The digital glare of her phone screen felt like a physical blow. Cherry groaned, rolling to the far edge of her mattress, her hand sweeping blindly across the nightstand until her fingers closed around the cool, vibrating glass.
She blinked, the artificial light searing her retinas. As her vision cleared and the clock digits came into focus, the world suddenly tilted.
"Shit!"
The word was a jagged explosion in the quiet room. She bolted upright, the sheets tangling around her legs like a trap. It was past 8:00 AM. Monday had arrived with the subtlety of a car crash, and she was already losing.
She shoved the phone into her pillow and scrambled toward the bathroom, her mind a frantic blur of missed alarms and unfinished history notes. Through the haze of panic, a bitter thought surfaced: How did the weekend vanish so fast? There had been no grand adventures, no cinematic escapes. Just the lingering, awkward memory of Travis dropping her home. The drive had been an endurance test of silence, a heavy atmosphere where the only sound was the synchronized rhythm of their breathing—a sound that felt far too intimate for two people who barely spoke.
Her subconscious poked at her, mocking. What fun is there in holding your breath for twenty minutes? "Not today," she muttered, splashing cold water on her face. "Definitely not today."
She moved with a frantic, caffeinated energy. Two minutes for teeth, five for a rushed face-wash, and a desperate scramble through her closet. In twenty minutes flat, she was dressed in a "good enough" outfit—something sporty and functional—hoping Ms. Funke wouldn't smell the desperation on her as she walked into the history test.
She gathered her world into her arms: her laptop, still paused on a frame of Travis from her latest video project, and her heavy bags. Sam's promise to pick her up for tryouts flickered in her mind, sending a fresh wave of anxiety through her chest. Was the ride a peace offering? Or just another chance for him to ignore her from six inches away?
A notification loomed on her lock screen—a biology practical reminder—but she ignored it, flinging her bag across her chest. She gave the mirror a half-second glance, saw a mess of hair she didn't have time to fix, and bolted for the door.
"Morning, Cherry."
Cherry gasped, her hand flying to her heart as she nearly collided with the figure in the doorway. For a terrifying second, she thought she'd seen a ghost—and in her life, the only ghost she ever expected was her mother.
But this wasn't a spirit. It was Monalisa.
Cherry's jaw dropped. The woman was standing there in a razor-sharp blazer and matching pantsuit, looking like she was headed to a corporate takeover rather than a high school hallway.
"Monalisa!" Cherry breathed, her pulse thrumming in her ears. "What... why are you dressed like a CEO?"
"Are you okay?" Monalisa asked, her brow furrowing as she gestured toward Cherry's head. "Your hair is... a little adventurous."
Cherry reached up, feeling the tangles. "I don't have time for 'adventurous.' I'm late for history, I have a practical after that, and Ms. Funke doesn't believe in second chances. I have to go."
"I was actually waiting for you," Monalisa said, her tone unnervingly calm.
"Maybe when I get back," Cherry retorted, trying to skirt around her.
"Today is the Parent-Student Bake Sale," Monalisa said, finally revealing the brown takeout bags she'd been holding. "I went shopping last night. I stayed up watching tutorials."
Cherry froze. "How did you even know about that?" She hadn't attended a bake sale since before her world fell apart—not even when her parents were alive and "normal."
"Explain on the way," Monalisa said, gesturing toward the car.
"No way." Cherry's voice rose, a mix of irritation and genuine fear of the attachment growing in her chest. "You can't just swoop in and do the 'parent thing.' I don't do the bake sale. It's boring, it's performative, and you didn't even ask me!"
She started walking toward the bus stop, but the rhythmic click-clack of four-inch pumps followed her onto the concrete. Monalisa was persistent, if nothing else.
"You're going to miss the bus, Cherry. Let me drive you."
Cherry stopped. She looked at Monalisa—really looked at her. The woman was overdressed, over-prepared, and clearly terrified of failing this weird social test.
"You're wearing a business suit to a high school gym," Cherry muttered, though she opened the passenger door. "It's not a fashion show."
"I wanted it to be a surprise," Monalisa said, her voice softening as she climbed in. "And we don't have time for a wardrobe change."
"Fine. Bring your grocery bags," Cherry sighed. Monalisa's face lit up with a spark of genuine excitement that made Cherry's stomach do a complicated flip.
As they maneuvered through the morning traffic—weaving past hawkers and windshield washers—the car became a sanctuary of frantic studying. Cherry pulled out her notecards, her fingers blurring as she flipped through Literature and Biology until she found the History set.
"Did you sleep at all?" Monalisa asked quietly. "When I came in last night, you were out cold on the sofa."
Cherry didn't look up. "The sofa is a trap," she muttered. "But so is my bed. It doesn't matter."
"The test will be fine," Monalisa said as they pulled into the school driveway. The lot was nearly empty, a sign that the first bell had long since rung.
Cherry gathered her things, pausing for a brief, awkward second before giving Monalisa a quick, impulsive hug. "The hall is to the left of the main entrance. Can you set up yourself?"
"I won't burn the building down, I promise," Monalisa smiled. "Now go."
Cherry sprinted into the building, her phone buzzing with a quick text back: Thanks for the ride. See you at the sale.
The hallway was a graveyard, silent and echoing. It was the kind of setting Cherry used to fantasize about—the empty school hall, the perfect cinematic kiss. But then she saw the security camera blinking red and shook the thought away.
She reached her locker, shoved her laptop inside, and hurried to class. She expected a lecture from Ms. Funke, but instead, she walked into a wall of noise.
The teacher was missing. In her place, Louise, the class prefect, was slamming her hand on a desk in a futile attempt to control the chaos. "I don't care how big your muscles are!" Louise shouted at a group of soccer players. "If you don't shut up, your names are going on the list!"
"I bet she just put your name on the 'shitty paper' list," one boy teased, prompting a roar of laughter.
Cherry sank into her seat, cursing under her breath. She had nearly had a heart attack rushing here for a test that wasn't even happening. Across the room, Angela was perched on Green's lap, throwing a death stare in Cherry's direction. Travis's seat was empty.
"What now, Amole?" Cherry sighed as the boy abruptly slid into the seat next to her.
"Sam's MIA, you're late, and your hair looks like a bird's nest," Amole noted, his eyes roaming her face with an irritating familiarity. "Where's the lip gloss? The stuff that makes you look... plump?"
Cherry's blood turned to lava. "Get away from me, Amole. I have the right to look however I want without your commentary."
"I'm just saying," he snickered. "A guy likes to see the 'God's creation' part of a girl."
"You are sexually harassing me," Cherry said, her voice low and dangerous. "And if you don't stop, I'm going to tell Detective Monalisa. She's literally in the building right now for the bake sale."
The color drained from Amole's face. He remembered the Detective. Everyone did. "Are you threatening me?"
"Does it look like I'm joking?"
Amole held his tongue, the bravado vanishing. "Fine. Whatever. Just so you know, there's no test. Today is the bake sale, and the teachers are all in meetings or hiding. No tryouts either. The school is basically ours."
Cherry groaned, leaning her head back. All that panic for nothing. She started to gather her cards when she felt a presence. She turned and bumped straight into a solid chest.
Her books and papers cascaded to the floor in a messy white fan.
Travis.
He didn't move to help. He stood there, his brown eyes unreadable, his jawline sharp enough to draw blood. He looked perfectly put together—dreads neat, clothes effortless—while she felt like a frayed wire.
"I believe this is yours," Travis said, his voice a low rumble. He held out a single sheet of paper.
Cherry took it, her fingers brushing his for a fraction of a second. A jolt went up her arm. She didn't say thank you; she couldn't. She just tucked the paper into a book and nervously twisted her hair.
Why do I do that? she screamed internally. Why do I act like a nervous toddler around him?
Travis didn't wait for a response. He walked past her and took his seat next to a nerdy kid in the back, acting as if she were a ghost. Cherry stood in the center of the class for a beat too long, feeling the weight of a dozen stares before she turned and bolted for the exit.
She needed to find Sam. She needed a reality check.
She burst into the editorial office, the door hitting the stopper with a bang. Sam looked up from a mountain of photographs, her eyebrows hitting her hairline.
"Did a hairdryer explode on you?" Sam asked.
"Don't start," Cherry panted, collapsing into a chair. "I thought there was a history test. There's no test. It's the bake sale."
"I told you to check the newsletter," Sam said, turning back to her work. She was sifting through photos for the next article. "And you still haven't finished the Travis edits."
"He's my extracurricular, Sam. Not my life."
"To what end?" Sam challenged, looking her in the eye. "You like the guy. It's unprofessional. At least with Green, you were honest. This? This is a mess."
"I just want the article to be worth it," Cherry snapped, her eyes landing on the video of Travis playing on her laptop screen. Even in pixels, he was frustratingly handsome.
"Is it worth the humiliation?" Sam asked softly. "He treats you like you're invisible, Cherry."
"He gave me a ride," Cherry defended, her voice small.
Sam froze. "He what? When?"
"The night of Amole's party. He... he has a nice car. That's all."
Sam sighed, a long, weary sound. "You're defending him. You look pathetic, Cherry. He's a dick. Let's just go to this stupid bake sale so I can see if Monalisa's cookies are actually edible."
"You're coming?"
"No," Sam said, standing up. "My mom would kill me if she thought I was volunteering for school spirit. I'm going to... vanish. But if the cookies are good, save me some."
Cherry watched her friend leave, a familiar sense of abandonment prickling at her skin. She looked at her reflection in the glass of the office door. She looked exhausted. She looked like a girl who was trying too hard to belong to a world that didn't have a place for her yet.
She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and headed toward the hall. Monalisa was waiting, and for better or worse, Cherry was going to have to face the school—and Travis—one more time.
"I'll be fine," she whispered to the empty room. "I'll be fine."