Chapter Text
It starts with a backpack.
Not a designer one. Not the slim Saint Laurent leather bag that would’ve earned a second glance from Mari or the monogrammed Goyard Shauna carried like a birthright. No—this backpack is falling apart. Grey canvas, fraying seams, a ripped patch at the bottom that looks like it’s barely holding together with safety pins and a prayer.
Jackie sees it before she sees her.
She’s sipping a green juice—her second of the morning—and pretending to listen as Shauna complains about calculus. It’s all background noise until the door to homeroom creaks open and someone new walks in like she doesn’t care she’s late. Like she doesn’t care at all.
The girl is tall-ish. Blond. Smudged eyeliner. Army jacket over her uniform skirt, black tights with a hole above the knee. She’s wearing combat boots. Combat boots. Jackie’s eyes flicker down before she can stop herself.
“Who the hell is that?” Mari says, turning in her seat. Her voice drops to a whisper-shriek. “Tell me that’s not the new transfer.”
Taissa leans in, already pulling up the class roster on her iPad. “Natalie Scatorccio,” she murmurs. “Brooklyn. Scholarship.”
Jackie blinks. Natalie’s taken the last empty desk in the back corner, slouching into the chair like she’s allergic to posture. She pulls out a beat-up notebook, scratches something in the margins, and doesn’t look at anyone.
And Jackie? Jackie can’t look away.
—
Group Chat: The Crown
mari: um. did we know she was that kind of transfer
shauna.ship: what kind?
taissa.t: the public school to prep school pipeline kind
jackie.t: she’s literally just sitting
mari: yeah and ✨ ruining the aesthetic ✨
shauna.ship: she looks kinda cool idk
mari: ok shauna
—
Jackie tells herself it’s nothing. She’s just… intrigued. Curiosity is normal. It’s not every day someone new shows up at Westhill Academy mid-senior year, especially not someone who looks like she just wandered out of a music video and chain-smoked her way down Fifth Avenue.
But then first period ends, and Jackie catches herself waiting in the hallway. She doesn’t mean to. Not really.
Natalie brushes past her with zero acknowledgment—doesn’t even glance her way. Jackie watches the sway of her jacket, the way her fingers toy with a cigarette behind her back even though they’re not supposed to smoke on campus.
And suddenly, Jackie wants to know everything.
~
This place smells like money.
Like eucalyptus hand soap and new textbooks and perfume that probably costs more than her rent. Natalie steps through the glass double doors of Westhill Academy and immediately regrets saying yes to any of this.
She didn’t even want the scholarship.
But then her counselor shoved a folder into her hands junior year and said You have too much potential to rot in public school, Scatorccio, and next thing she knew, she was sitting in a stuffy interview with her sleeves pulled down to hide her tattoos while a panel of old white people smiled with thin lips and asked about her “ambitions.”
Ambitions? Natalie had said she wanted to work in music production. They looked horrified.
But they gave her the scholarship anyway.
And now here she is. Senior year. Last semester. New girl in a school full of girls who look like they were born in matching sweater sets and live in houses with doormen and elevators.
She walks into homeroom fifteen minutes late and no one tells her where to sit. She picks the desk in the back. Always the back. She pulls out a pen that doesn’t work, curses under her breath, and pulls out another.
She doesn’t notice the girl in the front row staring at her. Not at first.
—
By third period, she hates everyone.
They all talk too loud and too slow. Their voices drip with the same syrupy confidence that comes from never having to worry about anything important. One girl in her math class raises her hand and calls the test “insensitive to students with ADHD” after getting a B+. Another asks if her lunch is “farm-to-table.”
Natalie misses Brooklyn so bad it aches.
She’s halfway through a pack of gum and ready to fake a migraine when someone steps up beside her at the lockers.
“You look like you need saving,” the girl says.
Natalie turns.
She’s pretty. Not in the try-hard, glossy way most girls at this school seem to aim for. This one’s got softer edges—big brown eyes, sun-warmed skin, and a cardigan that looks vintage instead of designer. Like she actually picked it out because she liked it.
Natalie raises a brow. “From what?”
“From dying of boredom. Or social suicide,” the girl says, smiling. “I’m Lottie. You’re Natalie, right?”
“I guess word travels fast.”
“Faster than the cafeteria line,” Lottie says. “You want to sit with us?”
Natalie almost says no. She hates being the charity case. But Lottie doesn’t sound fake. Doesn’t look like she’s playing some angle.
She just looks… curious.
So Natalie shrugs and says, “Sure.”
—
Lunch is… not awful.
Lottie leads her to a table under the skylight, where a redhead in a varsity jacket is already picking at fries and a tall, pale guy is sketching something in a notebook. They both look up when they arrive.
“This is Van,” Lottie says. “And Kevyn.”
“Kev,” the guy corrects with a smile that’s a little too eager. “Hey.”
Natalie nods. “Hey.”
Van shoves the tray of fries toward her. “Don’t let the cafeteria scare you. They say it’s organic. I say it tastes like cardboard.”
Natalie snorts and sits down. It’s the first real laugh she’s had all day.
Kevyn keeps sneaking glances at her. Van asks what music she listens to. Lottie tells a story about her French tutor accidentally texting her “I want you” instead of “I want you to study.”
And for the first time since stepping foot into this cold, over-designed hellhole, Natalie feels like maybe she won’t totally hate it here.
She still doesn’t trust the school. Or the girls in heels and lip gloss who whisper behind manicured hands.
And she especially doesn’t trust Jackie fucking Taylor, who keeps looking at her like she’s a question she doesn’t know the answer to.
But maybe, maybe, she doesn’t have to be alone here either.
~
Lottie Matthews is a traitor.
Jackie watches from her usual table—the one by the windows, where the light hits just right and her hair always looks good in stories—as Lottie leads the new girl across the cafeteria like they’re already best friends.
Natalie sits. She doesn’t hesitate. She even laughs when Van pushes fries toward her. She’s chewing gum, still wearing that awful army jacket, and she looks like she belongs there.
Jackie’s grip tightens around her iced oat milk latte.
“She didn’t even look over here,” Mari says, voice pitched with offense. “Like. Bitch. Respect the hierarchy.”
“She probably doesn’t know who we are,” Shauna offers, ever the peacekeeper.
Jackie hums, noncommittal, eyes still trained on the other table.
Kevyn says something that makes Natalie laugh—loud and unbothered, head tipped back, the sound carrying across the room like it’s meant to. Jackie’s stomach knots. Sharp. Stupid.
Then Lottie leans in, close enough to brush her shoulder, whispering something into Natalie’s ear. Natalie smirks—slow and easy, like she’s used to people wanting her close.
Jackie doesn’t know what was said. But it feels like a challenge. Like a dare she wasn’t invited to play.
“Do we like her now?” Taissa asks, tapping a pen against her tray. “What’s the ruling?”
Jackie forces a smile. “She’s fine.”
But she’s not fine. She’s everywhere. Natalie walked into one classroom and Jackie hasn’t stopped thinking about her since.
The jacket. The boots. The backpack. The look on her face like she was already bored of them all. Like she wasn’t trying.
Jackie has built her entire life on trying. Effortlessly, of course. That’s the trick. Never let them see you sweat.
But then Natalie showed up with her cigarette-laced voice and messy eyeliner and dared to take up space like she didn’t owe anyone anything.
And now Jackie can’t stop watching her.
—
Group Chat: The Crown
mari: she’s literally eating fries like it’s a personality
taissa.t: pretty sure kevyn’s in love
shauna.ship: she is kinda hot
mari: shauna babe r u good
jackie.t: lottie’s just being lottie
mari: yeah well lottie’s gonna get her heart broken if she thinks brooklyn girl’s here for a spa day
taissa.t: lol
—
Jackie puts her phone down and checks her reflection in her camera roll. She looks perfect. Obviously.
She looks up again.
Natalie’s already looking at her.
Eyes sharp, unreadable, like she knows exactly what Jackie’s thinking and isn’t impressed.
Jackie blinks first.
She hates that.
~
Third Period – AP Lit
Jackie arrives early. Obviously.
Her copy of The Secret History is neatly annotated, color-coded by theme. She takes the desk by the window—perfect lighting—and waits for everyone else to trickle in, pretending not to check the door every time it opens.
Then Natalie walks in. Late again. Combat boots, headphones around her neck, hair slightly windblown like she just came from a rooftop. She’s carrying that same ripped backpack.
Jackie looks away. Then back. Then away again.
Mr. Callahan claps his hands once. “Alright, seniors. Today we’re pairing off for the semester thesis project. Pick a partner or I’ll do it for you. And no, Shauna and Jackie, you can’t partner again. It’s getting boring.”
Shauna pouts beside her. “Rude.”
Jackie opens her mouth to say something—anything—but Callahan’s already glancing at the seating chart.
“Jackie Taylor, you’re with… Natalie Scatorccio.”
There’s a full second of silence.
Then Mari snorts. “Good luck with that.”
Jackie’s heart stutters. She’s not sure if it’s nerves or rage.
Natalie, meanwhile, just shrugs and walks to the desk beside her like it’s no big deal. Slouches into the seat. Doesn’t even look at her.
Jackie taps her pen once. Twice. Then, carefully, she says, “Hey. I’m Jackie.”
Natalie turns her head slowly. Raises a brow.
“You gave a whole speech during homeroom,” she says. “Kinda hard to miss.”
Jackie blinks. “Right. Yeah. I guess I just wanted to—”
“You don’t have to be nice to me,” Natalie cuts in, voice low and even. “I’m not contagious.”
Jackie straightens in her seat. “I’m not being nice. I’m being polite.”
“Same thing.”
“Not really.”
Natalie finally looks at her. Really looks. Her eyes are sharp and dry, like she’s already decided Jackie’s full of shit.
Jackie hates that it rattles her.
“You always this tense, or is it just me?” Natalie asks, flipping open her notebook with chipped black nails.
“I’m not tense,” Jackie says, way too fast.
Natalie smirks and starts doodling in the margins. “Okay, Jackie.”
Jackie turns away, cheeks hot, jaw tight.
God, she’s infuriating.
And Jackie’s never wanted to figure someone out more in her entire life.
~
Jackie Taylor is exactly what Natalie expected—preppy, manicured, rehearsed down to the way she crosses her legs.
But she didn’t expect her to be so… flustered.
That whole interaction in Lit? Natalie replayed it in her head all through class change. Jackie introducing herself like she hadn’t spoken to the entire school that morning. The twitch in her jaw when Natalie called her tense. The way her pen kept tapping like it was the only thing tethering her to earth.
Natalie smirks at the memory. Maybe the queen bee wasn’t as untouchable as she thought.
She heads outside for lunch. It’s sunny—too bright for her mood—but the courtyard has good smoking spots, and she’s dying for a break from everyone’s perfume-clouded chaos.
Lottie finds her by the garden wall, barefoot in the grass, holding a lavender lemonade like she’s in a French indie film.
“You survived Lit,” she says, flopping down beside her.
Natalie flicks ash into an empty cup. “Barely.”
“Let me guess. Jackie got territorial.”
“She got weird,” Nat says, then glances sideways. “Is she always like that?”
Lottie shrugs. “Depends who you ask.”
“I’m asking you.”
A pause. Then Lottie smiles, amused. “Jackie’s Westhill royalty. Captain of literally everything. Daughter of the Taylor Foundation. Probably eats rose petals for breakfast.”
“Yeah, I got the memo.”
“But,” Lottie adds, tilting her head, “she also kind of cracks under pressure. Not publicly. But I’ve seen it. There’s the Jackie she shows everyone, and then… the real one.”
Natalie raises an eyebrow. “And you get to see the real one?”
Lottie laughs, soft and warm. “Oh no. The rules don’t apply to me. Jackie tolerates me like I’m a weird cousin she can’t get rid of.”
Natalie snorts. “Sounds about right.”
“But you…” Lottie leans in, curious now. “You rattle her. I’ve never seen her fumble like that before.”
Natalie blinks. “I wasn’t trying to.”
“Exactly.” Lottie sips her drink. “That’s why it works.”
Nat doesn’t say anything. Just stares at the cigarette burning low in her fingers.
She still thinks Jackie’s fake. But maybe she’s fake because she’s scared of what’s underneath.
And that? That makes things more interesting.
~
Group Chat: The Crown
jackie.t: she is literally insufferable
mari: omg what happened
jackie.t: she called me tense
shauna.ship: were you tho?
jackie.t: whose side are you on
taissa.t: did she really say that
jackie.t: like I’m sorry you just got here with your DIY eyeliner and your little attitude??
mari: lmaooo
mari: I told you. Public school girls act like rules don’t apply to them.
jackie.t: it’s not even that
jackie.t: she’s just so…
jackie.t: ugh
taissa.t: eloquent
mari: she needs to learn her place
shauna.ship: maybe she doesn’t have a place here yet
mari: exactly
mari: which means she doesn’t get to come for you, Jackie
jackie.t: it’s whatever
jackie.t: I’m not letting her get under my skin
taissa.t: you literally started this convo
jackie.t: okay blocked
shauna.ship: girl
—
Jackie locks her phone and exhales through her nose like that’ll keep the heat out of her face.
She hates that Natalie said she was tense. She hates how her voice is still echoing in her head. More than that, she hates the little voice in her own mind that keeps whispering: She wasn’t wrong.
Jackie Taylor doesn’t get flustered. She doesn’t get caught off guard.
So why the hell is Natalie Scatorccio—the Brooklyn girl with holes in her tights and ash on her fingers—still in her head?
~
She almost forgets she’s still in uniform.
The skirt’s riding up with every step and her boots are killing her, but Natalie’s too tired to care. She made it through the day without punching anyone or getting dress-coded. That’s a win, right?
Westhill glows in the late afternoon sun—polished and perfect and sterile as hell. She lights a cigarette as soon as she’s off school property, dragging in the smoke like it’s the first real breath she’s taken all day.
“You know they’ll expel you for that, right?”
The voice is dry, low, a little bored. Natalie turns.
A guy leans against the stone gate, hoodie up, headphones looped around his neck. Uniform shirt untucked, sleeves rolled. He’s got that disaffected skater energy—cool without trying, and probably the kind of guy who never studies but still gets B+’s.
She raises a brow. “You gonna report me?”
He shrugs. “Not my business.”
“This your thing? Lurking by gates when you’re bored?”
That gets a small smirk out of him. “Only when I’m bored.”
Natalie watches him for a beat. He doesn’t move, doesn’t look away. There’s a sharpness behind his calm, something restless. It makes her curious.
“I’m Natalie,” she says eventually.
“Travis.”
She nods once, then starts to walk away. Halfway down the block, she glances back.
He’s still watching her.
—
That night, she lies on her bed in their too-hot Brooklyn apartment, the window cracked open just enough to let in the sound of sirens and someone’s shitty mixtape from down the block.
Her mom’s voice had drifted from the kitchen when she walked in—“School okay?”—without waiting for an answer.
Natalie had just muttered “Yeah” and kept walking.
Now, she stares at the ceiling in the dark, hoodie still on, legs still hanging off the bed.
She can’t stop thinking about the way Jackie looked at her like a glitch in the system. Or the way Travis didn’t look away. Even Lottie, with her quiet smile and warm eyes, had looked at her like she wasn’t what she expected. Like maybe that wasn’t a bad thing.
Westhill might be hell. But at least it’s not boring.
And Natalie?
She’s never been good at staying bored for long.