I dreaded going to chem today. We had a lab and Mr. Kepler still refused to switch partners, no matter how many petty fights Jordan and I had had the past few weeks. I'm sure it was annoying the crap out of everyone else. It sure as hell was annoying me.
I sat down at the lab station, teeth clenched so tightly my jaw ached. A moment later, he dropped into the stool beside me.
"You're welcome," he said under his breath.
I didn't look at him. "For what?"
"For this inevitable academic upgrade. You're the smartest person in this class."
My eyes flicked to him, sharp. "Then why do you act like the dumbest?"
He grinned. "Balance."
Mr. Kepler started the lecture, but I barely heard it. I could feel Jordan beside me—his knee bumping mine once, his fingers tapping against the edge of the table. Too much movement. Too much proximity.
We started the lab in silence. It was a titration experiment—acid, base, and a delicate little indicator drop that turned everything pink if you messed up.
Halfway through, I realized I was shaking the burette too fast.
Jordan wordlessly reached out and steadied my hand. Just lightly. Barely touching.
I froze.
He didn't move. Just guided my wrist with his fingertips, slow and careful.
"You okay?" he murmured.
I yanked my arm back like he'd burned me. "Don't touch me." He pulled his hand away instantly. "Right. Sorry."
We didn't speak again until the experiment was done.
I was cleaning up the beaker when I noticed it—his notebook, flipped open and carelessly angled toward me.
There, in the top corner, was another sketch.
Not me this time. Not exactly.
It was a girl. Could've been anyone. But the expression? The posture?
It was me.
Hair tied up, eyes narrowed, focus razor-sharp. She was holding a test tube. Her other hand was curled into a fist, resting on the table like she was trying not to punch someone. Accurate.
And below it, barely visible in scrawled messy letters:
Observation: volatile when provoked. Still mesmerizing.
I slammed the cabinet door shut a little too loud.
Jordan looked up. Saw what I was looking at. His smile slipped.
"It's not—" he started. But the bell rang. I grabbed my stuff and walked out without waiting. I didn't stop until I was two hallways away, back pressed against the lockers, heart rattling like glass in a box.
This was supposed to be simple.
Ignore him. Forget him. End of story.
But Jordan Gallagher kept drawing me like he didn't know how not to. And I didn't know how long I could keep pretending I didn't see it.
~~~~
The lunchroom buzzed, but I wasn't really listening. My tray sat untouched in front of me while Harper monologued about some senior who wore cologne strong enough to be declared a gas leak.
I wasn't in the mood to laugh. Not after this morning. Not after the sketch. And definitely not after Jordan brushed my hand like it meant something.
"You good?" Harper asked, nudging me with her water bottle.
"Yeah," I lied. "Just—tired."
Harper looked like she was going to push further when someone slid into the seat across from us like she owned the table. Which, technically, she probably did.
Serena Bishop. Jordan's ex. Or hookup. Or something in the murky in-between that I didn't care to label.
She popped a grape into her mouth like she wasn't about to ruin my entire week. "Elyse, right?"
I blinked. "Do I know you?"
"No," she said with a bright, fake smile. "But I know him. And since you guys are, like, lab married or whatever…"
Harper shot me a look. Abort mission.
Serena leaned forward like she was telling me a secret. "Jordan talks a lot of shit when he's bored. Just figured you should know… Jordan used to say the funniest things about you. Back before you started getting all"—her eyes scanned me with the subtle grace of a meat market—"cute-angry with him."
My stomach twisted. "I'm sorry, is there a point here?"
She grinned, teeth shiny and mean. "Only that I wouldn't get too flattered by the attention. Last semester, he told Dylan that talking to you was like arguing with a caffeinated raccoon."
Harper choked on her water.
"No drama, I swear. Just… I figured if I were you, I'd wanna know what kind of things he says about the girls he messes with."
She tilted her head, voice dropping to a fake whisper. "Last fall? Jordan told Mason that you were—what was it—ah, right. 'Hot in a chaotic, unhinged kind of way. Like if a fire alarm were a person.'" She grinned wider. "Then he said if he ever hooked up with you, it'd be for the challenge, not the substance."
The words slammed into me like a bunch of bricks to the chest. I stared at her, stunned silent.
Serena leaned back, pleased. "Also said he only messed with you because you're 'too easy to piss off.' Which, I mean…" She gestured to me. "Case in point."
Harper made a noise like she was about to leap across the table and commit murder.
But Serena was already standing, brushing invisible crumbs off her skirt. "Anyway. Hope chem class is fun. Don't worry—he sketches a lot of girls. You're not special."
And just like that, she was gone.
I sat frozen. My fingers clenched around my soda so hard the can crumpled. The cafeteria around me blurred into static.
I walked out of the cafeteria without a word, barely hearing Harper scramble after me.
My fists curled at my sides.
Raccoon. Easy to piss off. A fire alarm.
Not for substance. For the challenge.
Harper touched my arm. "Elyse. She's lying. Or twisting it. Or—" "I know what he is," I said, voice flat. "And now I know what he really thinks."
My face burned as I went down the hallway.
Jordan Gallagher was going to regret ever calling me a challenge.
Because I was done playing.
The sketches. The sketchy apologies. The quiet you didn't deserve it lines. All just a game. One big experiment to see how quickly I'd react.
Well, fine. He wanted a reaction?
He was going to get one.
~~~~
By seventh period, I had stopped shaking.
Not because I was calm. Because I'd calcified.
If Jordan wanted a challenge? He was about to get one—with extra credit.
I walked into the media center like it was a battlefield, dropped my bag at a computer station, and pulled out my phone.
He didn't know I know. That gave me power.
And I was going to use it.
Step one: The freeze-out.
Starting now, Jordan Gallagher no longer existed. If he spoke, I wouldn't answer. If he looked my way, I'd look through him. Cold. Dismissive. Not mad—bored. Like he was the warm-up act for a better, hotter headliner.
Step two: Get close to someone he hates.
I texted Milo Voss.
Yes, Milo, the annoyingly charming soccer captain who Jordan had beef with over some soccer drama that had never been forgiven. Milo had once said I had 'main character energy.' Good enough.
Me:
Hey, random, but you get Kepler's notes for Thursday?
A minute later:
Milo:
oh hey! yeah i gotchu wanna go over them together?
Me:
Works for me. Tomorrow after school?
Milo:
cool 😎
Check.
Step three: Be seen.
The next day at lunch, I found myself sliding into the seat next to Milo in the crowded cafeteria. His easy grin felt like a dare, like he was waiting for me to make a move.
We talked about everything and nothing. Soccer. The dumbest things we'd overheard teachers say. The weird way Mr. Kepler smelled like old pine trees but also something metallic.
I laughed louder than I had in weeks, leaning just a little too close, brushing my arm against his. I caught the way heads turned—especially Jordan's.
I didn't look at Jordan once.
But I felt him. Every time I tilted my head just a little, I could practically see the static flicker across his face. Confusion. Jealousy? Maybe even a little something like regret.
When Jordan passed our table, I smiled- at Milo. Not Jordan. Never Jordan.
That was the point.
Later that afternoon, I found the sketch again in my notebook. I looked at it for a long time. Then I turned the page and scribbled across the margin in messy, loopy script:
"Observation: predictable when provoked. Still not impressed."
I didn't know if he'd see it. But I kind of hoped he would. Let him know: this fire alarm pulls herself.
And I don't ring for boys who only show up when it's convenient.