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Marcus stood in right field, sweat dripping down his back like tiny rivers. The July heat was no joke. His orange Gatorade bottle sat empty in the dugout, mocking him from fifty fe...
Marcus stared at his iPhone screen, watching the battery percentage tick down like a countdown to social suicide. 4%. The frayed charging cable dangled from the wall outlet, exposi...
Maya's hair was doing that thing again — frizzing up like she'd stuck her finger in an electrical socket. She tugged her baseball cap lower, grateful for the brim's shadow. Third d...
Maya's palms were sweating. Like, actual embarrassing amounts of sweat, enough that if she high-fived anyone, they'd probably slip right out of her grasp. "You good?" Marcus asked...
Marcus dragged himself through the last week of sophomore year feeling like a straight-up zombie. Three AP exams, two projects, and zero hours of sleep would do that to you. He'd b...
The orange swimsuit glowed against the chain-link fence like radioactive waste. Maya clutched her towel, sixteen years old and absolutely certain she was about to die of social exp...
The air was thick with humidity and expectations. Maya stood in front of her bathroom mirror, practicing different variations of "hey" like she was auditioning for a role in her ow...
Maya's golden retriever, Buster, nudged her leg with that wet-nose urgency that meant someone was at the door. She groaned, scrolling through her iPhone—a disaster zone of unanswer...
Marcus stood before the mechanical bull at Jake's summer party, sweat pooling in his lower back. This was it — his chance to finally impress Skylar, who'd been watching him with th...
The **pool** water glowed electric blue under the string lights, tiny waves reflecting the chaos of the most important party of sophomore year. Maya stood at the edge wearing a tan...
Maya stared at her phone screen, the familiar blue glow of her iPhone illuminating her face at 2 AM. Another Instagram story from Kayla's party—the one Maya wasn't invited to. Agai...
Maya's snapback was her armor. Pull the brim low, vanish into the fabric, become invisible. That was the plan at Jefferson High, where being seen meant being judged. "You're comin...