Chapter 4: Players and Pretenders

3.

Suddenly, my life wasn’t so boring.

My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing—texts, invites, DMs from people I barely knew. School felt like a reality show, everyone jostling for a part in my story.

All the new friends were rich or well-connected.

They came bearing lattes, fancy pens, offers to join their study groups. But I’d seen enough to know their friendship was just another move in the game.

"Mia, that new steakhouse downtown is insane. Let me take you."

Jake cornered me after class, flashing that practiced grin. He smelled like expensive cologne and mint gum, always ready with a line.

Jake was from AP Art. Six-one, world-class flirt.

He painted like he lived—messy, bold, always pushing boundaries. Girls swooned, teachers sighed, Jake just winked. Trouble was his middle name.

He was Madison’s cousin and main sidekick. Good-looking, good family, and a notorious player.

At family parties, he was the golden boy—his parents threatened him with state college instead of art school if he didn’t shape up. Still, people forgave him anything.

He made his interest public.

Everyone saw the flowers on my desk, the way he lingered at my locker, the compliments he tossed my way. Jake loved an audience.

Because I sometimes responded, rumors started we were dating.

All it took was a half-hearted smile from me, and suddenly we were the school’s new "it couple." The artist and the ice queen—everyone wanted in on the drama.

The homeroom teacher called us in, Jake’s AP teacher beside him.

The principal’s office was cold, chairs uncomfortable. I sat across from Jake, arms folded, waiting for the grilling to start.

Jake’s teacher was strict. He glared at Jake: "You should be focused on your grades. If you’re slacking, don’t drag others down. I already called your parents. You’ll be writing a 1,000-word apology tomorrow."

Jake looked like he wanted to disappear. His usual charm didn’t work here—just the sharp edge of a teacher who’d seen every trick.

"And I talked to your parents. They don’t want you majoring in art. No more talk of starving artists in Brooklyn. Your art teacher says you’re too unfocused for the exams."

Jake’s fists clenched tight.

I watched his knuckles turn white, a flicker of real anger breaking through. For once, he looked like a kid, not a player.

The lecture went on and on.

Words stacked up, no room to breathe. I checked the clock, wishing I was anywhere else.

When his teacher warned him not to distract me,

I cut in, cool and sharp: "He’s not my problem. I’m still gonna ace this, with or without him."

The teachers blinked, surprised. Jake shot me a look—half grateful, half embarrassed. I didn’t care. It was the truth.

Ms. Carter stepped in, saving us both. "Alright, you two can go."

Jake lingered in the doorway. I brushed past him, already planning my escape. Drama was exhausting.