Chapter One: Pilot

You’d think a school would have at least one working water fountain.

Nope. Not a single one.

I’d been wandering through this godforsaken building like a dehydrated zombie, throat raw and scratchy like I’d swallowed a bucket of sand. I’d tried every hallway, every corner, even ducked into bathrooms I wasn’t entirely sure I was supposed to be in—still nothing. Not a drip, not a trickle. Just dry metal mouths and “Out of Order” signs taunting me at every turn. The bell was going to ring in less than two minutes, and to top it off—I was lost. Again. You’d think after a month at Grayfield High I’d have the layout burned into my brain, but nope. I was still the dumbass walking around with my nose buried in a creased, half-torn schedule like it held the secret to the universe.

The school was too damn big. A massive, gray-bricked labyrinth designed to break the spirits of freshmen and fry the brains of transfer students like me. Left, right, left, left again—my path made no sense, and at this point, I didn’t care. I just needed to land in my seat before Mr. Wright gave me that look. Miraculously, I found the classroom. Social Studies—Room 213. I slipped through the door and into my seat a fraction of a second before the bell shrieked through the building. A breath I didn’t know I’d been holding finally escaped my chest. My black-and-blue backpack slumped to the floor beside my chair with a satisfying thud as I dug through it, fingers searching for the familiar feel of my orange “History” folder.

Found it. Slightly bent, but still intact.

I yanked it out, flipped it open, and fished through an unnecessary stack of old quizzes and wrinkled handouts until I spotted the homework from last night—front page, three questions about the American Revolution. I placed it on my desk, added the required red pen beside it (Mr. Wright’s anti-cheating obsession in full effect), and waited.

I didn’t cheat. Not because I was a saint or anything—I just wasn’t good at it. And honestly, I didn’t need to. Low A’s, high B’s... That was my zone. Decent by most standards. But to my parents? I might as well have been flunking every class. They didn’t see effort or progress, just numbers. Numbers that were never high enough.

I slid my homework forward for collection, then folded my arms and lowered my head onto them. Not to sleep—just enough to be still, to breathe. But I left a tiny gap between my arms so I could see across the room, just one seat over and one row ahead.

And there she was.

Layla Levine.

She sat in her usual spot, completely unaware of the hurricane she caused just by existing. Her dusty-brown hair fell in those effortless S-shaped waves, like she’d just stepped out of some artfully filtered dream. It cascaded over her shoulders, catching the morning light that poured in from the windows. Her sea-glass eyes—blue with hints of green—were focused on the sketchpad balanced on her knees, her expression soft but intense, fully absorbed in the world she was drawing. She’d been bringing that sketchpad to school since  I got here last month, and probably all time before that. Never without it. And no matter how chaotic the classroom got, Layla always looked like she belonged somewhere else—somewhere quieter, somewhere beautiful. Her pencil moved with purpose, and I watched her, completely captivated.

I must’ve stared for way too long. But how could I not? She was art—living art—and I was just another guy in the room, watching something he could never touch.

My haze shattered with the sudden slam of books hitting the desk beside mine. My head snapped up on instinct, like I'd been caught doing something I wasn’t supposed to—because, well, technically I was.

Carter Fisher dropped into the seat next to me, grinning like the smug idiot he was born to be. “Hey, Romeo,” he said, voice low and teasing, emerald eyes twinkling with mirth. “Anything new in the love department today, or are we still stuck in the ‘longing stares and silent suffering’ phase?”

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly pulled something. “Shut up, Mr. Can-Never-Be-On-Time-To-Save-His-Life. What was it this time—a group of cheerleaders formed a blockade and refused to let you through until you promised them a date?”

He gave a mock sigh, brushing invisible lint off his varsity jacket. “What can I say? It’s hard being this adored.”

Carter Fisher was the guy at Grayfield High. Quarterback, heartthrob, walking hormone. The kind of guy who made teachers smile and parents suspicious. His locker might as well have had a revolving door for all the girls he rotated through weekly. He was charming, reckless, and just barely passing his classes—but somehow still managed to be everyone’s favorite. He was basically the human embodiment of a teen drama protagonist— if Ken played quarterback on the football team and had commitment issues.

And me? I was the unexpected sidekick. If it hadn’t been for the fact that we’d built forts together in second grade and made blood-oaths over juice boxes, I doubt I’d even exist on his radar. But because of that unbreakable, decade-old bond, I was the lone exception to Carter’s inner circle of jocks, flirt-chameleons, and testosterone overloads.

Every guy wanted to be him. Every girl wanted him. Including Layla.

She hadn’t said it. Not out loud. But I wasn’t blind. I saw the way her eyes lingered when he walked into a room, the way her smile tilted just a little differently when he talked to her. Carter had that gravitational pull—he didn’t chase, he attracted. And Layla, like everyone else, was caught in his orbit. I hated how natural it was for him. How effortless.

And yet, here I was. The invisible observer in the back of the room, falling for the girl who probably only knew me as  “Carter’s friend.”

If she even knew me at all.

Mr. Wright’s voice cut through my thoughts like a buzzsaw. “Pass your homework forward. Neat stacks, red pens on top. You know the drill.”

Chairs squeaked. Paper rustled. I snapped upright and slid my paper up the row, catching just a glimpse of Layla’s handwriting on hers—neat, slanted, like the way she wrote lyrics in the margins of her notebooks. Carter just sat there, not at all bothered by the fact that he more or less decided not to do his homework.

“Eyes up front,” Mr. Wright barked, already scribbling something on the board in his manic, slanted print. “Today we’re talking about the Declaration of Independence. And no—before any of you ask, it wasn’t signed on the Fourth of July. That’s just the fireworks and hot dogs part.”

A few students chuckled. Carter leaned toward me and muttered, “I swear this guy was born in 1776.”

I snorted under my breath. “And has hated 11th graders ever since.”

Carter grinned, then settled back, slouching like he had no spine and no care in the world. I, on the other hand, sat up straighter, trying not to glance at Layla again. But of course, that lasted all of ten seconds. She was still drawing. Mr. Wright was five minutes into his lecture, and she hadn't taken a single note. Her pencil moved in light, fluid lines, looping and curving across the page like it knew where it was going before she did. I couldn’t see the full picture, just the edge of what looked like a face—half-formed, maybe unfinished. Maybe me. Maybe not. Probably not.

I was so focused, I didn’t realize Mr. Wright had stopped talking.

“Mr. Greene?” he said, voice as sharp as a ruler's snap.

My head whipped around. “Uh—yes?”

The class snickered. Carter facepalmed beside me.

Mr. Wright adjusted his glasses, fixing me with that look—the one that made you feel like your brain was leaking out your ears. “Would you care to explain what Thomas Paine’s Common Sense had to do with the American Revolution, or would you prefer to keep daydreaming about the back of Miss Levine’s head?”

Cue full-body cringe.

Heat rushed to my face like a detonation. Even Layla turned around slightly—just enough to give me a brief, puzzled glance. Not annoyed. Not amused. Just... noticing.

“I—uh—” I fumbled, trying to salvage my dignity. “It helped convince people who were on the fence about independence to support the revolution. Kind of like... propaganda, but persuasive?”

Mr. Wright paused. Gave the tiniest nod. “Acceptable. Next time, stay with us.”

I sank lower in my seat, wishing I could teleport into the ceiling tiles. Carter, of course, leaned over again.

“Smooth, Romeo,” he whispered. “Very stealth. If you were trying to impress her with your vast knowledge of Revolutionary pamphlets, I think it almost worked.”

I didn’t answer. I just stared down at the red pen in my hand, wishing it could scribble me out of existence.

The period dragged on. Mr. Wright talked, and my brain half-listened, half-replayed that moment over and over. Layla’s glance. The barely-there lift of her eyebrow. The fact that—for the first time in a month—she actually looked at me. By the time the bell rang, I wasn’t sure if I’d learned anything about history... but I definitely knew what embarrassment felt like in 4K resolution.

I packed up slowly, hoping Layla would walk out first so I didn’t have to do the awkward behind-her shuffle of shame. Carter, of course, was already gone—probably halfway to charming the lunch lady out of an extra slice of pizza. Layla stood up. Her sketchpad slipped slightly as she gathered her things, and without thinking, I reached forward and caught it. “Whoa—got it.”

She blinked. Her sea-glass eyes met mine, and for a moment, it was like everything in the room went silent.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling just barely. “Good reflexes.”

I handed it to her, careful not to touch the paper. “I, uh, I’ve had practice. Dropping stuff is kind of my superpower.” I shrugged mock-nonchalantly.

She actually laughed—a short, breathy sound that made my heart kick like it was trying to escape the confines of my ribcage.

She tucked the sketchpad under her arm. “See you around...?”

I swallowed. “Yeah. See you.”

And just like that, she was gone, leaving only the scent of lavender and pencil shavings in her wake. For the first time all day, my throat didn’t feel dry anymore.

As I walked down the hall, my steps a little lighter than before, something snagged my attention. A door. One I swear hadn’t been there yesterday—or any day in the past month I’d been wandering this high school labyrinth. It wasn’t like the others. Most doors here were bland copies of each other: beige paint chipped at the corners, the same dull silver handles smudged with fingerprints. But this one… this one stood apart. Taller somehow. Narrower. The wood was darker than the rest, polished smooth, like it had been cared for in a way nothing else in this building was. And right in the center, just above the handle, was a single scratch—thin, deliberate, almost like it didn’t belong, but gave the whole thing a strange kind of character.

I slowed, staring. The longer I looked, the more out-of-place it felt. Like it didn’t just belong to the school—it belonged to something else entirely. Something I couldn’t name but couldn’t shake either. Before I knew it, my feet had stilled, and I was standing directly in front of the door. Every nerve in my body seemed to lean toward it, pulled by some invisible thread stronger than anything I’d ever felt before. I lifted my hand, fingertips reaching for the sleek black handle—cool, gleaming, waiting—

And then, out of nowhere, an arm slung itself around my shoulders, yanking me back.

“There ya are, laddie,” Carter’s voice rang out in the worst Scottish accent I’d ever heard. He grinned like he owned the hallway. “You will not believe the day I’ve had.”

The spell snapped, but not cleanly. My mind was with Carter, sure, but my heart was still tethered to that door.

I risked a glance back—only to find nothing but a blank stretch of cinderblock wall. No door. No handle. Not a single trace that it had ever been there.

“What the…?” I muttered under my breath.

Carter cocked a brow. “What?”

I shook my head too quickly. “Nothing. Never mind. What’s going on with you?”

His grin widened as he steered me down the hall toward his locker. “Oh, nothing major. Just that I scored us two golden tickets to the holy grail of Friday nights—Jeremy Flag’s party.”

I stopped short. “Wait—Jeremy Flag? You’re serious?”

Carter fiddled with his combination, clearly enjoying my shock. “Serious as a heart attack. The guy throws the most exclusive, most insane parties this concrete prison has ever seen. And, lucky for us, I managed to charm my way into his circle today. Let’s just say the conversation wasn’t exactly parent-approved.”

The locker door creaked open, revealing a half-crumpled graveyard of blank assignments, a tall brown paper bag peeking out from the shadows, and his varsity jacket in the school’s bold blue and white. Carter slung the jacket over his shoulder like it was armor, his grin daring me to keep up. I stared at him, still rattled by the disappearing door, but his words cut through my haze like firecrackers.

“Jeremy Flag’s party,” I repeated, almost disbelieving. “As in the Jeremy Flag? The guy who practically runs this school from his throne of Red Solo cups?”

Carter smirked, shutting his locker with a metallic clang. “The very same. And tonight, my friend, we get front-row seats to the madness. Music, lights, a little chaos... all the things your poor, innocent heart has been deprived of since you got here.”

I tried to play it cool, but the truth was, my stomach flipped. I wasn’t exactly the “party type.” My version of a wild Friday night usually involved movies, leftover pizza, and making sure my Wi-Fi didn’t give out. But Jeremy Flag’s party? That wasn’t just a high school event—it was legendary. The kind of night people whispered about in hallways for months, where reputations were made and destroyed in a single game of beer pong.

“You’re insane,” I muttered, though a grin tugged at my lips. “You know that, right?”

“Absolutely,” Carter said with zero shame. “But lucky for you, my insanity comes with perks. Tonight, you’re my plus one.”

I shook my head, the last remnants of unease from that vanished door still clawing at me. It had to have been my imagination. Stress. Lack of sleep. Whatever it was, I couldn’t let it ruin this moment. Still… the image of that dark handle gleamed in my mind like a half-forgotten dream.