Chapter 4
My phone vibrated against the drafting table. If my phone was blowing up this early in the morning, it was Mia.
I unlocked the screen. She had shotgunned a dozen screenshots from our old high school group chat.
Mia: [You seeing this BS? The absolute delusion.]
I clicked on the first image. It was Chloe’s latest Instagram post. She and Nathan were standing in front of the wrought-iron gates of Princeton University. Nathan was wearing his signature cocky smile, a Princeton Football hoodie stretched across his broad shoulders, while Chloe leaned into him, flashing a picture-perfect grin.
The caption read: [Future four years with my favorite person. Please take care of me! 💖]
The comments underneath were exactly what you’d expect from our high school crowd.
[Golden couple!]
[Literally meant for each other.]
[Way better than his heavy-duty fiancé, just saying.]
Someone in the main group chat had screenshotted the post and asked, [Hey, speaking of, why hasn't Scarlett joined the Princeton freshman group yet? Orientation starts tomorrow.]
Chloe had replied instantly. [Oh, she's probably still dieting. I mean, you can’t exactly roll up to college registration weighing 190 pounds, right?] Followed by a string of crying-laughing emojis.
A few people chimed in with cheap jokes, but it was Nathan’s reply that actually made me laugh out loud.
Nathan: [Relax, guys. She’s just throwing a tantrum because I didn't text her back last month. Give it two days, she’ll show up. We grew up together. I know exactly how she is.]
I tossed my phone onto the bed. You know exactly how I am?
Keep waiting, Nathan, I thought, pulling my hair into a tight bun. You’re going to be waiting a long time.
Two days later, Rhode Island School of Design kicked off its freshman welcome week. I attended.
The first event was the Freshman Design Showcase. The auditorium was packed with over two thousand students, faculty, and industry scouts. The air backstage was thick with hairspray, panic, and the thumping bass of house music.
I was the finale.
"You're up, Bennett," the stage manager whispered, giving me a quick shove toward the curtain.
I stepped out onto the runway.
The blinding glare of the spotlights hit me first. The music pulsed through the floorboards, matching the rhythm of my heartbeat. I wore my own design: a minimalist, asymmetric white dress. It was slashed clean at the waist, tailored perfectly to the tight, toned core I had built through months of brutal hill sprints. The fabric draped over my shoulders, highlighting the sleek, athletic lines I had worked so hard for.
Clean, sharp makeup. My big peach-blossom eyes fixed dead ahead.
As I walked, a heavy silence fell over the auditorium. Camera shutters fired like strobe lights. Then the crowd broke into applause, whistles bouncing off the high ceilings. I turned on my heel and walked back, the white silk flowing behind me.
But the runway was only half the statement.
The next afternoon was the Freshman Fun Run, a three-mile cross-country sprint around the campus and local trails. For most art students, it was a joke. For me, it was a warm-up.
[Girls look gross when they sweat. It’s not cute, Scarlett.]
Nathan’s voice from middle school echoed in my head as I tied my running shoes. That one stupid comment had made me quit the sport I loved.
Not anymore.
When the starting gun fired, I didn't just run. I tore off the line. My lungs expanded, pulling in the crisp September air. My legs, conditioned by Aunt Clara’s insane mountain intervals, ate up the distance effortlessly.
By the second mile, I had completely dropped the pack. I crossed the finish line a full half-mile ahead of the guy in second place.
I bent over, hands on my knees, sweat dripping from my forehead and soaking the collar of my sports bra. My hair was messy, my face flushed, but my eyes were brighter than they had been in years.
I took the medal, raised it, and the crowd of students cheered.
That evening, clips of the white dress on the runway and photos of me crossing the finish line had flooded RISD’s forums and bled into Instagram and TikTok.
Mia, operating like a lethal sniper, didn't hesitate. She downloaded the video of my runway walk and stitched it together with the clip of me sprinting across the finish line.
She dropped the file directly into our high school senior group chat.
Mia: [@everyone @NathanHayes You said if she ever managed to look half as good as Chloe, you’d get on your knees and apologize. Take a look. Is this half?]
For three minutes, the chat was dead silent. Nobody typed a word.
Then, all hell broke loose.
The chat started scrolling so fast it was a blur.
[HOLY SHIT. IS THAT SCARLETT?!]
[No way. No freaking way. That’s her??]
[Bro she looks like a literal supermodel. What happened?!]
[Wait, look at her abs in that dress. I’m actually speechless.]
Then, the receipts started flying. People had zero mercy. A guy from the football team instantly replied to Mia’s video with a screenshot from our graduation dinner.
[Who would tie themselves to a 190-pound whale?] Nathan’s own text, highlighted in neon yellow.
[She’ll never lose the weight. It’s just her genetics.]
The mockery rained down instantly.
[@NathanHayes Yo, does your face hurt right now?]
[Bro said half as good as Chloe. Ten Chloes tied together couldn't pull off that runway walk.]
[Wait, look at the banner in the running video. That says Rhode Island School of Design. She’s not even at Princeton!]
[LMFAO Nathan, your engagement is totally cooked. She didn't even show up to your school!]
