Novels by Irena Dane

The air at Miller’s Lake was thick with the scent of pine needles, woodsmoke, and cheap beer. It was the "End of September" bonfire, a tradition that usually felt like the pinnacle of high school life. But as I stood by the edge of the water, watching the orange flames lick the dark sky, it felt like a funeral for the way things used to be.Madison was in the center of the crowd, her laughter ringing out over the music. She was wearing a cropped sweater and tight jeans, the perfect "queen bee" even in the middle of the woods. Noah was beside her, but he wasn't really with her. He was leaning against a trucktailgate, his eyes scanning the tree line until they found me.I looked away, focusing on the dark ripples of the lake."You're doing that thing again," Dani said, appearing beside me with a plastic cup of soda."What thing?""The 'I'm an island' thing. You’re physically here, but mentally you’re already in a dorm room in Chicago .""It’s safer there," I muttered.The music shifted

Thursday nights were usually reserved for the math club’s peer-tutoring sessions, but the library was closed for renovations. That left me sitting on the floor of Noah’s bedroom, textbooks spread out like a minefield between us.Madison was at a "Captains Only" dinner across town, which meant the house was uncharacteristically quiet. Michael was at the station, and Elena had retreated to the den with a book, leaving us in a bubble of yellow lamplight and the faint hum of the central air."I don't get it," Noah muttered, shoving his fingers through his dark hair until it stood up in messy peaks. "If the limit approaches infinity, why does the slope stay constant? It feels like a lie.""It’s not a lie, Noah. It’s just logic." I reached over, pulling his notebook toward me. My fingers brushed his, and for a split second, neither of us moved. The air in the room felt suddenly charged, like the static before a lightning strike.I cleared my throat, focusing intensely on his messy handwriti

Monday morning arrived with the kind of oppressive humidity that made the fluorescent lights of North Hills High feel ten degrees hotter. I spent the morning avoiding the hallways where the football team usually congregated. I didn’t want to see the way Noah’s arm looked draped over Madison’s locker. I didn’t want to see the "golden couple" in their natural habitat.By the time the seventh period rolled around, I was practically vibrating with nervous energy. Math Club was my sanctuary. There were no pom-poms here, no varsity jackets, and no expectations to be the "saved" girl. Here, I was just a brain with a pencil.The club room was tucked away in the basement of the science wing, smelling faintly of dry-erase markers and old floor cleaner. Dani Reyes was already there, hunched over a desk with three different colored highlighters tucked into her messy bun."You look like a derivative that can't be solved," Dani said without looking up.I dropped my bag on the desk next to her. "Tha

The drive back from the stadium was always the same. The car smelled like Noah’s expensive cologne, the lingering scent of stadium grass, and the faint, sweet trail of Madison’s vanilla body spray.Noah was driving, his hands relaxed on the steering wheel, though his knuckles were still a little scraped from the game. Madison sat in the passenger seat..my usual seat,with her legs tucked under her, scrolling through the photos she’d already posted."You look so good in this one, Noah," she murmured, leaning over to show him the screen. "The lighting under the goalposts was literally perfect. Everyone is losing it in the comments."Noah glanced at the phone for half a second before his eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. His gaze met mine for a fleeting moment. "That’s cool, Mads. Glad the lighting worked out."His tone was polite, but I knew the "quarterback voice." It was the voice he used for reporters and teachers;smooth, agreeable, and entirely hollow.I leaned my head against the

I remember the night my parents died as a blur of whispers, casseroles, and people who kept touching my shoulder like I might break.Grief, I discovered at ten years old, has a specific smell. It’s a mix of floor wax, overly floral perfume from well-meaning neighbors, and the metallic scent of rain clinging to umbrellas left by the front door. Our house, once a place of loud music and my father’s terrible singing in the kitchen, had become a museum of hushed tones.Everyone kept telling me I was strong. They said it like it was a compliment, but the truth was I felt nothing at all. I was a hollowed-out shell, a ghost haunting my own living room. Every time a relative leaned in to offer a tearful "I'm so sorry, sweetie," I felt a physical urge to vanish.Unable to stay inside the crowded house, where the air felt thick with the steam of lasagna and pity, I slipped out the back door. The porch steps were cold against my legs, the wood slightly damp from the evening mist. I sat there,