There's a rule in every storybook war: never underestimate your enemy.
I should've remembered that. But after Operation Glitter Doom left Bianca looking like a disco ball in mourning, I got cocky. Victory felt too sweet. Too easy. I forgot that girls like Bianca don't just throw tantrums—they throw grenades.
And this morning, one exploded.
Literally.
---
It started with breakfast, which at St. Agatha's is less "meal" and more "culinary punishment." Powdered eggs. Burnt toast. The scent of despair.
I had just sat down with a smug little grin, replaying the glitter-bomb video in my head for the fiftieth time, when it happened.
BOOM.
A sharp, echoing pop from across the dining hall. Every head turned.
Smoke. Feathers. Fire.
Okay, not real fire. But the smoke machine effect wafting from my bag made it look like I'd just summoned Satan from Algebra class.
Sister Joan's bony hand slammed on my table before I could even blink.
"Miss Blackwell," she said with a look that could curdle milk, "explain this immediately."
I opened my bag.
Inside? A smoke bomb, a bottle of red paint labeled "Aria's Blood of the Innocents," and—oh look—a note.
"Enjoy the spotlight, freak. Let's see you laugh now. XOXO – Queen B"
Subtle.
---
Ten minutes later, I was parked on the stone-hard chair in Sister Joan's office, staring at a crooked painting of the Virgin Mary like it might defend me in court.
"Miss Blackwell," she said, pacing, "you've been here, what, three weeks?"
"Eighteen days," I muttered.
"And you've already been involved in three altercations, two pranks, and one glitter-based assault."
I crossed my arms. "The glitter was non-toxic. Spiritually uplifting, even."
"Spiritually—?" She snapped her rosary so hard it might've cried.
"It's not like I burned the chapel," I added.
She stopped pacing. "You're on probation, Aria. One more incident—one—and you're out. Expelled. Sent to wherever they put girls who think they're comedians."
"Hell?" I offered.
Her eye twitched. "Don't test me."
I sighed. "It wasn't me this time."
"Do you think that matters?" she snapped. "The staff is watching you like a hawk. Even if Bianca planted that bomb—which, I must say, would be remarkably stupid for someone who volunteers with the nuns—you're still the easiest target."
I knew she was right. That's the thing about reputations: they follow you like shadows. Doesn't matter what actually happens—once you're branded a troublemaker, every mess somehow has your name on it.
She shoved a flyer across the desk. "Talent show auditions start this weekend. I signed you up."
I blinked. "What."
"You're creative," she said. "Channel your rage into something less combustible."
"Sister, with respect, I'd rather lick a cactus."
"Too bad," she said, deadpan. "You'll write a skit, a song, something. Or I'll suspend you for a week."
"Great," I muttered. "Time to publicly humiliate myself."
"You do that just fine already," she said, and rang the dismissal bell.
---
Back in my room, I collapsed on my bed and stared at the ceiling.
I was mad. At Bianca. At this stupid school. At myself.
But mostly…I was tired.
Tired of being the villain. Tired of the mask. The sarcasm. The performance.
Because deep down—under all the glitter bombs and witty comebacks—I was just a girl who missed home. Who missed her mom's humming in the kitchen. Her dad's stupid puns. Who wished she didn't have to wake up and fight the world every morning just to survive.
That's when the knock came.
Light. Hesitant.
"Go away," I said automatically.
"I brought coffee," a voice replied.
A male voice.
What the hell?
I sat up. "Who's 'I'?"
"Phoenix. From detention."
I blinked. The new kid?
Tall. Dark-haired. Weirdly quiet. Always sketching in a notebook like he was planning his own graphic novel.
"What do you want?" I asked through the door.
"To talk," he said. "And maybe return this."
The door creaked open and he held up… my sketchbook.
My sketchbook.
The one Bianca shredded. The one I thought was lost forever.
I snatched it from his hands, flipping through pages. Some were still torn, but most were taped, mended, stitched together with clean care. Like someone had actually taken time to fix it.
"You did this?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Figured you'd want it back."
My throat tightened. No one had done anything like that for me in… years.
I swallowed. "Thanks."
He hesitated. "You're not what people say you are."
I laughed bitterly. "A chaos goblin? A walking red flag?"
"I've seen chaos. You're just… angry."
"Gee, thanks. So poetic."
"I mean it," he said quietly. "You're angry, yeah. But you're honest. That's rare here."
I wasn't sure what to say to that.
So I didn't.
He handed me a coffee cup. "I thought you might need this. I also brought something else…"
He pulled a small notebook from his bag.
Inside? Lyrics.
Not just lyrics—my lyrics.
The ones I'd half-written, scratched out, and forgotten in the margins of my math notes.
"You… copied these?"
"Remixed them," he said. "Into a song. Thought maybe we could perform it."
I blinked. "You're asking me to sing?"
He smirked. "You can scream in rhythm. That counts."
"Are you always this weird?"
He tilted his head. "Are you always this guarded?"
Touché.
---
By the next day, we were knee-deep in talent show prep.
And let me tell you, nothing prepares you for standing on a makeshift stage in the rec hall with an old mic that smells like expired breath mints while a group of judgmental teens stares holes into your soul.
Phoenix played the guitar. I sang—if you could call it that. It was more spoken-word venom over melody, but somehow…it worked.
It was raw. Real. Loud.
And for once, it felt good.
Like I wasn't just surviving—I was saying something.
Bianca, of course, watched from the sidelines with that trademark smirk of hers. But her eyes weren't mocking anymore. They were calculating.
She saw something.
Something dangerous.
---
Later that night, I found a note in my locker.
"You're getting cocky. Careful not to slip. – B."
Attached? A single red feather.
Message received.
The war wasn't over.
It was just getting fun.
---