CHAPTER THREE: RUMORS, AND THE RISE OF ISLA"
Everyone was talking about Isla Morgan.
She had only been at Kings wood High for a week, but already the whispers followed her like a shadow. The boys called her "fit"—a "proper chick," as one of them put it. But it wasn't just her looks that caught attention. Isla was sharp. She aced her first chemistry quiz and corrected a teacher in English class without blinking.
Still, she hardly spoke to anyone. She walked through the halls with her nose in a book and a permanent scowl on her face. It didn't take long for the students to give her a nickname.
"The Witch."
"She thinks she's better than everyone," someone muttered in the lunch queue.
"She's not even that special," another added.
But Ethan Carter wasn't so sure. He found himself watching her in class more than he cared to admit. There was something about the way she carried herself—like she didn't need anyone's approval. It annoyed him. And intrigued him.
"She's gorgeous," he told Oliver one afternoon. "If only she'd actually talk to people."
The next morning, after assembly, Ethan decided to try.
"Hi," he said, catching up to her as they left the hall.
Isla didn't even glance at him.
"Hey," he said again, louder. "It's polite to answer when someone greets you."
She stopped, turned, and looked him dead in the eye. "I know what's polite," she said coolly. "And I respond to who I want to."
Then she walked away.
Ethan stood there, stunned. "People were right," he muttered. "She's nasty. Who does she think she is?"
Later that morning, Mr. Vann, the physics teacher, scribbled a complex equation on the board.
"Carter," he barked, tossing a piece of chalk in Ethan's direction. "Solve this."
Ethan caught the chalk and strode to the front. He worked through the problem quickly, his handwriting neat and confident. When he finished, Mr. Vann gave a curt nod.
"Correct. Sit down."
Ethan returned to his seat, but his mind wasn't on physics. It was on Isla. Why did her brush-off bother him so much?
At break time, Isla stood alone outside the classroom, flipping through a notebook. A tall boy with a swagger in his step approached her. His name was Callum Reid—an art student known for his flashy trainers, silver chains, and loud laugh.
"Hey," he said, "I am Callum You look cute. Wanna be friends?"
Isla looked up, she said nothing.
Callum said. "You remind me of someone I met in the States. She was cool. But... she died."
Isla blinked. "Sorry to hear that. Please excuse me."
"Where you off to?" he asked.
"To the counsellor's office."
"I'll walk you," he offered.
"It's not necessary," she replied.
"I'll guide you," he said with a smile, stepping beside her.
"I said I walk alone," Isla snapped.
He reached out and grabbed her wrist. "Hey"
"Get lost!" she shouted, yanking her arm away.
Callum froze, "Excuse me," he said.
"You heard me," she said, in a loud voice.
Callum turned and walked away, looking foolish.
Isla stood still for a moment, breathing hard. Then walked straight to the counsellor's office.