All Chapters of OFFSTAGE, on my Mind: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

By Friday, “Plant Girl” had upgraded from mild internet weirdness to full-blown folklore. Someone at school had printed a blurry screenshot of the hallway video and taped it inside a locker like it was an inspirational quote. Under it, in marker, they’d written: SHE IS AMONG US. Westbridge High is exhausting in very creative ways. Sienna dragged me past it with the expression of someone trying not to laugh and failing. “Okay,” she said, voice fully back now, “I’m not saying it’s you…” “You are absolutely saying it’s me,” I replied. “…but,” she continued, ignoring me, “if it was you, you’d be iconic.” “I would like to be un-iconic,” I said. “I would like to be a tax form.” Sienna sighed dramatically. “Your refusal to enjoy fame is honestly offensive.” “Fame ruins your life,” I said, and immediately regretted how flat it sounded because now it wasn’t just a general statement. It had a face. Sienna’s expression softened, the teasing dimming. “You’re still worried about him.” “

By Monday morning, “Plant Girl” had become less of a rumour and more of a community project. Like recycling. Or spirit week. Or that time our school tried to start a mindfulness club and everyone showed up once, breathed aggressively for ten minutes, and never returned. I was at my locker trying to remember if I’d left my chemistry homework in my other backpack or my other life, when Sienna appeared with the same expression she usually reserved for two things. New NEON ATLAS content or The apocalypse. Unfortunately, this was both. “Okay,” she said, grabbing my arm like she was stopping me from walking into traffic. “Listen. I have a plan.” I sighed. “That’s never a good sentence.” Sienna ignored me and thrust her phone in my face. On the screen was a Notes app document titled: PLANT GIRL IDENTIFICATION PROJECT I blinked slowly. “Sienna.” She scrolled, excited. It had bullet points. Height estimate (based on hallway railing) Bag strap brand Hoodie colour analysis (multiple sc

If there’s one thing Westbridge High loves more than pep rallies and pretending we’re “one big family,” it’s an event. And today’s event was the Hawthorne Mall signing, NEON ATLAS, live, in our local airspace, like the universe had decided we didn’t have enough reasons to be distracted. Sienna arrived at my locker wearing her concert bracelet like armor and a grin so wide it looked medically concerning. “Today,” she announced, “I become a better person.” “You become dehydrated,” I corrected, because I believe in realistic goals. She waved me off. “No. I become fulfilled.” “I’m happy for your fulfillment,” I said, pulling out my binder. “Please don’t get trampled.” Sienna leaned in, eyes bright. “Are you coming? Last chance.” I held her gaze, steady. “No.” Her smile faltered. “Quinn.” “I can’t,” I said, softer. “I’m working.” Sienna’s brows knit. “Again?” “Yes,” I said. “Again.” She stared at me like she was trying to solve me. Like I was a math problem that didn’t have a

Drew Halberg has two modes: 1) Calmly furious. 2) Loudly furious. I’d only seen (1) so far. I learned about (2) on a Wednesday. It started like most days now, me arriving at Hartwell at 3:30 with my phone powered off and my brain already half tired, walking into Unit 1708 with my “professional, invisible, non problematic” posture activated. The apartment was too quiet. Not peaceful, quiet. Tense, quiet. Like the air had been pulled tight. I took my shoes off and stepped in, and immediately heard voices coming from down the hall, Drew’s sharp and controlled, Jace’s low and strained. I froze near the entryway, bag still on my shoulder, because I knew rule number one of rich apartments: Never walk into someone else’s argument unless you’re prepared to become part of it. Unfortunately, my timing has never respected rules. Jace’s voice spiked, just slightly. “I can’t do another week like this.” Drew snapped back, “You can, because it’s already booked.” “And what if I don’

Friday morning arrived with the kind of smug energy only Fridays have, like the day itself was bragging about being almost over. I did not share its confidence. I woke up already behind. Behind on sleep, behind on homework, behind on the persuasive speech draft Mr. Henley had cheerfully demanded like he wasn’t assigning us public humiliation with citations. Bright side: my brain was awake enough to panic. Downside: that is not the same as being prepared. At school, the leaked theater photo was still circulating, but the energy had shifted from “OMG” to “let’s build a conspiracy.” Which meant Blaire Maddox was thriving. I made it three steps into the hallway before I heard my name, sung in that fake sweet way Blaire used when she wanted an audience. “Quinn Parkerrrr.” I stopped walking very slowly, like if I moved too fast I’d trigger a trap. Blaire stood by her locker with two girls beside her, phone in hand. She looked bright and rested, which meant she’d slept, unlike me,