All Chapters of OFFSTAGE, on my Mind: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

I would like to be on record, in a court of law and also in the group chat, that I did not choose this.If anyone asks, I was kidnapped.Dragged. Hauled. Emotionally blackmailed.Because there is no universe where I, Quinn Parker reasonably sane seventeen year old with a part time job shaped hole in her schedule and a permanent to do list in her brain, wakes up and thinks, You know what would be relaxing? Being pressed into a crowd of shrieking teenagers while fluorescent bracelets flash “MARRY ME” in my peripheral vision. And yet. There I was, standing in the line outside the Westbridge Arena with my best friend vibrating beside me like she’d been plugged into an outlet. Sienna wore glitter on her cheekbones in the shape of little stars. Actual glitter. On purpose. She also had a homemade NEON ATLAS shirt that said NEON SAVED MY GPA in puffy paint. She’d tried to make me one, too. I’d declined because I enjoy being able to look strangers in the eye. “Quinn,” she said, clutching

By the time the last confetti cannon went off, Sienna had lost her voice in three separate stages. Stage one: raspy whisper screaming. Stage two: silent mouthing with aggressive arm flailing. Stage three: full mime, clutching my forearm like I was her translator to the living. When the final song ended and NEON ATLAS lined up at the front of the stage, hands linked, heads bowed, smiling like the world was made of sugar, Sienna was crying so hard her glitter stars were migrating down her face in tiny sparkling trails. I handed her a crumpled napkin I’d stolen from the nacho stand. She pressed it to her eyes and made a sound like a dying kettle. “You good?” I asked. She nodded violently, then mouthed, I’M TRANSCENDING. “Cool,” I said. “Try to transcend toward the exit before we get trampled.” The crowd surged into that slow, congested river of bodies flowing up the aisles. People were chattering, replaying moments like they’d just witnessed history. Phones were alrea

If you ever want to feel poor in a way that’s spiritually humbling, I highly recommend walking into a luxury apartment building wearing black thrift store pants and shoes that squeak when you’re nervous. Hartwell Residences didn’t even look like a place where people lived. It looked like a place where people were displayed. The lobby was all glass and pale stone and minimalist furniture that screamed, No one has ever eaten pizza on this couch. A wall sized waterfall feature burbled softly in the corner like it was trying to calm everyone down. It wasn’t working on me. I stepped onto the glossy floor and immediately became aware of every single thing about myself, my ponytail, my backpack, the fact that my hands were cold, the fact that I was here to clean and not here to… I don’t know, buy a penthouse and name it after my vibes. A security desk sat near the elevators. Two guards in crisp uniforms stood behind it, both with the posture of men who did not laugh at jokes and di

By the time I got home, “mystery girl” had become a genre. I kicked off my shoes at the front door, whispered a quick “Hi” toward the kitchen where my mom was watching something on her tablet, and escaped upstairs like my bedroom contained oxygen the rest of the house lacked. My phone was still open to Sienna’s message. QUINN. LOOK AT THIS. IS THAT YOU??? Under it: the grainy hallway video. I watched it again even though I’d already watched it twice in the elevator, which is apparently what I do now when I want to experience stress in high definition. The clip was shaky and chaotic. A blur of bodies. A shriek. Someone shouting Jace’s name, my voice, unfortunately, then the camera swinging to catch a girl near a giant fake plant, hood up, bag strap across her shoulder, arm outstretched as she pointed down the corridor like she was directing an evacuation. It wasn’t a clear shot of my face. But it didn’t need to be. I recognized my own posture the way you recognize you

The worst part about being a person who pretends she doesn’t care is that it becomes painfully obvious when you do. Like when I stood at my locker the next morning, pretending I was deeply fascinated by the concept of binders, while my brain kept replaying one specific image: Jace, pale and hoodie wrapped, looking relieved that I was back. Relieved. That word felt too big for what I was supposed to be in his life, which was nothing. A cleaner. A background detail. The human equivalent of “freshly wiped counter.” Not… relief. I slammed my locker a little harder than necessary. Sienna appeared beside me, still riding the high of press week like it was a holiday season and she was the mayor. “Okay,” she said, voice scratchy but functional. “New update.” “I’m scared,” I said. “You should be,” she replied, delighted. “Plant Girl is still trending.” I sighed through my nose. “Fantastic. I’m so happy for her.” Sienna’s eyes narrowed in that familiar best-friend way th