I've always been a firm believer in two things: one, never trust a girl who calls herself "Queen" unironically, and two, trust even less the silence that follows after she threatens you.
Because silence means planning.
And Bianca's silence?
Terrifying.
It's been four days since the red feather. Four days since that glitter-dusted warning slid into my locker. And she hasn't done a single thing since.
No snide remarks.
No public insults.
Not even a poorly veiled threat disguised as a compliment.
Bianca has gone completely radio silent, and I'd be lying if I said it didn't make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like soldiers on high alert.
---
Phoenix doesn't get it.
"You're being paranoid," he said, strumming his guitar while we sat under the half-dead tree behind the dorms.
"She's planning something," I replied, narrowing my eyes at the distance like Bianca might rise from the shadows wielding a lipstick grenade.
"You said that yesterday," he said, not looking up.
"And I'll say it tomorrow too, until she inevitably tries to destroy me in front of the entire school. Probably during the talent show. Probably with glitter again, just for the poetic symmetry."
Phoenix snorted. "You know, for someone who acts like she doesn't care, you care a lot."
I flinched. "I don't care about her. I care about not being embarrassed. Or expelled. Or covered in red paint labeled 'blood of the innocents' again."
His fingers paused on the strings. "Right. Just about self-preservation."
I didn't answer.
Because deep down, maybe I did care.
Maybe I hated the way Bianca looked at me like I was less. Like I was entertainment. Like I didn't belong here—like I was the permanent screw-up in a sea of polished reputations and second chances that actually mattered.
---
Later that night, as I climbed into bed, I found something under my pillow.
No—not another note.
A knife.
A real one. Sleek. Silver. Engraved with swirls and stars along the handle.
And taped to the blade, a post-it in crisp, girly handwriting:
"You'll need this. XO – B."
Okay. Now I was officially freaked out.
Because that? That wasn't just a prank.
That was a message.
A warning.
A declaration of war—only this time, it wasn't funny. It wasn't public. It wasn't flashy.
It was quiet. Intimate. Lethal.
Bianca had just stopped playing games.
---
The next morning, I marched into Sister Joan's office with the knife in a plastic bag like I was about to present evidence on Law & Order: St. Agatha's Unit.
She barely glanced up from her Bible.
"Another prank?"
"No," I said. "A threat. Bianca left this under my pillow."
She finally looked up. Then sighed. "Do you have any proof?"
I blinked. "You mean, besides the literal note signed with a sarcastic 'XO – B'?"
"That proves nothing," she said, steepling her fingers. "She could claim it's fake. That you planted it. We have no footage. No witnesses."
I stared at her. "So you're not going to do anything?"
"I'm going to ask you to be smart," she said. "You've already built a reputation here. One more altercation, and I won't be able to protect you. Even if you're the victim."
Protect me? She hadn't protected me once since I got here.
"You're not listening," I said, voice rising. "She's dangerous."
"She's calculating. And so are you," she said coolly. "Maybe it's time you stop feeding the fire."
---
Back in the common room, I fumed in silence while Phoenix worked on our talent show set list.
"You ever feel like you're screaming underwater?" I asked suddenly.
He looked up. "Every day."
I didn't know why that hit me so hard. But it did.
I slumped beside him and stared at the rough sketch he'd drawn of the stage. It wasn't fancy—just a few spotlights, a mic stand, a giant cardboard backdrop painted to look like a crumbling church.
Fitting, honestly.
"So, what's the plan?" I asked. "We sing our angry little anthem and hope nobody throws tomatoes?"
He smirked. "Something like that. Though I'm voting for lemons. Better aesthetic."
I snorted. "You're weird."
"You're mean."
"And yet here we are."
He leaned back, resting his head against the wall. "Do you ever get tired of fighting?"
I hesitated.
"Not fighting," I said. "Losing."
His eyes met mine. And for once, he didn't smile. He just saw me.
Like really saw me.
I looked away first.
---
Talent show auditions were chaos.
Half the school showed up—wannabe ballerinas, a guy with a banjo and zero sense of rhythm, a magician who kept forgetting where he hid the cards.
Bianca's group performed a polished acapella routine dressed in white silk and fake halos. The judges looked like they were already drafting acceptance letters to Juilliard.
When it was our turn, Phoenix nudged me. "Ready?"
"No."
"Good. Real art comes from panic."
We stepped onto the stage.
The lights were hot. The mic was squeaky. My palms were sweaty.
But the second Phoenix strummed the first chord, something clicked.
I opened my mouth—and let it all out.
My voice wasn't pretty. It wasn't sweet.
It was raw.
Angry.
Honest.
I sang about masks. About betrayal. About being the villain in someone else's fairytale.
And for the first time in forever—I didn't feel small.
When we finished, there was a pause.
Then someone clapped.
Then a few more.
Then it spread.
A ripple of applause.
Even some of the staff stood up.
Bianca didn't clap.
She just watched me with those dagger eyes, lips pressed tight.
I smiled.
Not to be petty.
But because for once, she couldn't ignore me.
---
Later that night, Phoenix found me sketching lyrics in the margins of a history book.
"You were incredible," he said.
I shrugged. "So were you."
"We should do more," he said. "Not just the show. But music. You have a voice, Aria."
I looked at him.
Really looked.
Phoenix was strange. Quiet. Thoughtful. The opposite of me in every way.
But he never tried to fix me.
He just stood beside me, holding space, like that was enough.
Maybe it was.
I closed the book.
"Let's make noise," I said.
---
But just as he turned to leave, we heard a shriek.
We ran into the hallway—and found one of the Gaggle girls sobbing, covered in what looked like tar.
On the wall behind her, spray-painted in bright red letters:
"Next time, it'll be blood. – A"
I froze.
My stomach dropped.
Because I hadn't done it.
I swear, I hadn't.
But that didn't matter now.
Because the school?
The staff?
The Gaggle?
They thought I had.
Bianca walked past, slow and smirking.
She leaned in, and whispered, "Checkmate."
---