Chapter Four: Confidential, Apparently

The next morning at school, my life did that thing where it pretends nothing happened.

Same hallway that always smelled faintly like disinfectant and desperation. Same cracked tile by the water fountain that everyone avoided like it was cursed. Same cluster of freshmen moving in packs like nervous birds.

Except now there was one new addition to the ecosystem:

NEON ATLAS discourse.

It was everywhere, phones held up between classes, whispers near lockers, half sung choruses drifting out of earbuds, and the occasional dramatic reenactment of “the moment Jace looked directly at me” performed by people who had been seated approximately seven zip codes away from the stage.

I slid into my locker zone and started swapping textbooks like I was doing something deeply important and not just trying to avoid eye contact with everyone.

Sienna appeared beside me with sunglasses on.

Indoors.

At eight in the morning.

“Please tell me you’re not starting a new brand,” I said.

She lifted the sunglasses just enough to reveal her eyes, puffy, glitter stained, and still somehow full of life.

“I slept for three hours,” she rasped. “My voice is dead. But my soul is alive.”

“That’s… beautiful,” I said, because it was too early to argue with poetry.

She leaned against the lockers, dramatic even while standing still. “Also, I found three new videos from last night.”

“I’m sure you did,” I said.

“And,” she continued, lowering her voice like she was about to confess to a crime, “people are saying Jace ran through the arena hallway because he was avoiding fans.”

I froze for half a second, then recovered by aggressively pretending to look for a pen in my bag.

“People say lots of things,” I repeated, because apparently that was my catchphrase now.

Sienna’s head tilted. Even with no voice, she still managed to project suspicion.

“You’re acting like you don’t care,” she rasped.

“I care in the sense that I prefer concerts where the performers are not hunted for sport,” I said. “That seems… healthier.”

Sienna’s mouth twitched. “You’re still weird.”

“I’m always weird.”

“Different weird,” she insisted.

I shut my locker a little too hard. It clanged like a guilty verdict.

Before Sienna could interrogate me further, a group of girls swept past us, and Blaire Maddox was right in the center like a queen escorted by her court.

Blaire was the kind of pretty that always looked intentional. Like she woke up and applied “effortless” in three layers. She wore her hair in a glossy ponytail and had a phone in her hand the way some people carried a pet, constantly, lovingly, and with the occasional threat of being bitten.

Her eyes flicked to Sienna’s sunglasses.

Then to me.

Then she smiled like she’d just spotted something interesting on sale.

“Quinn Parker,” Blaire said, dragging my name out like she was tasting it. “How was the concert?”

I kept my expression neutral, which was difficult because my brain immediately flashed the image of Jace behind the fake plant like a jump scare.

“It was loud,” I said.

Blaire laughed, and it didn’t reach her eyes. “I heard there was drama.”

Sienna, bless her, straightened like she’d been challenged to a duel. “It wasn’t drama,” she croaked. “It was a security issue.”

Blaire’s brows rose, amused. “A security issue that just happened to involve Jace Wilder sprinting through the building?”

My stomach did a slow, annoyed flip. So it was already that widespread. Great.

“I wouldn’t know,” I said, turning slightly toward my first period classroom. “I was, you know. Watching the concert.”

Blaire stepped closer, close enough that I could smell her perfume, which was expensive and vaguely aggressive. “Mm,” she said. “Because I saw a clip where someone screamed his name and pointed people the wrong way.”

Sienna’s eyes went wide behind her sunglasses. She whipped her head toward me so fast her ponytail almost hit my face.

My lungs forgot how to lung.

Blaire’s smile sharpened. “It was hilarious. Whoever that was? Iconic.”

I forced a laugh that sounded like it belonged to someone else. “People were screaming everything.”

Blaire hummed like she didn’t believe me, then lifted her phone and tilted it slightly. “Anyway, I’m posting a ‘Concert Chaos’ compilation. If you have any videos, send them.”

“I don’t,” I said immediately.

Blaire’s eyes flicked over me. Assessing. Measuring.

“Right,” she said lightly, like she’d already decided what my no meant. “See you around.”

She glided away, her group following, and I exhaled the breath I’d been pretending I didn’t need.

Sienna grabbed my sleeve.

“QUINN,” she wheezed. “WAS THAT YOU?”

“No,” I said too fast.

Sienna stared. “That was absolutely you.”

“It wasn’t,” I insisted. “I would never.”

Sienna’s mouth fell open, then she broke into a silent laugh that shook her shoulders. Even without a voice, she somehow managed to convey the words you liar with her whole face.

“First period,” I said quickly. “Go before we’re late.”

Sienna still looked like she wanted to keep digging, but the bell saved me, ringing out like an alarm announcing my temporary escape.

As I walked to class, my phone buzzed in my pocket.

I pulled it out.

An email.

Subject line: Interview Confirmed — Westbridge Staffing

My chest lifted. A good kind of nerves replaced the bad kind, clean, practical, hopeful.

I opened it.

Hi Quinn,

We can see you today at 3:45 PM. Please bring ID and be prepared to complete a short onboarding form.

Address: 118 North Bridge Street, Suite 402.

Thank you,

Westbridge Staffing Team

Today.

Okay. That was soon.

I tucked my phone away and walked into first period with the faint, cautious glow of a person who might be about to solve one of her problems.

Because no matter how chaotic last night had been, the bright side was simple:

A job was a job.

And money was a kind of peace.

The rest of the school day tried very hard to be normal and mostly failed.

In English, Mr. Henley announced we’d be starting presentations next week, five minutes each, persuasive topic of our choice and the collective student body reacted like he’d asked us to donate organs.

In Chemistry, my lab partner spilled something neon green, and the teacher said, with the tired calm of someone who’d seen it all, “That’s why we wear goggles, Bailey.”

At lunch, Sienna “rested her voice” by communicating entirely through typed notes and aggressive facial expressions. She texted me a photo of NEON ATLAS outside a radio station downtown, press week had officially begun. They all looked perfect, smiling in clean outfits, waving at fans like the world was easy.

I stared at the photo longer than I meant to.

Jace’s smile was there. Bright. Open. The same one from the stage.

But now I knew what it looked like when that smile was missing.

And I didn’t like the fact that knowing that made me feel… protective.

I barely knew him. I didn’t know him. I had grabbed his sleeve once and screamed his name like a lunatic.

That was it.

Still, the image lingered.

Maybe because it reminded me that people could look fine and not be fine.

That part I understood.

After school, I skipped my usual after, bus drift home and walked straight toward downtown. The air was cold enough to bite, and my backpack dug into my shoulders. I kept thinking about the interview like it was a math problem I could solve if I just rehearsed enough.

Be polite. Be normal. Don’t be sarcastic unless necessary.

That last one was going to be difficult.

Westbridge Staffing’s office was in one of those buildings that looked like it had been renovated into “modern charm,” meaning the lobby had plants that were probably real and a receptionist desk that looked like it cost more than my family’s car.

I checked in with a woman who had perfect nails and a smile that didn’t move her eyes.

“Quinn Parker,” I said.

She looked down at her screen. “Have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly.”

I sat.

And waited.

And tried not to tap my foot too loudly because nervous energy liked to escape through my legs.

Across from me, a man in a blazer flipped through a glossy brochure. Next to him, a woman about my mom’s age scrolled on her phone, looking like she was calculating how much time she was wasting in this chair.

I stared at a framed poster on the wall that said:

DISCRETION. RELIABILITY. PROFESSIONALISM.

Which was a dramatic way to describe cleaning, but okay.

A door opened.

“Quinn Parker?” a voice called.

I looked up.

A woman stepped out holding a clipboard. She wore a soft gray sweater and had kind eyes that made her look like she’d tell you the truth even if it wasn’t what you wanted to hear.

“That’s me,” I said, standing quickly.

“I’m Marisol,” she said, smiling. “Come on back.”

Her office smelled like coffee and lemon cleaner, which felt weirdly comforting. There were more posters on the wall, training schedules, safety reminders, and one that made me blink:

NO PHOTOS. NO AUTOGRAPHS. NO SOCIAL MEDIA.

Okay. That seemed… specific.

Marisol gestured for me to sit. “So, Quinn. I looked over your application. You’re a student at Westbridge High?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“And you’re looking for after-school hours.”

“Yes,” I said, and then added, because honesty was my best strategy, “I need something consistent.”

Marisol nodded like she respected that. “We do residential and corporate contracts. Some are standard. Some require higher discretion.”

My brain flashed to the poster again.

Marisol slid a sheet toward me. “This is a confidentiality agreement. It’s standard for certain clients. It means you don’t discuss where you work or who you see there. No photos, no posting, no telling friends.”

I stared at the paper. “Even if I… see someone famous?”

Marisol’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes sharpened slightly in a way that said exactly.

“You won’t take photos,” she said calmly. “You won’t speak to press. You won’t mention it online. The goal is for our staff to be invisible. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” I said, because I did.

Also because the idea of talking to press about anything in my life made me want to hide inside a closet.

Marisol smiled again, softer. “Good. Pay is eighteen an hour to start. Three hour shifts on weekdays. Some sites are in secure buildings. You’ll be checked in. You’ll keep your phone on silent and in your bag unless there’s an emergency.”

Eighteen.

My heart did a little happy jump.

“That’s… really good,” I said before I could stop myself.

Marisol’s mouth curved. “It’s not easy work. We compensate accordingly.”

She asked the usual interview questions, availability, reliability, transportation, whether I was comfortable with pets, whether I had any allergies. I answered, probably too fast, but I stayed honest.

Then she pushed another sheet toward me. “If you’re still interested, we can onboard you today.”

Today.

My fingers tightened on the pen. “Yes,” I said.

Marisol’s expression brightened. “Great. Sign here, here, and initial each page.”

I signed.

And with every stroke of the pen, it felt like I was stepping into something bigger than I’d expected. Not scary, exactly. Just… unknown.

When I finished, Marisol stood. “Uniform is simple, black pants, plain top, comfortable shoes. We provide supplies at most sites. Your first shift is tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” I echoed, surprised.

Marisol nodded. “We had an opening. You’ll receive the address tonight by email along with entry instructions.”

My stomach fluttered. “Okay.”

She walked me out, and at the front desk I collected a small packet with guidelines and a schedule template. As I stepped back onto the sidewalk, the cold air hit my face and made everything feel sharp and real.

I had a job.

A real job.

I started walking toward the bus stop with my hands stuffed in my pockets, feeling, despite everything, light. Like for once something was moving forward instead of hovering over me like a storm cloud.

My phone buzzed.

Sienna: YOU LEFT WITHOUT ME AFTER SCHOOL. WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT HAVE YOU DONE WITH QUINN PARKER.

I texted back: JOB INTERVIEW. I’M BECOMING A RESPONSIBLE CITIZEN.

Sienna: BORING. ALSO I HAVE A THEORY ABOUT THE HALLWAY VIDEO.

I stared at that message a little too long.

Then I typed: Your theory is wrong and also illegal.

Sienna sent a string of laughing emojis and then: Press week starts tomorrow! There’s a signing event at Hawthorne Mall. WE SHOULD GO.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard.

Because yes, there was press week, and yes, Westbridge would be full of fans and cameras and chaos for the next few weeks.

But I was also going to be busy. And tired. And trying to keep my life from turning into a headline.

I typed: Maybe. Depends on my shift.

Sienna: SHIFT???

I ignored that one, because I loved her and also because I was not ready for the inquisition.

That night, after dinner and a long argument with my math homework, I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling like it had answers.

My phone buzzed again.

An email from Westbridge Staffing.

I sat up fast enough that my blanket slid to the floor.

Subject line: Shift Details — Site A

I opened it.

Hi Quinn,

Your assignment for tomorrow is confirmed.

Time: 4:00 PM – 7:00 PM

Location: Hartwell Residences (Private)

Address: 71 Crestline Avenue — Building B

Instructions: Check in with onsite security. Ask for unit access packet under “Westbridge Staffing.”

Reminder: No photos, no visitors, no social media.

Thanks,

Westbridge Staffing Team

Hartwell Residences.

Crestline Avenue.

That was… the expensive area. The kind of neighborhood where the sidewalks looked freshly washed and the hedges were probably paid actors.

My stomach flipped, but in a hopeful way.

A good client meant steady work.

I exhaled, letting myself feel it, real optimism, clean and uncomplicated.

Tomorrow, I’d go. I’d do my job. I’d come home with money in my pocket and maybe, finally, a little less stress in my chest.

I tossed my phone onto my pillow, rolled onto my side, and almost fell asleep.

Almost.

Because my brain, which loved ruining peace, supplied one last thought as I drifted off:

Press week. Private accommodations. Discretion agreements.

I frowned into my pillow.

“No,” I muttered aloud, to no one. “Absolutely not.”

The universe, naturally, said nothing.

Which was never a good sign.