Chapter Text
Bob
The school's lab seemed to be closing in on him. Bob laid his head down on the lab station, while his lab partner stared at him with disgust. He shoved his hands into his pockets and felt the thin paper, and then he suddenly remembered and lifted his head up. He turned his head to see the teacher facing the board, and the small Bunsen burner flickering near the edge of the table.
It was a terrible idea, but it could maybe get him through this lesson. He scooted his chair closer to the flame, carefully took the joint out of his pocket, and brought it to the fire. Just as it caught, Bob began to turn away, trying to hide the smoke from prying eyes, when, in a whirlwind, his elbow whacked right into the Bunsen burner, spilling the flame onto the table.
“Fire!” Bob blurted out as one of his papers caught fire. The teacher whipped around, his eyes quickly scanning the situation, darting from the joint in his hand to the fire on the table. He finally sprung into action as some other kid screamed and the fire alarm started to blare. The teacher grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall and smothered the flame. Panting, the teacher faced him.
“Reynolds, Principle now! You will be lucky if you don't have detention for the rest of the semester.”
The chair screeched as Bob stood up, and his shoulders slumped as he turned to the door. His dad might actually kill him for this.
Ava
Ava’s fingers flew over the keys, sleeves of her hoodie pulled over her hands. On the screen, her masterpiece played — a perfectly timed slideshow of every humiliating video she’d collected over the years. Each one a guaranteed win. Each one guaranteed to make her old friends squirm.
A knock slammed against the door.
Shit.
She sped up, hammering the keyboard. The lock clicked.
Upload, upload, upload—
The progress bar hit 100% just as the door swung open. A spark of victory lit her eyes.
“Ms. Starr, what are you doing?”
She glanced up at the teacher blocking the doorway, face like a storm cloud.
“Uh… nothing, it’s educational?”
“One week’s detention. Out. Now.”
Ava slung her bag over her shoulder, unbothered, and strolled past him. Her old friends caught sight of her leaving, and the drop in their expressions was almost better than the slideshow itself.
The screen behind them flickered to the next clip — some guy she barely knew tripping over his own feet. Not catastrophic, but definitely worth watching twice. She squinted. Oh right… Joe something? It didn't matter.
A low laugh rolled through the hall. She turned her head. There he was — Mr. Trip-and-Fall himself — jaw tight, eyes sharp. He looked dumb and arrogant, so no harm done.
Ava smirked, lifted her chin, and marched toward the principal’s office like she owned the place.
John
To be fair, Walker had been pissed off before practice even started.
He didn’t even know that girl — so what the hell was that slideshow about? Then practice went to hell. He tripped over his own feet twice, fumbled passes like his hands were made of butter, and managed to clock another guy in the face with the ball. By the time he left the locker room, a gym bag slung over his shoulder, he was already in a mood that could’ve burned the place down.
And of course, there was him — leaning against the trophy case like he owned it.
“You know, Walker,” the guy drawled, voice syrupy with smug, “that was a really impressive performance out there.”
Walker’s grip tightened on the strap of his bag.
“Like, seriously. I didn’t know you could miss that many shots in a row. It’s almost… impressive.” He smirked, eyes flicking up and down in mock admiration. “Guess that video wasn’t a one-off after all. Real natural talent, huh?”
Walker’s jaw locked.
The guy leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice like they were sharing a secret. “You should thank that girl, by the way. Now everyone’s gonna know the real you — the clumsy, overhyped, wannabe tough guy who can’t even stay on his feet.”
That was it.
The next thing Walker knew, his fist had slammed into the wall next to the guy’s head. Plaster cracked. The glass trophy case beside them exploded in a deafening crash, shards scattering like glitter across the hallway tiles.
The guy flinched back, eyes wide. “Are you fucking insane?!” he shouted, voice cracking.
Walker didn’t answer. He just pulled his hand from the dented wall, the skin stinging, and turned — straight into the coach’s glare.
“Detention, Walker,” the coach barked. “One more stunt like that and you’re off the team.”
Walker swallowed every comeback bubbling in his throat. Without a word, he slung his bag higher on his shoulder and walked down the hallway, glass crunching under his shoes.
Yelena
The cafeteria was a sauna. The smell of overcooked vegetables and cheap gravy hung in the air while everyone shouted over each other about whatever nonsense mattered today.
Yelena sat at the very end of a long table, as far away from the herd as possible, stabbing at her mashed potatoes with her fork. She hated the food here. She hated most of the people here.
Two oversized boys sat across from her, leaning in on some poor freshman like vultures over a carcass. Their voices were low, but the kid’s wide eyes told her enough.
Yelena didn’t bother asking what they were saying. She just scooped a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes, aimed, and let it fly.
Splatt.
The first boy froze mid-word, white mash dripping down his cheek.
“What the—”
He didn’t finish before Yelena nailed his friend square in the chest, leaving a creamy bullseye on his shirt.
The cafeteria erupted. Chairs scraped. Trays clattered. Food arced across the room like mortar fire. The air filled with yells, laughter, and the wet slap of various lunch items meeting their targets.
Yelena grinned wide, let out a sharp, triumphant scream, and launched herself into the fray, sending peas and bread rolls sailing over heads.
It didn’t last long.
“WHO STARTED THIS?” a teacher bellowed.
Silence fell like someone had hit pause — except for the mashed potato slowly sliding off the second boy’s shirt. Both boys raised their fingers in perfect unison.
Yelena stood, unfazed. “Worth it,” she muttered, grabbing her tray.
As she followed the teacher toward the principal’s office, her gaze swept back to the mess. The janitor stood in the middle of it all, mop in hand, looking like he’d just aged ten years.
Her grin faltered — just a flicker — before she turned away and walked out.