[ xliv. welcome to junior year ]

➸➸➸

"TAKE A DEEP BREATH.  Are you ready?"

"I think so . . . Yes.  Yes, I'm ready."

"Okay, I'm going to count.  Three.  Two—"

Willa Deveraux shoved the needle through her thirteen-year-old sister's nose.

"Ow! Shit!"

Lex Deveraux ferociously recoiled, wrenching herself free from Willa's grip, her tiny fist slamming against the edge of the bathroom counter.  Her once cautious features contorted in pain, but her older sister, who was now biting down a laugh, grabbed Lex again before she could dart fully out of reach.

"Stop squirming," Willa ordered. She firmly cupped Lex's round face in her hands and carefully tilted her small head at just the right angle. "Let me put the ring in before it closes."

Lex exhaled heavily through her bright-red nose and threw her head back dramatically. "What the hell happened to one?" she groaned.

"That's when most people back out," Willa replied, squinting as she leaned closer. Her fingers worked quickly, threading the tiny ring through the fresh hole. "Skip the one, skip the regret. Life tip for you."

"That life tip hurt!" Lex hissed as the jewelry clicked into place.

"But at least it's done." Willa stepped back and her hands fell to her hips.  "There."  A proud smirk lit up her face. "You're officially a rebel."

Lex blinked rapidly, wiping away the uncontrollable tears that spilled down her cheeks.  She shuffled closer to the mirror, brushing against Willa's arm as the elder Deveraux sister turned to wash her hands.  Slowly, Lex's curious expression shifted as she caught sight of her new reflection.  Her lips twitched into a toothy grin.

"This is so badass," she whispered.

Willa's own smile softened as she watched Lex beam at herself.  She had certainly not expected such a demand at all when her little sister came knocking that morning on her bedroom door.  In fact, the two sisters had still barely crossed paths in the last several days.  But here Lex was, suddenly eager to push boundaries of her own, and Willa had sufficed not to ask questions.  Because who was she to stop another Deveraux from daring to draw her own line in Kildare's sand?

Bending down to the cupboard beneath the sink, Willa rummaged until she found a half-empty bottle of disinfectant. She straightened up and waved it in Lex's direction. "Clean it twice a day, okay? And whatever you do, don't—"

"Willa! Elexis! Your brothers are waiting! Get down here for pictures!"

The sharp, eager tone of their mother's voice sliced through the spacious bathroom as she called out from somewhere down below.  Willa balked, her shoulders tensing, spine going rigid, unable to control or restrain such a reaction.  Then, she glanced back at Lex, who was still preening in the mirror, tilting her pierced nose this way and that, completely unfazed.

"How exactly are you planning to hide that again?" Willa wondered, crossing her arms.

"Same way you hid your hair," Lex answered with a nonchalant shrug.

"In case you forgot, that didn't last very long."

"I know. You didn't set the bar very high."

Willa snorted, shaking her head.  "Fair. Just don't be dumb about it," she warned.  "Mom made me cut mine out as soon as she saw it. She'll rip that ring out herself if she finds it. And trust me, it'll hurt way worse than the needle."

Lex turned.  When she was already halfway out the door, over her shoulder, she called, "I'd like to see her try."

"Oh, to be thirteen again," Willa muttered, watching her little sister's retreating, know-it-all back as she slipped out of her bedroom.  Good luck, kid, she wanted to add, you're going to need it.

Left alone, Willa's gaze eventually drifted back to her own reflection in the glass.  Her sage green eyes lingered on her curly, pinned-back hair and its dark, natural shade.  The rebellious red streaks her sister joked about now were long gone.  Really, so much of herself had been scrubbed clean these past few days. Like the entirety of July had never even happened.

Willa's flannelled, staple look had been replaced by a neatly pressed, white cashmere polo.  Its low neckline bared the unblemished skin of her throat—a throat that once bore the bruising fingerprints of a sinister Midsummer date.  Her knuckles, also busted and gnarled within that very same stretch of time, were nearly healed now.  Rings glittered snugly on her fingers—on all but her right thumb, that was.

And yet, as she tilted her head back at just the right angle, Willa swore she could still see it. The faintest shadow of her fading black eye, the yellow skin almost invisible beneath a pound of makeup.

Not all demons could be covered up so easily, it seemed.

Good. Willa did not want to forget her trauma. Even if everyone else—her mother, her father, her entire family—wished she would.  Forgetting meant forgiving, and she had no intention of granting anyone that grace.

Willa took a slow, steadying inhale of breath.  It had been a week since she had shattered her parents' trust—and they had done the very same to her.  Seven whole days and only last night had they finally come to a consensus that did not otherwise end in another violent screaming match and more locked doors. Maren and Alden had given Willa her cell phone back—though not without strings attached, of course.  Her phone was to be rationed: allowed from the moment she woke up until the moment her parents decided to send her back upstairs to her bedroom for the evening.

Oh, and she was allowed to have it during volleyball practice.

Her car keys and her credit card, no matter, still remained far out of reach.

Give it another week.

It was the only comfort Willa could give herself as she finally turned away from her vanity and stepped out of the bathroom, leaving her reflection behind. She crossed to her unmade bed and grabbed the two bags lying atop her plum-colored duvet, then swept her journal and silver fountain pen off the bedside table.  The journal slid neatly into the front pocket of her school bag.

Through the open bedroom door behind her, Maren's voice echoed about the vast mansion, calling her eldest daughter's name again.

Teeth grinding, Willa hurried out her door, across the second-floor landing and descended the grand staircase.  However, she slowed halfway down, hand gripping the railing, as the foyer came into view.  It was a Deveraux parade dressed in purity pales.  Every detail of their annual first-day-of-school photoshoot had already been orchestrated by their silk blouse, pearl-wearing mother, who was making an even bigger production than usual this year. After all, little Rayne was officially starting kindergarten.

Willa bit the inside of her cheek to keep from rolling her eyes, knowing Maren was not actually mourning an empty nest or "the end of an era" like she had proclaimed at their family's dinner table last night.  By now, she was likely already envisioning seven uninterrupted hours to flaunt herself at the Island Club.  That godforsaken place.

"There you are!" Maren turned, hearing footsteps, and began to beckon excitedly.  "Come on, come on!"

Willa groaned under her breath, stomped down the remaining steps, and then dropped her bags unceremoniously by the front door.  She filed into the preordained lineup, already bracing herself for the social media spectacle she and her siblings would become before the hour was up.

Hudson, the eldest, stood at the far end of the line with Rayne perched on his hip, looking every bit the golden child in his own pressed shirt and effortless grin. Willa took her place beside him, even though she hated standing in the middle. To her left, Ace slid into position next, blond hair gleaming under the crystal chandelier dangling over their heads.  He shot Willa a sidelong glance but said nothing, turning his back to her to pose with their little brother instead, where Cruz, ever the outlier, stood in a black hoodie, the sole dark spot in the sea of pastel.  Lex was the last to file in, her nose subtly tilted away, hiding from their mother's hawk-like appraisal.

Maren clapped her hands. "Alright, everyone!" She lifted her own cell phone high.  "On the count of three, say, 'Happy first day!'"

The countdown began, but when three came, only Rayne and Hudson delivered the line with enthusiasm. Willa barely moved her lips, teeth clenched into what she was convinced might pass as a smile if no one looked too closely . . . if no one knew her recent history.  No, all Willa needed was to get through this charade of charm.  A few more minutes.  Then freedom—at least for the length of the school day.

"Perfect!" Maren declared, after examining the series of photos on her phone's camera roll for many minutes. "Alright, everyone, out the door!  We're all going to be late!  Raynie, let's get you buckled into your car seat." She reached for Rayne and plucked her from Hudson's extended arms.  Then, turning to her far older children still gathered behind her, she added, "And the rest of you—have a great first day! Your father and I can't wait to hear all about it."

Willa bit back a bitter laugh. 

Sure, she thought. The father who could not even bother to take one morning off from the hospital to see us off? 

But that was how it always went.  Alden Deveraux, supposed father-of-the-year to all of Kildare, only ever showed up for his children's worst moments.  Never their good ones.

Willa did not bother to say goodbye as her mother hurried off down the hall to fuss further over her youngest child.  Instead, she grabbed her bags and followed her siblings out the front door.  Hudson headed briskly to his cherry-red convertible parked at the top of the cobblestone driveway.  He did not even look back as he tossed his backpack into his passenger's seat.  His excuse for not driving his siblings was as predictable as it was self-serving: there would not be enough room for his boyfriend, Wesley, once he picked him up.  Willa watched her older brother peel out of the driveway, leaving the rest of the Deveraux children stranded with Ace and his car—the Jeep that Willa had once shared with him.

A Jeep that, like so much else, had been taken from her.

Still biting the inside of her cheek, Willa slipped into the passenger seat before anyone else could claim it.  She would not forfeit that liberty.  Lex slid into the back without a word, followed by Cruz, who slammed the door harder than necessary.  Ace climbed in last, his irritation clear in his mannerisms, though, again, he did not comment on Willa's choice of seat, Cruz's blatant aggression, or Lex's immediate demand to control the music.  He simply gunned the engine, sending them all lurching forward down the long driveway.

Willa automatically turned her body away from her brother and forced her own attention out the window, watching as the grand Deveraux mansion receded into the Figure Eight's distance.  Meanwhile, the paved path ahead stretched on, winding through the quiet, affluent streets that led to Kildare County High.

Three months. It had been three months since Willa had last walked her high school's hallways.  And in those three months, the Deveraux daughter had changed.  More than anyone could have ever possibly imagined.  She wondered briefly if anyone at school would notice.  Would her classmates see the difference in her, feel the edge she carried now, a blade hidden beneath silk?

Probably not, Willa decided mutely.

The truth was, she could not even see what was still coming herself.

➸➸➸

KILDARE COUNTY HIGH SCHOOL emerged steadily from the dusty, August morning heat, its low-slung buildings perched on one of the only patches of middle ground in the entirety of Kildare Island. Just three blocks west of the local downtown, it was not hard to find—even for Touron kids who had no intention of ever setting foot inside.

For Willa, the campus was as familiar as the back of her hand. Not that it was ever much of a challenge to memorize. The school was not big—so small, in fact, that the high school and middle school shared the same property. Only 367 students attended, spanning grades six through twelve.

Four years. That was how long Willa had been enduring the same buildings, the same halls, the same faces. Only two more years to go.

She could make it.

With her chin resting on her palm, she continued to gaze out the passenger window of the Jeep as it bounced along the cracked asphalt. Ace guided the vehicle toward the front of the high school, scanning for an open parking spot.  Predictably, the Figure Eight kids, with their shiny cars and cocky entitlement, always had assigned spaces waiting for them near the building's main entrance.  Kids from the Cut were not afforded that same luxury.  Their cars were banished to the gravel pit at the farthest edge of the lot—overflow parking, as the Kooks so often called it.

It was a petty divide, and while the Kooks probably thought they were clever, marking their territory as they did, the Cut kids actually got the last laugh as far as Willa was concerned.  Sure, in the mornings, maybe it stung a little to park in the gravel if one was running late.  But in the afternoons, when school let out for everyone, it paid off.  While the Kooks now waited in endless lines, new drivers fumbling to reverse out of their precious parking spaces without scratching their BMWs, the Cut kids could jump into their rusted vehicles and speed off without a second thought.

Willa had seen it a thousand times—with one car in particular.  A beat-up Volkswagen van that turned into a blur of burnt-orange paint and peeling stickers at 3:30 sharp every day.

But not today.

Not ever again.

Willa's jeweled hands twisted in her lap.

Fuck.

She had been doing so well.  Almost three hours without letting her thoughts drift back to him. To the boy who had changed her life.  To the boy who had died far too soon.

Suddenly, the Jeep jerked to a stop, jolting Willa from her impending darkening thoughts.  Ace slammed the gearstick into park, and the sound of backdoors flinging open filled the air. The two younger siblings scrambled out, eager to escape the stifling atmosphere of the silent car and disappear into the crowd.  Cruz veered toward the high school, Lex to the kitty-cornered middle school, both their silhouettes quickly swallowed up by the sea of gathered students.  Neither bothered with a goodbye, and their older siblings did not waste their breaths offering one either.

Willa sighed, regrettably understanding she could not sit there and hide forever, and so, unbuckled her seatbelt. She grabbed her bags from the floor and settled them onto her lap.  Her hand had just brushed the door handle when Ace's hand clamped down on her forearm, pulling her back toward the center console.

The contact was so abrupt, so unexpected, that Willa flinched. Ace did not touch her.  Ever.  She did not want him to start now.

Willa yanked her arm back, and her younger brother immediately released her, his fingers splaying awkwardly before withdrawing altogether.  For a moment, the two of them just sat there, Ace's dark blue glare—so much like their disappointed father's—locked on hers.  His throat bobbed with a hard swallow.

"I'll pick you up after practice. Eight o'clock," he finally said.

Willa narrowed her eyes. "Don't bother. I'll have Lila take me home."

Ace frowned, confusion flickering across his face. "Who the hell is Lila?"

Willa did not answer.  She shoved the car door open and stepped out into the morning humidity. The sticky air instantly clung to her exposed skin as she swung her bags over her shoulders and slammed the door shut.

Circling around to the front of the Jeep, she paused as she stepped onto the sidewalk, surveying the school grounds. The familiar clusters of Kildare County High greeted her—ranges of students loitering, laughing, and exchanging the latest summer gossip that would most definitely dominate the hallways by lunchtime.

Yet, even with the entire teenage population of Kildare crammed into one building, the division between the two island "tribes" was as glaring as ever.  On the grassy patch to the left of the school's main entrance, the Cut kids hung about, their energies all loose and unbothered, despite the anticipated first-day-back nerves.  Among them, Willa spotted Mona and Shiloh, arms slung around each other in the telltale "on" phase of their perpetual "on-again, off-again" cycle.

Willa allowed herself a brief smile in their direction, even though they did not notice her in return.  The smile faded as her focus eventually drifted to the far opposite side of the school's entryway.  The courtyard.  Kook Central.

There, surrounded by designer backpacks and spotless, high-top sneakers, stood Topper and Kelce already engrossed in some obnoxious conversation.  Not far from them, Ruthie Challis had already latched onto Barrett Coldwell—the newest addition to the Kook ranks.  The Deveraux daughter had come dangerously close to obliterating that boy in a drunken haze at Midsummers.

Willa grimaced at the memory.  She was definitely steering clear of that group today.  Actually, make that forever.

Naturally, Ace made a beeline toward the courtyard—toward his own summer fling, Katie Griffin—without so much as a second glance back at his sister. Willa glared at his retreating figure until the first warning bell rang, and she finally turned away, her expression hardening even further as she trudged toward the double doors alone.

The Deveraux daughter barely made it five steps before her breath caught.

Heart clenching painfully in her chest, stride faltering, Willa now peered straight through the crowd of chattering, uncaring students and gazed at the twin memorials for John B. Routledge and Sarah Cameron that had been unexpectedly displayed near the school's entry steps.

The senior boulder—normally reserved for Kildare's graduating class to slather in painted handprints and scribbled messages at the end of each year—had been repainted entirely in the school's red-and-white colors. The words "IN MEMORY" were emblazoned across it in bold white letters.

On the left side of the boulder, John B. Routledge's tribute was large and well-loved, forgoing the hatred and blame from so many in his final moments. His makeshift tombstone was a surfboard sawed in two, its nose wedged firmly into the ground. The glossy surface was covered in photographs, a wonderful, colorful mosaic of his life—from kindergarten snapshots to a candid taken just last year at their sophomore field day.  In every picture, John B.'s warm, hickory eyes radiated an unguarded joy. Those eyes had never known what life truly had in store for him.

On the right side of the boulder, Sarah Cameron's dedicated section was softer.  A single, blown-up photograph sat framed within a massive flowery heart. The easel holding it leaned against the rock, and had gradually become surrounded by smaller Polaroids taped to its legs—an ever-growing shrine from her classmates and friends. She was the princess of Kildare, blissfully unaware of the toll her future love for the Routledge boy would take.

Yet, even here, among the plaques meant to unite their memories, a division remained between the dead teenagers.  Willa's heartbroken stare eventually dropped to the empty space between John B.'s bright surfboard and Sarah's floral stand, where there was a noticeable lack of flowers or tokens to connect the two.  The island's two-tribe mentality had followed them here, refusing to let a Pogue boy and a Kook girl find even an afterlife together.

Willa's stomach coiled tightly, anger entwining itself into her very veins.  Damn that mentality. Damn this town. Damn the Pogues and Kooks who brushed past her, throwing suspicious glimpses her way but nothing else.

Without a second thought, without asking for permission, Willa stepped forward. She knelt between the surfboard and the easel and gently nudged Sarah's tribute closer to the left side of the boulder.  The tripod creaked as its metal legs shifted in the dirt, its flowered edges finally brushing against the waxed surface of John B.'s board.  There.

Now, the two were together again. Rightly.  Completely.

Willa lingered there in the shadows of her friends' gravesites.  Her throat grew tight, and her fingertips quivered as she carefully adjusted the white petals of the floral heart. The world around her blurred, shrill voices and excited footsteps fading to nothing as her remorse pressed down on her lungs, her ribcage, her very heart.

"Welcome to junior year," a familiar calling broke through the fog.

Willa turned sharply and rose from her crouch, blinking away the tears that had gathered on her lashes. Stepping onto the sidewalk behind her were Kiara, Pope, and JJ.  Relief flickered briefly in Willa's chest. It had been six days since she had last seen any of them, since her parents had locked her away, deemed too dangerous to be let out.  But just as quickly as that relief dared to bloom, it withered, replaced by a more cutting kind of heartbreak.  The last six days had not been kind to her friends either.

Kiara had at least tried to look the most composed on the first day of school.  For perhaps the first time since Midsummers, like Willa, she wore makeup; a mask of foundation and mascara meant to conceal the deep shadows beneath her auburn eyes.  But the exhaustion could not be kept hidden from what was now so deeply carved into her dulling features.

To Kiara's left, Pope stood holding a binder that seemed ready to burst.  Loose papers poked out at odd angles, bringing to life the obvious disarray in his once meticulously organized existence.  The boy who had once been the nimblest mind, the most prestigious scholar among them, a promising valedictorian since the first grade, now looked as though he had barely found the energy to even make it to class on time.

Per usual, there was JJ to bring up the rear.  He hovered slightly behind Kiara and Pope, his posture slouched.  He looked—and smelled—like he had just stumbled out of the Cut's Tin Beaver tavern after being cut off one too many times.  Clearly, the bender he had started a week ago showed no signs of ending.

Sixteen, hollow-eyed, and already drunk before eight in the morning on the first day of school. Willa wondered where JJ had been in the past six days. How had he survived them?  Perhaps he had not. Not really.  Perhaps he had spent every moment numbing himself, sinking deeper into oblivion.

Weariness.  Disorganization.  Drunken obliterations.  Forced forgetfulness. Oh, how grief had truly killed them all.

Willa wanted to throw her arms around the Pogues, to pull them all close at once, but instead, she stepped toward Kiara, who was closest. Kiara's arms opened without hesitation, wrapping securely around Willa's lower back.  As the girls held each other, their boys naturally gravitated closer, forming a protective barrier around them. Pope and JJ did not touch Willa or Kiara, but their presence was a steadfast shield all the same, meant to ward off the vultures—the prying eyes of classmates who whispered and still ogled at them from a distance.

When Kiara finally pulled away, Willa stayed rooted, unwilling to create even an inch of distance between herself and the three people she had missed so dearly. "I'm sorry I've been M.I.A.," she blurted as she looked between them worriedly. "I couldn't sneak out—"

"It's okay," Kiara interrupted softly, her voice as steady as her grip on the Deveraux daughter had been only seconds ago. "We understood."

Of course, they understood. How could they not? Kiara, Pope, and JJ had seen it all firsthand. They had stood there and watched as Alden and Maren Deveraux dragged a sobbing Willa away from the Point, away from John B.'s and Sarah's last known locations.  The three of them had been held close by their parents, given the comfort Willa could only dream of, while she was left to face her immense sorrow alone in a house that had become her own personal prison.

Willa swallowed hard against the lump rising in her throat.  She would not let the Pogues' pity for her, however well-intentioned it was, ruin this moment. Alden and Maren had taken so much from her already—her freedom, her choices, her voice.  They had taken all that she was, all she could ever possibly consider herself to be in the Figure Eight.  But her parents could not touch this. Not the middle ground of Kildare Island. They could not control what happened within the walls of Willa's school. This place, this time, was hers.

For what might have been the first time in her life, Willa hoped the next seven school hours went by slowly.

She adjusted the straps of the two bags slung over her shoulders.  Pope noticed the movement and his eyes narrowed as he nodded toward them. "What's with the bags?"

Willa mustered a small, coy smile. "I'll explain later," she promised.

Pope did not push, but his attention lingered, heavy with the kind of scrutiny that used to stem from curiosity.  Now, the Heyward son's charcoal stare was tinged with suspicion—an inherent mistrust of the world that had once been his open book. It was the look of someone who had learned too young that the unknown was not something to be solved but survived.

"I feel like people are staring," Kiara muttered, drawing the Deveraux daughter back to the present.

"Oh, they are," JJ scoffed, eyes sweeping the parking lot behind them with open disgust.

Willa followed his gaze. It had only been ten minutes, and she was numb to it now, the way her classmates' sideways glances followed her.  Let them whisper, let them gossip.  None of it mattered. If they had not said anything when Willa was openly readjusting John B. and Sarah's tributes at the senior boulder, they certainly would not say anything to her face now as she glared back at them from beside the short-fused Maybank boy.  She was not afraid of their opinions.

She also did not fear the consequences of being seen with JJ or the other Pogues in public, as she might have only a month ago.  Because Willa was not just with the Pogues anymore—she was one now. If her parents found out she had socialized with them on school grounds, so be it.  Let them threaten her with lockdown again. And they might, when she was back home. But here?  JJ, Kiara, and Pope were not people Maren and Alden could take away from her so easily.

"Let them fucking stare," Willa muttered darkly.

Suddenly, the second warning bell rang overhead. Five minutes to get to class.

Pope sighed heavily. "Guys, I can't be late," he said, stepping forward reluctantly.

"Hey." Kiara shot out a hand, looping her arm through his to stop him. "We've got to stick together."

The words were meant for him, even if Willa suspected they were more for herself than anyone else.  Pope hesitated for only a moment before leaning into her, letting her steer him back into the fold. Maybe he did not have the strength to reject Kiara, or maybe he needed it, too. Meanwhile, in the very same motion, Kiara reached out with her other hand, palm open and waiting for the Deveraux daughter. Willa fingers slid into Kiara's. Their fingers intertwined, and Willa squeezed tightly, stepping closer.

But one of them was still outside their circle.

JJ still stood just behind the three teenagers, unlinked, unleashed.  He was the wild one, the volatile one.  The one Pogue who, of all of them, should certainly not be left alone at any point today.  And Willa—despite everything that had occurred between them in the passing weeks, or maybe because of it—knew it had to be her to bring him in. Her cautious eyes flicked toward him, then to her left hand that hung at her side, empty.

Hers to offer. His to take.

A dangerous task, binding herself to JJ Maybank.  Their anger, their pain, their darkness—they mirrored one another in ways that were both comforting and terrifying. Most of the time terrifying.

Willa lifted her hand slightly.

Together, right?

The inviting words burned on the tip of her tongue, but she swallowed them. If JJ heard them, he would only roll his eyes, deflect, maybe even laugh in her face. She would have, too, in his place.  Cheesy words like that did not belong between two people who carried so much devastation and rage between them.

But maybe, somehow, JJ still heard her anyway.  And he did not ridicule her.  Did not push her away. Slowly, his right hand rose. His fingers brushed hers before they interlaced, palm against calloused palm.

Bloodshot blues met clear sage greens, and for a heartbeat, then two, then three, JJ held Willa's sober stare. And then, without breaking that vital gaze, Willa took the first step backward, gently pulling the Maybank boy along. Kiara and Pope remained in step beside them.

The four of them walked past the judgmental looks boring into their backs, past the memorials and their haunted memories.  Together, they climbed the concrete steps and entered the hallways of a school otherwise shaken to its core by the deaths of two of its own.

Hell was waiting.  But at least they were not facing it alone.

➸➸➸

IT WAS NOT EVEN noon, and Willa already had homework. Who the fuck assigned homework on the first day of school?

Apparently, Mr. Kanen Sunn did.

He was a kind, intellectual man, the type of educator who seemed more married to his classroom than his paycheck justified. Willa had first had him as a teacher last year in U.S. History, and even with her usual disinterest in school, he had left an impression.  Mr. Sunn genuinely cared about his students. But where he cared, he also expected. He expected his students to engage, to think, to connect the dots between the past and their present, no matter how deep they had to dig.

Nonetheless, Willa had already long-ago deduced that her family's legacy on the island felt less like a story to be celebrated and more like a sunken anchor, keeping her bound to a place she did not want to call home.  She likely would never be one for history—or its roots, for that matter.

Not like John B., at least.

Though the Routledge boy had hated all other subjects, he had always had a knack and love for timelines, battle strategies, old legends, and mystical artifacts. He could recite dates and names like they were etched in his DNA—and they might have been, knowing Big John existed once.

Since the start of sophomore year, John B. had been Mr. Sunn's star pupil, always quick with an answer and never afraid to challenge the teacher or propose a new, contemplative idea.  Mr. Sunn had respected him, and it was no secret John B. had respected him right back.

But John B. was not here anymore.

Maybe that was why Mr. Sunn seemed . . . off now.  His voice lacked its usual spark, and, suddenly, he had no problem assigning notetaking on the very first day of school, right after rattling through the class syllabus.

". . . and the slave becomes the ruler . . ." Mr. Sunn droned on from the front of the classroom.

Willa was not really listening. She sat in the back row of desks pushed beneath the tall windows, her chin already propped back on her palm. The pencil in her right hand hovered idly over a notebook page, abandoned after a few half-hearted bullet points, listing events she had already forgotten.  Outside, a seagull perched proudly on the hood of some Kook's shiny car, its feathers ruffling in the breeze.

"Now, Diocletian splits the sprawling Roman Empire into four separate kingdoms . . ."

Three sudden cell phone ringtones shattered the monotony of the lecture. Willa's head perked up, startled, and she instinctively peeked at her own phone that was face down on the corner of her desk.  Silent and dry as always.  She hardly gave out her number, anyway.

But the actual cell phone culprits were easy to spot. It was Pope, Kiara, and JJ.

Each of them had arrived at Mr. Sunn's third period at different times due to their scattered schedules during second period, leaving them seated apart. Pope sat front and center, alert and already madly scribbling notes. Kiara was just behind him, leaning lazily against her desk, textbook propped open but ignored.  And JJ—JJ had somehow claimed the desk right next to Willa's, likely wanting to find solace in the back of the room to curb his hangover that had kicked in during first period.  Currently, JJ's legs were sprawled out in the aisle, the poster profile of a teenage boy who absolutely did not care to be there.

Willa's focus shifted entirely to JJ when his phone chimed again. Across the room, separated from them by a full row of students, Pope's and Kiara's phones lit up once more in near-perfect synchrony.

"Whose phone was that?" Mr. Sunn questioned, his dreadlocks sweeping over his shoulder as he turned to the class with faint annoyance. His chalk paused mid-word on the blackboard. "No one? Alright, but just so you know, you will be tested on this material. Quiz by Friday. Now then, who was Diocletian? An ex-slave who became—"

Willa tuned him out entirely.

Beside her, JJ fished his phone out of his khaki shorts slowly, trying to stay undetected. Likewise, Kiara shielded her phone against Pope's back, swiping upward to unlock it before leaning forward to whisper something in his ear. Willa could not make out the words from her seat.

Her sage eyes went back to JJ, who was now squinting at his phone screen.  Then, his icy blue gaze snapped toward her. She raised her brows at him and mouthed, What is it?

But JJ did not answer. Instead, with zero hesitation or forethought, he reached across the wide walkway and hooked one arm beneath Willa's chair. His knuckles brushed against her thigh as he yanked her sharply toward him.

Willa lurched forward, quickly grasping her notebook to keep it from flying off the desk. The chair's legs skidded across the tiled floor with only the faintest sound.  A few classmates glanced at them, but none said a word, likely too used to JJ's unusual antics.

And Mr. Sunn? Still completely distracted by his own teachings.

Once her seat was practically glued to his, JJ wasted no time holding up his phone in the narrow space between them. His screensaver—a snapshot of beautiful ocean swells—displayed a simple notification:

Incoming Text. Unknown Number.

Willa frowned as JJ swiped upward, revealing a single message. They leaned in close, their temples nearly touching as they waited for the contents to load. And then—

Willa's heart stopped.

The text was a picture.

Of John B. and Sarah.

Timestamp: 11:14 a.m.

Today.

In the photo, John B. and Sarah stood side by side, looking very much alive. They were dressed in the same clothes they had been wearing the last time Willa had seen them, a week ago, before Hurricane Danielle had sank them alongside The Phantom. Immediately, her mind scrambled to rationalize the image; that it surely must have been old, taken only hours before their deaths, a final hopeful exchange . . . but then her eyes caught a subtle detail: a fresh cut sliced cleanly through John B.'s right eyebrow.

It had not been there before.

Astoundment crashed over Willa like a wave, leaving her breathless. The picture on JJ's phone had altered her entire world in a mere instant. Her skin prickled, her body oscillating between tingling and numbness. Her heart pounded so fast it felt like a hummingbird trapped in her breastbone.

Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit.

JJ's hand trembled as he squeezed the phone tighter in his palm, the faint clink of his new pinkie ring tapping against the desk. His wide, unblinking eyes turned to hers, and Willa knew herself to be mimicing him perfectly—staring back, stunned, with her own shock written plainly across her face. Then, as if sharing the same thought, riding the same electric current, they whispered in unison:

"We've got to go."

There was no doubt, no second-guessing. It was John B. and Sarah.

Willa and JJ exchanged a quick, signaling glance with Pope and Kiara, who were already locked onto them, their own phones still glowing with the impossible image. The rest of the classroom faded into irrelevance as Willa snatched her two backpacks from the floor. She did not bother to return her chair to its desk before she followed JJ's lead, both of them up on their feet and darting past their confused peers.

Mr. Sunn turned pointedly from the chalkboard at the sudden disruption. "Where are you two—"

"Got the runs, man," JJ interrupted smoothly.

"It's my time of the month," Willa added at the same time, relishing the way the excuse made male teachers squirm. It worked like a charm.

JJ reached the door first, flinging it open and holding it for Willa, who brushed past him with her heart still racing. Behind them, Pope scrambled to gather his notebooks, stammering, "Uh, can I be excused to help them in the bathroom?"

Kiara did not waste time with silly excuses. She grabbed her textbook and her bag and bolted after JJ and Willa. "Family emergency," she announced to Mr. Sunn without breaking stride.

One by one, they fled the classroom, not daring to look back at their disgruntled teacher. As soon as they spilled into the empty hallway, they broke into a sprint, heading for the Kooks' courtyard. It was the least crowded spot on campus at this hour, a place where the four teenagers knew they would not be followed. After all, the Kooks might have had the money, but skipping class was the Pogues' specialty.

JJ was the loudest in his escape, his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum as he accidentally knocked over a janitor's mop bucket in his haste. More papers flew from Pope's half-zipped backpack, fluttering like lost confetti behind them.  Leading the charge, Kiara and Willa walked shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed as they scrutinized the Carrera daughter's phone, the image of their supposed dead friends still frozen on the screen.

Willa's mind buzzed as more details continued to emerge. John B. and Sarah were horrendously sunburned. They looked scrappy, practically homeless, their clothes immensely dirty and their hair greasy.  But in that very same picture, they were smiling broadly as they leaned into one another.  They were unmistakably alive. John B. and Sarah looked as though they had simply stepped out of the other side of the tropical cyclone that had seemingly stolen them a week ago, that they had not drowned in the Atlantic Ocean like all of Kildare was expected to believe.

Seeing such an image, Willa did not know what to believe anymore.

Once the four teenagers burst into the silent, stilled courtyard, the Deveraux daughter spun around, breathless. "Okay, what the fuck is going on?" she asked her friends. "Is it really them?"

Kiara's expression was torn. "I mean . . . is it even possible? Shoupe said they didn't make it. He said that."

Pope dropped his backpack onto a table and ran a hand over his face. "We can't rule out the possibility that this could all be some kind of weird, cruel hoax. People do sick things."

"No," Willa disagreed as she pointed at Kiara's screen. "Look at John B.'s eyebrow. He has a cut that wasn't there on the dock. You see it, right?" She turned to JJ, seeking confirmation. Surely, he had been paying as much attention to John B. as she had that final day together. "JJ, you remember—"

Her words faltered as she caught sight of the Maybank boy pacing at the edge of the courtyard. His right hand clutched blindly at his upper torso, right over his heart, fingers twisting strongly into the pale blue fabric of his t-shirt.  His entire body was vibrating.

"JJ?" Willa called softly, stepping closer.

He flung up his other hand, halting her in her tracks.  His breaths were ragged, each one rattling in his chest like it cost him dearly. "I can't . . . I can't have this be a hoax, Pope. I can't," he said, voice small and frayed as he addressed the Heyward boy over Willa's shoulder.

Willa felt her features fall at JJ's plea.  None of them could truly bear that twisted reality.  Who could be cruel enough to play with children's grief like this? Who would be heartless enough to dangle hope in front of them, only to snatch it away again?

"I'm just going to ask," Kiara abruptly decided as she dropped onto a nearby table's bench seat.  Willa sank down beside her, craning her neck to see as the Carrera daughter typed out:

WTF is this you???

Kiara hit send. Willa gnawed at the inside of her cheek, her nerves wound rigidly as the familiar bubbles of a building response appeared almost instantly on the screen. "He's typing," Kiara announced shakily.

The sound of a new message dinged. Everyone froze as the text appeared:

Is JJ there?

Three heads snapped to the boy in question, who had stopped pacing, his eyes now glued to his own phone.  His fingers moved like lightning, shoulders still heaving as he typed. When he finally hit send, Willa glimpsed back at Kiara's phone, catching the reply in their group chat:

I'm here Bree.

The response came as fast as the first:

Did you pimp my short board?

Kiara gasped loudly.  Willa blinked, instantly baffled by what was surely an inside comment prior to her inclusion into the Pogues' lifestyle—but immediately thereafter, JJ's vibrant reaction to the text was all the confirmation she needed. The Maybank boy's lips curled into a wide, uncontrollable grin.

"It's him," he giddily exclaimed. "He's alive."

John B. Routledge was alive.

Tears sprang to Willa's eyes. "Oh my God," she whispered, the words barely audible as her hand shot up to cover her gaping mouth. She could not hold back the unexpected laugh that bubbled up, half-hysterical, half-sobbing in her throat.  Kiara let out a similar sound beside her, still cradling her phone like she was afraid the device and the boy on the other end of its line would disappear all over again.

On the other side of the courtyard, JJ and Pope collided into a hug, gripping each other fervently, relishing in knowing that their brother had been given a second chance. Willa watched them warmly before she rose to her feet and stepped away from the table, suddenly overcome.  She turned her back to the group, tilting her face toward the sky, shaking her head in disbelief, in gratitude, in something that genuine words could not quite capture.  Another choked chuckle escaped her lips, louder this time as relief and bliss bubbled over.

Then strong arms encircled her waist from behind, lifting her clean off the ground.

"JJ!" Willa yelped, but he only howled excitedly, loud and unrestrained, spinning her around as his joy spilled over the both of them.  Caving easily to his spirit that called earnestly to her own, she threw her head back against his, dark curls entwining with blonde waves, and began to laugh with him as gentle tears of happiness trickled down her heated face.  She did not care at all that classes were still very much in session around them.

Moments later, another ding sounded behind them, and JJ set Willa back down gently, one arm moving to sling comfortably over her shoulders. Pope pressed into her other side, and the trio turned back to Kiara, who had her phone raised.

"'Laying super low in Nassau,'" Kiara read aloud. She glanced up at the group, bewildered. "How the hell did they get to the Bahamas?"

"If there's a will, there's a way," Willa murmured.

JJ let out a snort, his proud smirk still plastered across his face. "You can't kill a Pogue, dude."

"Especially John B.," Pope boasted.

Another ding. JJ pulled his phone out, again, and Willa, ever curious, leaned into his torso to read it.  John B.'s text warmed her very bones in a way she had not expected.

Will one of you add Willa to this GC?

Kiara was already on it. "All yours, Wills," she teased as she sent the invite.

Willa's phone buzzed in her back pocket. She pulled it out, her hands still shaking, and opened the group chat.  She was in. Then, she quickly typed back:

You're a real dumbass.

It did not take long for John B.'s reply to light up her screen. Willa could almost hear his self-confident, lopsided grin in the words:

I'm a real genius is what I think you meant. We're still in the g-game.

Willa fired back:

Millionaires for another minute?

John B. responded without missing a beat:

Millionaires for another minute.

Then, another text from the Routledge boy followed:

Can you guys clear my name? Wanna come home.

"Hell yeah, we'll clear your name, boy," JJ declared passionately, voice rising as he hammered out a reply of his own to his best friend.

And then, to wrap up the surreal exchange—a boy back from the dead, thousands of miles away from the people who had been mourning him—John B. sent one last message to Willa and the Pogues:

Be in touch. P4L.

"P4L, man! That's what I'm talking about!" JJ cried.  He leapt onto one of the courtyard tables, fists pumping as he shouted for the whole world to hear, "P4L, baby!"

Kiara threw her head back, fresh glee and giggles spilling from her lips like sunlight after rain as she jumped to her feet. "Holy shit!" she exclaimed, spinning toward Willa and pulling her into a crushing hug. The two girls stumbled, nearly losing their footing together, and before they could recover, Pope and JJ barreled into them next, slamming into both of their backs.  Limbs tangling, the boys were no longer just shields around Willa and Kiara, but an added warmth, intensity and playfulness to the Pogues' messy, overlapped huddle, truly united again for what felt like the first time in over a week.

John B. and Sarah were alive.

Actually alive.

For an entire week, Willa had been drowning in misery.  Seven endless days she had yearned for her two friends as though they were lost forever. Because, in her eyes, in her very soul, they had been dead. They had drowned. Yet now, they were back. And within such a miracle already, with only a few text messages, all of them had been reborn in a way. John B., Sarah.  Even Willa and the Pogues who had been left behind.

Now, for the first time in several dark, lonely days, the world seemed right again. The Deveraux daughter felt a pride so fierce it burned. She was on top of the world.

But as the euphoria settled, as the courtyard quieted, Willa's focus eventually resharpened. The happy-ever-after was not theirs just yet.  John B. wanted to come home to Kildare. That meant one thing: they had to clear his name.  The Royal Merchant's deadly treasure hunt was not over.  The Pogues had to expose Ward and Rafe Cameron for what they were—liars, manipulators, murderers.

Even if it meant dismantling the Camerons brick by brick, Willa was ready. Standing taller, she looked brazenly at JJ, Kiara, and Pope, their flushed, lively faces alight once more with the same determination.

It was time to go to work.

~~~~~~~~~~

i could have easily kept this chapter going, but this felt like a good place to pause. some grief and some happiness, hopefully they balanced each other out well--before the world ends again. also, just a reminder as i know it's not canon, but the kook academy does not exist in my book. i find there's more angst if the pogues and kooks are all forced to share a high school (plus, since there hasn't been a whole lot of lore with the kook academy, i didn't feel like it was a crucial factor i needed to stick to).

also, i hope i'm doing willa's internal monologue well? i felt like i kept hitting walls this chapter, but here's my thought process: willa's only sixteen; she's not in-tune with her emotions very well and i don't necessarily want her analyzing herself 24/7. it's not realistic. plus, in order for willa to get more crash outs, she needs to avoid checking herself. so, anyway, just know, i wanted to briefly mention willa going quickly from grief to happiness, but there is still trauma to that transition obviously that she IS going to ignore. she's going to go through a lot very quickly. like, her friends just "died", now they're back from the dead, and before they can even really celebrate, before she can process, now willa's got to jump headfirst back into danger. there's going to be a lot of bottling things up.

but anyways, there's my thought process. willa's emotions are rapid-fire things. i might be insane. but i love willa. i love talking about her. even if the things i write willa going through are not always lovely.

but of course, enough about that. let's talk about the specifics of this chapter! what are you thinking? some moments with the deveraux siblings, some moments with jj, some moments with kiara and pope!! so much more to come, you all have no idea what i have prepared for season two. but i also want to hear your predictions!! what do you hope to see more of in the future?!

let's talk!!

as always, i would love, love, LOVE to hear your thoughts on this chapter, on this book in general.  it's the comments and feedback i receive that make me feel i'm doing this story justice.  it also gives me a chance to connect more with you guys! i seriously love talking about my characters so, so much.  so, please consider leaving a comment!  even if it's just a tiny thing--it's always appreciated! xx

stay safe and well. and happy holidays!! sending you all so much love and joy this season.

--B.