Fingers snap in front of my face.
I blink. Shelby's staring at me, her expression tight with irritation.
"Ang, you're not even listening, are you?"
"I am," I lie, muffling a yawn with my sleeve.
She narrows her eyes. "Angela."
"I'm listening," I insist, turning away to hide another yawn.
She smacks my arm. "Ow! Shelby!"
I can still remember the first time I met Shelby, etched into me like a scar I never want to fade.
We'd crossed paths since diapers, sure, but it was sixth grade when everything changed, when she transferred and suddenly Tiffany Weismann' made her the newest target. Shelby never fit the mold, and she never cared to. She was bold in a way that made you braver just standing beside her, kind in a way that made the sharpest edges soften. And the way she told stories, like little incantations, was impossible to ignore. If you tried, she'd just start over, her eyes daring you to look away until you were caught in her spell.
I glance at her now, smiling despite myself.
"Ang, of all people, you know how important the Masquerade Ball is. We've been planning this since freshman year. What's going on with you? You're acting... off."
I sigh. "I didn't sleep again. The nightmare."
Her expression shifts. "Still?"
I nod. "Every night. Same one. And my birthday's coming up. The coven says it's significant." I use my fingers to form air quotes.
Shelby nods slowly. She's not Wiccan, but she respects it. I split my time between college and the Pagan Academy. Most people don't understand. Protesters show up sometimes, waving signs and shouting about devil worship. It's exhausting.
"Anyway," I say, trying to steer us back to normal, "if Evan hasn't asked you to the ball yet, maybe you should ask him."
Shelby gasps like I've committed sacrilege. "Excuse me?"
"It's the 21st century. Girls can ask guys out now."
She stares at me as if I just told her her favorite TV series was canceled.
"Ang, that's not even funny. Evan should be groveling. The ball is a week away, and he hasn't said a word. What if he's changed his mind?"
I raise an eyebrow. "You already bought the dress, didn't you?"
She groans. "Of course I did!"
Shelby was predictable that way, she'd rather stay home than risk showing up alone. I can't forget senior prom. Corey Martins asked her to go, only to ghost her the night before. Word spread quick that he'd crawled back to his ex. Shelby still got ready, dress pressed, hair perfect, waiting by the door for an hour like hope could make him appear. He never did. And the hurt in her eyes when she finally admitted it, like she'd been foolish to believe, cut deeper than anything Corey could have said.
We didn't go. My boyfriend at the time, James, nearly broke up with me over it, quarterback, prom king in waiting, the whole cliche. But that night he stayed home anyway, feeding everyone some story about a stomach flu while we sat in my room with Shelby, pretending not to hear the music drifting from town. We didn't speak for a week after; James was dramatic like that, but I didn't care. Shelby mattered more. The next day, she gathered every photo of Corey she could find, even the ones printed in the yearbook, and fed them to a lighter, watching the pages curl and blacken until nothing was left but ash.
"Shel," I laugh softly, "after a year, he probably assumes you two come as a set, like peanut butter and jelly."
"I do like me some PBJ. Or maybe he's hoping I'll forget," she mutters.
"I'll do recon," I offer with a grin. "See what he's thinking."
She throws a Cheeto at my head. I laugh and toss it back.
"You're the best," she says. "Seriously. Thank you."
I smile, but my mind is already drifting. Shelby's still talking about dresses, shoes, and accessories, but it all fades into static.
I do the girly stuff because she loves it. Because she's my best friend.
But right now, all I can think about is the nightmare.
And those eyes.
Mercy University's Masquerade Ball isn't just a party—it's a ritual, a tradition wrapped in velvet and secrecy. Only students who receive an official invite from the college's Secret Society committee are allowed to attend. It's so exclusive that if your date goes to another college, they need a separate ticket—at double the price. Mercy calls it "exclusive." I call it elitist.
For the girls, especially those in sororities, the ball is sacred, a rite of passage. And since joining a sorority is practically mandatory if you want to graduate, most of us fall in line. Mercy claims it's about "empowering women" and "building post-grad networks," but it feels more like a social funnel with a dress code.
I'm a Sigma—the international honor society for nurses. It's fun… on the good days. Rush week, though? Total chaos.
One of the pledging tasks? Sneaking out after curfew and staging a full-blown "midnight emergency drill" in the courtyard. We had to haul one of the practice mannequins from the lab, strap it to a rolling bed, and act out a mock code blue until morning classes started.
I got shoved into the role of "patient"—gown open in the back, hooked to an IV bag of bright-green Mountain Dew. Shelby? She was the charge nurse and went way too far with it. She slapped on her gloves, yelled for a crash cart, and started chest compressions so dramatic people walking by thought it was real. Another pledge actually wheeled up a shopping cart and pretended it was a defibrillator, screaming, "CLEAR!" before zapping me with a pair of spatulas.
By sunrise, half the campus had watched us run a full fake code. And I'm pretty sure there's still a video floating around somewhere of Shelby trying to intubate the mannequin with a pool noodle.
Shelby and I have been at Mercy for three years. We applied to all the same colleges, but she only got into Mercy. I got into most—including my dream college, Johns Hopkins University. Shelby cried when she found out we might be separated, but she still encouraged me to go. That's who she is—loyal, even when it hurts.
In the end, when it really mattered, I chose Mercy. My nursing scholarship covered all four years here, while JHU would've only paid for two. It was the logical choice. But sometimes, late at night, I wonder what would've happened if I'd chosen differently.
We share most of the same classes. Shelby is majoring in internal medicine, and I'm studying OB-GYN and specializing in neonatal care. No matter what it is—homework, lecture notes, gossip, or the occasional existential crisis—we've always had each other's backs.
I'm pulled back to the present when Shelby grabs my arm and drags me to the counter to pay. Her grip is warm and grounding.
Outside, the sun struggles to break through the clouds. We walk back toward campus, the wind tugging at our jackets. I glance toward the package store. The black pickup is gone. A strange unease prickles at the back of my neck. That truck… it looked familiar. But from where?
"Ang, don't forget, my house tonight to finish planning for the ball," Shelby says, nudging me. "Did you find a dress yet, or are we doing that tonight too? I still don't want you to go alone. Have you asked anyone?"
I dodge the last question. "I'm making my dress, remember? You saw the sketches. It's almost done—just a few finishing touches left."
Her eyes light up. "You're such an amazing designer. I don't get why you're not majoring in the medical field instead of fashion design."
She's chewing on a PBJ bite between words. Shelby's always eating. I don't know where she puts it all—she's built like a gymnast. She runs a lot when she's not shopping or reading gossip magazines, but still. It's impressive.
I smirk. She's been begging me to make her a dress for years. But for some selfish reason, I like keeping my designs to myself. There's something sacred about wearing something no one else in the world owns. Maybe one day I'll design for others. Maybe. I just have this calling to be in a field where life is born.
Right now, I want to go overseas and volunteer in underfunded clinics. Something meaningful. Something that leaves a mark. Working in a rural hospital or with a medical mission team would be rewarding—and it wouldn't look bad on a résumé either.
I glance at my watch—a gift from my parents when I got accepted into Mercy. We're almost back on campus. One more class to go. Thank the gods.
I love the hands-on medical classes, but lectures? Not so much. I wish I could already be in the trenches of a hospital without needing to memorize the life story of some 18th-century painter or dissect a frog to prove I'm "well-rounded." Society's version of success is exhausting.
When we reach the science building, Shelby waves goodbye and reminds me to meet her by her car after class so she can drop me off at the academy before we do our ball prep.
I smirk and wave back, heading in the opposite direction toward my next lecture. The wind picks up behind me, and for a moment, I swear I hear the low rumble of an engine.
But when I turn around, the parking lot is empty.