Lunch hour hits like freedom. The bell rings and we're up and out like prison doors just flew open. I swear, no one moves faster than teenagers escaping educational captivity. Bags slam shut. Chairs scrape. Someone's already halfway down the hall before I've even zipped my pencil case.
Zoe and I are among the masses, swept into the chaos of the hallway flood, and five minutes later we're in the cafeteria—the grand arena. The social battleground. Smells like pizza grease, sweat, and the faint aroma of too much Axe body spray.
We slide into our usual table near the back—close enough to observe, far enough to avoid being observed. Prime location. We've staked this territory since freshman year.
Zoe opens her lunchbox and groans. "It's the sad sandwich again."
"Peanut butter?"
"Peanut butter and depression, yeah."
I peel back the cling wrap on my own sandwich and sigh. "Mine looks like it's already been chewed."
We glance around. The cafeteria is in full swing. Nerd table deep in card games. Soccer kids at their usual corner, mid-hype about whatever goal they think was life-changing. Drama kids reenacting something no one asked for.
Zoe follows my gaze, already halfway through a bite of her tragic sandwich. "Uh-oh."
Because guess who just strolled in like he owns the damn building?
Reggie.
He's got a lollipop in his mouth, like he wandered off a '90s teen drama set and hasn't realized it's not cool anymore but somehow, it still works.
The crowd parts for him the way it only does for people with dangerous reputations or movie-level cheekbones. Or both. He doesn't sit immediately. Just stands in the middle of the chaos surveying his kingdom. A few juniors practically evaporate when he looks in their direction.
Zoe leans closer, whispering out of the corner of her mouth, "Why does he look like he's about to start a turf war over nothing? Again."
I'm too busy chewing my bootleg sandwich and watching the room's collective blood pressure spike. Reggie has that effect. It's like someone released a wolf into a flock of over-caffeinated pigeons.
Then, without warning, he turns—and walks straight toward our table.
No.
No.
Absolutely not.
Zoe and I glance at each other, a full wordless conversation happening in three seconds.
What did we do?
Do we owe him money?
Did we insult his hoodie at some point?
He stops at the edge of our table. Doesn't say anything right away. Just stands there, towering over our peanut butter sadness and awkward chewing. Then he pops the lollipop out of his mouth and says, "This seat taken?"
It's not a question. It sounds like a question, but his tone says I'm sitting here whether or not you say yes.
Zoe blinks. "Uhh…"
I blink. "No?"
Reggie drops into the seat across from us. This has been the plan all along. Just plop—he's here. Right here. At our table.
Zoe's eyes flick to me like, Are we dreaming? Did someone put something in the school water again?
He doesn't offer explanations. Doesn't even greet us properly and surveys the room. Maybe he's still deciding who to beef with next. Finally, he glances at me and says, casually, "You're the one who outran Patt this morning, right?"
I freeze mid-chew. Zoe freezes mid-breath.
He smirks. "Not bad. You've got wheels."
He saw US?
There's no way he saw us?
Zoe sees the exact thought form on my face. "He was inside," she hisses. "How could he see us run from outside—?"
"How do I know?!"
I squint at Reggie. Those smug eyes. That eerie calm. He's the kind of guy who would casually monitor the security feeds just to pass time.
Zoe leans in, giddy. "Are you… congratulating us or scouting us for a heist?"
Reggie shrugs. "Why not both?"
And just like that, lunch officially gets weirder. Zoe and I exchange a look. One of those long, wide-eyed stares that says no no no without either of us needing to say a thing out loud. I chew slowly, suspiciously, suddenly aware of every molecule in my sandwich like I might need to weaponize it.
Because what is this?
Reggie doesn't do random social drop-ins. He doesn't just sit at people's tables. Especially not ours. We are chaos, yes, but we are low-tier chaos. We don't even exist on the same food chain. If Reggie's a lion, we're squirrels who stole a vending machine key.
Reggie's still watching the cafeteria like he's planning a hostile takeover. Not even looking at us anymore. Which is more suspicious. He already said what he wanted to say—Nice running skills. Okay. Cool. Why is he still here?
Reggie glances over and tilts his head with that annoying and attractive smirk. "Something you two wanna share with the class?"
I force a smile. It feels like chewing glass. "No. Just… enjoying the company." Zoe's still staring at him like an idiot.
He takes the lollipop out of his mouth again, lets it hang between his fingers, and says, "Don't worry. I'm not gonna rat you out."
Pause.
Zoe and I nod. Slowly. Because that sentence never comes without a sequel.
And sure enough, he adds, real casual, "But I might need a favor."
And there it is. The doom anthem. The trapdoor in the floor of our week. Zoe blinks. I blink. We blink in unison like two squirrels caught in the beam of an oncoming truck. A very attractive, very smug truck.
"A favor," I repeat, deadpan, because I want to make sure we all heard the same threat disguised as an innocent phrase.
Reggie nods, cool as a cucumber dipped in sarcasm. "Nothing major. Just... something small. Tiny. Teeny-tiny."
Zoe's mouth opens, then closes again like her brain temporarily ran out of processing power. "Define tiny. Like… pocket-sized? Or police-report-sized?"
He smirks, that god-awful Reggie smirk that makes teachers age faster and makes girls across this school ignore every red flag God ever painted.
"Let's just say," he starts, dragging the lollipop from one corner of his mouth to the other like a villain monologuing before a heist, "I need people who can get things done. Quietly. Casually. Without asking too many questions."
Zoe crosses her arms. "We're literally known for asking too many questions."
Reggie ignores her. He's looking at me now, and I hate how direct that gaze is. He's already played the next five moves and we're still figuring out where the board is. "You owe me," he says softly.
My jaw drops. "How do we owe you?!"
Reggie shrugs. "Could've told Patt where you went. Didn't. Could've emailed Halford a photo of you mid-sprint past the faculty lot. Didn't."
"That's not owing," I hiss. "That's not snitching. You don't get a reward for being barely decent!"
He shrugs again, all loose limbs and perfect skin and smug, evil calm. "Semantics."
Zoe narrows her eyes at him. "So what do you want? Money? Organs? Our Netflix password?"
Reggie leans forward, elbows on the table, voice lowered like he's narrating the trailer of a disaster film. "Let's just say… I need something retrieved. A… package."
No. Absolutely not.
"Why does that sound illegal?" I ask, already regretting the life choices that led me to this table.
"It's not," he says, which is exactly what someone planning something wildly illegal would say. "It's just... complicated. Needs subtlety. Speed. Boldness. Two people who know how to run and lie very well."
Zoe points a finger. "You just described raccoons."
He grins. "Exactly."
Reggie's already leaning back in his chair, lollipop in his mouth again, like the deal's been sealed even though we have not agreed to a damn thing. "Think it over," he says, rising from the table like a dark omen. "I'll find you."
We sit there for maybe five whole seconds, stunned, watching Reggie swagger off like he didn't just drop a cryptic bomb into our peanut butter misery.
I don't know what comes over me—maybe it's the fact that I haven't even had a proper lunch, or that my blood sugar is low but I shoot up from my seat and call after him.
"Wait!"
He pauses mid-stride, turns back slowly, a movie character who knows the camera's on him. God, the theatrics of this man.
Zoe stares up at me like I've grown a second head. "What are you doing?"
"I need answers," I say, which, in this school, is usually a phrase that ends with detention.
Reggie strolls back, hands in his jacket pockets, eyes half-lidded and annoying as hell. "Changed your mind already?"
"No," I say. "But if we're gonna get roped into your shady nonsense, we're not doing anything unless you tell us what the hell this package even is."
Zoe nods beside me, backing me up, arms crossed like a tiny lawyer. "Yeah. I'm not getting arrested for a mystery box, thank you."
Reggie considers us for a second. His smile twitches at the corners. We've mildly impressed him—which, frankly, makes me want to throw a carrot stick at him.
"It's not drugs," he says, like that's a selling point.
"That's not enough," I snap. "Not doing anything until we know exactly what's inside. You can't just walk up like some trenchcoat-wearing mobster and expect us to play delivery pigeons."
Reggie raises an eyebrow. "You don't trust me?"
Zoe barks a laugh. "You have a record for throwing punches in the middle of gym class because someone looked at you."
"Twice," I add helpfully.
"They looked disrespectfully."
Oh my god. I stare at him, trying to figure out how someone can have a jawline that sharp and moral boundaries that soft. "Seriously," I press. "What's in the package? A severed toe? Money laundered through NFTs? A cursed monkey paw?"
He hesitates for a fraction of a second. "It's a USB drive," he says. "That's it."
I squint. "Okay, that still sounds like drugs, but digital."
He rolls his eyes. "It's music. Mine."
Zoe stops mid-eye roll. "Wait. You make music?"
Reggie shrugs. "Kind of. I mess around. Beats, samples. I've got a track I've been working on for months. I recorded it in the studio behind the old theater building. Thing is... the guy who owns the studio—he's got my drive, and he's being weird about giving it back."
I stare at him, gears slowly turning. "Wait, is that Mickey?"
He nods. "Yeah."
"And why is he holding it hostage?"
Reggie taps his fingers. He's debating how much to reveal. "We had a disagreement. Now he won't return my stuff unless I grovel. And I don't do groveling."
Zoe blinks. "So you want us to grovel?"
"I want you to retrieve it," he corrects, as if that's any less sketchy. "Nicely. Quietly."
My jaw drops. "You want us to sneak into a shady studio and steal back your lost music career?"
Reggie leans forward, smirking again. "I want you to help me get my track back before this guy deletes it or releases it as his own."
Zoe snorts. "Wow. So this is about your secret DJ alter ego? What's your stage name—DJ Tantrum?"
"It's just Reggie."
Of course it is. God forbid he pick something humble like BassGoblin or Lo-Fi Larry. No. Just Reggie. Like he expects the name alone to drop jaws and clear stages.
I narrow my eyes. "So let me get this straight. You recorded a track. Some guy's holding your USB hostage. And instead of just… I don't know, filing a complaint or paying him or whatever normal people do—you want us to go fetch it?"
"It's not that simple," he says, voice lowering like he's letting us in on a state secret. "This guy—Mickey—he used to help people record stuff on the side, under the radar. Not exactly school-approved. Or legal. He's paranoid. Keeps the studio locked up and says he won't return anything unless you're in his good books."
"And you're not?" Zoe asks.
Reggie chuckles darkly. "I borrowed his guitar one night without asking and may have... dropped it. Twice. While drunk on orange soda."
Liar.
Zoe covers her face. "You are such a menace."
He shrugs, unbothered. "Look. He knows you two. He likes you. You helped him carry his vinyl crates once, remember?"
I blink. "That was, like, two years ago. And he gave us expired KitKats in return."
"Still," Reggie says, tilting his head. "Better odds than me walking in."
Zoe gives him a long, suspicious look. "So, what? You want us to just stroll into this janky studio, wink at Mickey, and say, 'Hey, can we steal a flash drive for our delinquent friend?'"
Reggie smiles. "You're underselling how charming you are."
I cross my arms. "No way. We are not doing this."
He doesn't answer right away. His eyes drop to the table for the first time, the cocky glint in them softening into something I'm not used to seeing. Something close to… nervous?
"It's not just one track," he says finally. "It's... all of it. Everything I've made. Beats, drafts, samples. Stuff I've been building since I was fourteen."
Fourteen?
I blink. That... wasn't the answer I was expecting.
He continues, quieter now. "I didn't think it mattered until Mickey started saying he'd wipe it. That I wasn't serious enough for music. That he could sell it to someone who'd actually use it. I just... I can't lose it."
Zoe and I look at each other. And god help us both—we feel the one thing we were trying to avoid:
Sympathy.
Because now this isn't just blackmail. It's some weird save-the-artist mission. With bonus legal gray areas.
Zoe sighs dramatically, as if the burden of the universe has been shoved onto her peanut butter sandwich. "We're gonna do it, aren't we?"
I groan.
Reggie leans back, smiling like the devil who just sold us a used car. "Knew I could count on you."
God help us.