SAVANNAH
"Just smile and say thank you, Savannah."
My mother's voice echoes in my head as I stare at the email one more time.
> Senior Showcase: Official Collaboration Schedule
Partners: Savannah Langley & Eden Reyes
Rehearsals: M/T/Th – Room B17 (3:30–5:30 PM)
Final concept draft due in two weeks.
Two weeks. With Eden. In the weirdly cold art room at the edge of the east wing. Where dreams go to die and glitter isn't allowed.
Taylor peeks over my shoulder and immediately groans.
"Tell me that's not where she threatened to hang her photo exhibit about decaying fruit."
"It's where she did hang it," I mumble, rubbing my temple. "Right next to the one where she took pictures of ashtrays and said it was a 'commentary on teenage decay.'"
"I still think she might be a vampire."
"She wears a leather jacket in July. It's possible."
I slam my locker shut and paste on a pageant-worthy smile.
"I've worked with worse. I directed Kyle Baines in Grease, remember?"
Taylor grimaces. "You carried that show like your back was built from Broadway steel."
I toss her a wink. "Exactly. Eden Reyes is just a… broody side quest."
---
EDEN
Room B17 smells like turpentine and lost ambition.
I'm fifteen minutes early, which is unfortunate. I was going to show up exactly on time and pretend I had a life, but I needed to get out of photography class before our teacher forced us to analyze our "emotional intentions." Again.
I set up my camera on the table like I might use it as a shield.
There's a knock. Not at the door. At the window.
I turn.
Savannah Langley is outside the classroom, holding a coffee cup in one hand and wearing an expression that says she knows this is beneath her. She doesn't even open the door herself. She waits until I do.
"Good to see you, too," I deadpan.
She walks in, glittery boots echoing on the floor.
"I brought you coffee," she says, holding out the second cup like it's a peace treaty—or a poison test.
I look at it suspiciously. "Is it laced with glitter and condescension?"
"No," she says, smiling with all teeth. "Just espresso and aggressive cheer."
I take it.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet. We still have to figure out how not to kill each other before curtain call."
---
SAVANNAH
We sit at opposite ends of the table like we're in a war meeting. My laptop's open. Her sketchbook's out. There's a long, slow silence. Then—
"Look," she says. "We don't have to be friends."
"Good. I'm not applying for that role."
"But if we're doing this," she says, tapping her pen against the notebook, "we do it right."
I raise an eyebrow. "Didn't peg you for the type to respect my process."
"I don't," she says calmly. "I just want the scholarship."
That stings more than it should.
I swallow the tightness in my throat and flash a practiced smile. "Perfect. Then we have something in common."
---
EDEN
She's annoying.
She's loud.
She smells like vanilla lip gloss and ambition.
But when she leans over her laptop and starts talking about stage blocking and lighting cues, I watch her hands move—fast, full of purpose—and something weird happens in my stomach.
Like I swallowed a camera flash.
God help me.