin up—pure Carter. I swear, he could’ve been modeling for a college admissions brochure.

I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling awkward. Great job, Ava.

I tried to play it off, but the embarrassment stuck like gum on my shoe. I could hear the teachers snickering behind me.

"What, standing in the doorway ‘cause you know you bombed the test and don’t wanna come in?"

Right then, Mr. Duncan, our English teacher, walked in with a stack of papers. He spotted me, pulled the top one off, shoved it into my hands, and grinned in a way that made my skin crawl. "Check out your reading comprehension score."

His grin was pure mischief—like he’d been waiting all day for this. The whole lounge quieted down, everyone watching for my reaction. No pressure, right?

The math teacher took a sip of coffee and fanned the flames: "Ava Collins didn’t do badly—first in Class Seven for math." Nice.

I gave a little shrug, trying to look casual, but inside I was glowing. Math had always been my thing. Finally, some credit.

The science teacher chimed in: "And only missed one point on science for a silly mistake."

My cheeks flushed with pride. At least someone noticed the small wins. Thank goodness.

Mr. Duncan looked like he was about to cry. Seriously?

He made this dramatic sigh, clutching his chest like he was in a soap opera. You could tell he took our scores way too personally. Every. Single. Time.

"I’ve always treated every student the same."

His finger shook as he pointed at me: "Ava, tell me, what did I ever do to you?"

I looked at the 110 marked on the paper and muttered, "That’s not even that bad." Honestly, what’s the big deal?

I tried to keep my voice down, but it came out a little too defensive. The number wasn’t terrible, but I knew what was coming next. Here we go.

Why don’t you look at your other scores!

Mr. Duncan snatched the paper back and unfolded it with trembling hands, like he had the shakes. "This reading comprehension…"

He held it up like it was a crime scene photo. The teachers leaned in, trying not to laugh. I braced myself.

His face twisted as he asked, trying to keep his cool, "The theme was brotherhood, so why did you write about homesickness?"

My mouth dropped open. "What? I clearly wrote about longing!"

The words slipped out before I could stop them. I could feel everyone’s eyes on me, waiting to see if I’d dig myself in deeper. Not helping.

The lounge went dead silent. Not a sound anywhere.

You could hear a pin drop. Even the air felt heavy, like the whole room was holding its breath.

Mr. Duncan glared at me, his mouth twitching. For a long time, he just couldn’t get a word out.

He looked like he was weighing whether to scold me or just give up entirely. I half-expected him to start praying for patience. Oof.

I wondered if I should help him out or something, when suddenly, a laugh came from the side.

It started as a low snicker, but quickly turned into a full-on chuckle. I looked over, and there he was—the chicken-scratch handwriting guy.

Carter’s laughter wasn’t loud, but it was infectious. Even the teachers cracked a smile, which was basically a miracle for a Monday morning. Wow.

"Carter Brooks, you think this is funny?"

Mr. Duncan turned on him. "Her answer’s ridiculous, but at least you can read it."

He shot Carter a glare sharp enough to slice bread. Carter straightened up, but the smirk never left his face.

Look at your handwriting—doesn’t it look like a bunch of earthworms crawling?

"I can’t even bear to look at your test, it hurts my eyes."

Mr. Duncan’s voice had that edge teachers get when they’re just one comment away from losing it. Danger zone.

"And your essay—what even was that?"

Diary of a Madman?

I bit my lip, barely holding in a snort. The room broke out in fresh giggles, and Carter just shrugged, like he’d heard it all before. Ha.

Laughter never really dies, it just moves on to the next victim. Story of my life.

It was like a wave—one minute it’s on me, the next it’s washing over Carter. I tried to keep a straight face, but my eyes kept darting to his, both of us trying not to crack.

I stared at the ceiling, then the floor, trying not to let my face twist from holding back my laughter.

My cheeks hurt from holding it in. I focused on the ugly ceiling tiles, counting stains. Anything to keep it together.

Mr. Duncan looked at the two of us standing there and said, half-joking, "I must’ve been a serial killer to be stuck teaching you two."

He shook his head, but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Even he couldn’t stay mad forever.

When the lunch period was almost over, Mr. Duncan waved us both out of the lounge.

He didn’t even look up from his grading, just flicked his hand at us like we were flies. Carter was already halfway out the door before I could even grab my stuff.

The chicken-scratch guy walked ahead of me, still holding his test paper. I couldn’t help thinking, that nickname really stuck.

He looked so serious, like he was carrying a diploma instead of a crumpled exam. I couldn’t resist sneaking a peek.

I glanced at his essay side. For real, I had to see it for myself.

The handwriting really was something else—like a secret code only he could read. I bit my lip, trying not to laugh. This was gold.

Couldn’t help it—I burst out laughing. Couldn’t hold it in.

It just slipped out. I tried to cover it with a cough, but Carter shot me a death glare. Oops.

He leveled a cold glare at me. I glanced at his annoyed face and waved it off, grinning: "Sorry, my face just gets stuck like this sometimes."

I flashed my biggest, cheesiest smile. Carter rolled his eyes so hard I thought they might get stuck for real.

"Heh."

He looked at me with a smug, mocking smile. "Got it—you were just really homesick." I could almost hear the sarcasm dripping off every word.

He said it slow, drawing out each word like he was savoring my embarrassment. Ugh.

I glared back: "At least it’s better than your Diary of a Madman."

I crossed my arms, refusing to let him have the last word.

He glanced at my score, totally unfazed: "But I got 120."

He said it so matter-of-fact, like he was talking about the weather. The nerve!

I clutched my 110 and kept glaring: "Your handwriting’s like chicken scratch!"

"Still got 120."

He didn’t even blink. The smugness was unreal.

Your neatness score was zero!

"Still got 120."

He just kept repeating it, like it was some kind of magic spell. Seriously?

"…"

I was this close to throwing my paper at him.

You fudged your height at the last health screening—changed 5’10” to 5’11”!

His eyes widened, and for the first time, he looked genuinely rattled. Finally!

"I… I really am 5’11”!"

He froze, then seemed to realize, the tips of his ears turning bright red. "That machine was off!"

He tried to sound confident, but the color in his cheeks gave him away. I grinned, knowing I’d hit a nerve. Gotcha.

"Electronic machines don’t mess up!"

I grinned, triumphant: "I saw you change it with my own eyes when I picked up the forms."

I couldn’t help but tease him. It was too easy—he made it way too easy.

This wasn’t just a rumor.

I’d seen it myself, clear as day. The memory still made me laugh. Classic Carter.

That time, the school organized a health screening. Mr. Duncan was homeroom teacher for both Class Seven and Eight, so he had me collect the height stats for both classes.

It was a weird job, but I didn’t mind. It got me out of class for a few minutes, and I liked seeing the behind-the-scenes chaos. Not bad.

When I went to get the forms, it was during lunch. Everyone was out on the track, and the building was empty.

The halls echoed with the sound of distant sneakers and laughter. It was weirdly peaceful, like the school was holding its breath. Kinda nice, actually.

Just a few steps from the lounge, I saw a tall, skinny guy coming out, chin lifted like one of those peacocks at the zoo, strutting like he owned the place.

He walked with this over-the-top confidence. I ducked behind a locker, watching him strut by. Stealth mode.

He went straight downstairs, didn’t see me.

But I knew him—the new transfer, Carter Brooks.

He’d only been at Lakeview a couple months, but everyone knew his name. The teachers loved him, the students either wanted to be him or beat him. No in-between.

I didn’t think much of it, grabbed the forms, and instinctively checked Carter’s info. Old habits.

Old habits die hard—I always liked to know where I stood against the competition.

Found an obvious smudge in the height column—a faint 5’10” underneath, and a bold, messy 5’11” scrawled beside it. Busted.

The eraser marks were still fresh. I almost laughed out loud right there. Seriously?

Carter’s ears were bright red, glaring at me, fuming. He looked like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole. I tried not to smile, but it was impossible.

I smiled to comfort him: "It’s fine, you’ll still grow. Maybe in a few years you’ll really be 5’11”."

I tried to sound sincere, but I probably just made it worse. Carter’s glare could’ve melted steel.

"Don’t worry about me."

He looked down at me, the corners of his mouth curling up in a slow, drawn-out taunt: "Eternal runner-up."

He dragged out the words, savoring every syllable. My fists clenched at my sides.

Right on my sore spot.

He knew exactly where to poke. I could feel my face heating up, anger bubbling in my chest.

I blew up: "You’re the eternal runner-up! Your whole family, too!"

It came out louder than I meant, echoing down the hallway. I didn’t care—he started it.

Carter raised an eyebrow: "We both know who the runner-up is. Anyway, I was first this time."

He said it with a shrug, like it was no big deal. I wanted to wipe that smug look right off his face.

The school got noisy again—the bell had rung.

Students started pouring in, filling the halls with chatter and energy. The moment was over, but the sting lingered.

He glanced at the big clock in the middle of the building, stretched, and strolled off. "Time to get back to practice. Not everyone can write ‘homesickness’ for every essay."

His words followed me like a bad jingle. I glared at his back, wishing I had a comeback. Ugh.

I stood there, grinding my teeth.

I replayed the whole exchange in my head, thinking of all the things I should’ve said. But it was too late—he was already gone.

Carter and I both had a weak spot: English.

It was like our Achilles’ heel. We aced math and science, but English? Always a gamble.

We weren’t terrible, but compared to our other subjects, it was definitely our shortcoming.

Every report card, the same pattern—sky-high scores, except for that one glaring outlier.

Before Carter transferred in, I was always first in the grade—admired by everyone, but also the butt of jokes for my so-called ‘traitor’ English scores. It was a running joke—like I was betraying my other grades with my English.

It was a weird mix of pride and embarrassment. I liked being on top, but that one subject always haunted me.

After Carter came, I became the eternal runner-up.

He edged me out by a hair every time. It was infuriating—and, okay, a little motivating.

He’d only been here six months, but every test, big or small, he always beat me.

It was like he’d made it his personal mission. I couldn’t let him win without a fight.

Now the jokes were aimed at both of us.

First and second place—I got roasted for writing boring essays, he got roasted for his worm-like handwriting.

At least I wasn’t alone anymore. Misery loves company, right?

I used to feel a bit of camaraderie with him, but the guy was just too sharp-tongued.

He always had a comeback, always one step ahead. It was exhausting.

And he kept calling me the eternal runner-up!

I swear, if I heard those words one more time, I’d scream.

The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. I slammed my book shut.

The sound echoed across the classroom. Heads turned, but I didn’t care. I was on a mission.

My deskmate, who was deep in analyzing the trajectory of a baseball, jumped in fright. "What happened?"

He nearly dropped his calculator. I tried to look serious, but my lips twitched.

Eyes shining, I declared, "I’m going to take first place back from Carter Brooks!"

I said it like a battle cry, pumping my fist for emphasis. My deskmate just stared, totally unimpressed.

My deskmate reached out to check my forehead, with mock concern: "You got a fever or something?"

He pressed the back of his hand to my forehead, pretending to check my temperature. I swatted him away, grinning. Not funny, dude.

Once he heard the whole story, my deskmate shook his head and sighed: "Do you know where Carter’s from?"

He leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to spill a state secret.

I scoffed: "Who cares? I’m taking him down today!"

I wasn’t about to let a little thing like geography get in my way.

"He’s from Illinois."

He said it like it explained everything. I just rolled my eyes. Whatever.

I sneered: "So what? We’re all from big test states—why should I be scared?"

I puffed out my chest, trying to sound braver than I felt.

"He used to be at Chicago Magnet High, then transferred to Lakeview Academy."

"He was first in the Illinois division for last year’s National Physics Competition."

"He only didn’t make the national training team because his family wouldn’t let him."

A physics genius. Great.

Suddenly, Carter’s smugness made a little more sense. Still, I wasn’t about to admit defeat.

This monthly test’s physics section was legendarily hard—Carter was the only one in the whole grade to get full marks. I heard the science teachers next door are bragging about it to everyone now.

Rumor had it, the teachers were bragging about him in the staff room. I tried not to let it get to me.

I looked at my own 90-point physics test and asked, "Did he get a total of 703 this time?" (That’s out of 750, by the way.)

I hoped maybe there was a mistake, but deep down, I knew the answer.

My deskmate nodded, looking at me with pity: "He beat your total by five points on his first test, and now he’s up by twenty-five."

Ouch. That stung. I forced a smile, but it felt brittle.

I choked.

For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Twenty-five points? That was a landslide.

Trying to play it cool: "That’s just because… he was new, and I was trying to be a good host!"

I waved my hand, as if that explained everything. My deskmate just snorted. Sure.

My deskmate gave me a look: "You’ve been a good host for six months now, isn’t that enough?"

He had a point. I slumped in my chair, defeated but not out.

I grumbled, pulled out a new set of practice problems, and spread them out: "Just watch me pull him down from his throne."

I lined up my pens, determined to make a comeback. Carter Brooks wasn’t unbeatable.

Before study hall was even over, I’d already finished a whole set of problems.

My hand cramped, but I felt good. Progress, even if my brain felt like mush.

A bit tired, I looked up—everyone else was still hard at work.

The classroom was quiet except for the soft scratch of pencils and the occasional sigh. The sun had started to set, painting everything gold.

I stretched, got up to wash my face.

The fluorescent lights flickered above me as I made my way to the bathroom, shaking out my arms and legs.

Classrooms 7 and 8 are both on the fourth floor, right next to each other.

You’d think we’d be rivals, but mostly we just borrowed each other’s snacks and swapped gossip.

Passing by Room 8, I couldn’t help but peek inside.

I tried to look casual, but my curiosity totally got the better of me.

There were so many people in the classroom, but I spotted Carter right away.

He had this way of sitting—straight-backed, eyes glued to his notes—that made him impossible to miss.

He just stood out too much.

Even in a crowd, Carter was like a beacon—annoying, but kind of impressive.

That baggy blue-and-white school uniform made him look even skinnier. He sat up straight, like a flagpole in a blizzard.

There was something almost poetic about it, though I’d never admit that out loud.

Outside, the sunset was blazing red; inside, a boy studied intently, eyes downcast.

The contrast was striking. For a second, I forgot why I’d been so annoyed at him.

I felt a little dazed, my steps slowing.

Time seemed to pause, the hallway noise fading into the background.

Just then, a breeze ruffled his bangs. He looked up without warning, turning his gaze right toward me.

Our eyes met, and I froze, caught in the moment.

There was a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He knew exactly what he was doing.

With my lousy English scores, I suddenly thought of a line from a poem:

"On a spring day, dogwood petals drift over my head. Who’s that boy standing on the sidewalk, looking like he belongs in a movie?"

I’d read it somewhere, probably in a test prep book, but it stuck with me now. I shook my head, trying to clear the thought.

My heart thudded, and I quickly looked away, hurrying past.

I ducked my head, hoping no one noticed how red my face was. Carter’s gaze lingered, burning a hole in my back.

In the bathroom mirror, my face was bright red. I cursed myself for being so weak—always getting distracted by a pretty face. Classic.

I splashed cold water on my cheeks, mumbling under my breath. Get it together, Ava. You’re not twelve.

A splash of cold water helped cool me down a bit.

I took a few deep breaths, counting to ten. The nerves faded, replaced by stubborn determination.