I HAVE NEVER REALLY BEEN a superstitious person.

But the first day back to school after the winter break, my stomach is falling over itself, completely without reason. It feels like an omen, a premonition. Actually, I've become ten times more paranoid since meeting Brittany and her friends this year. I'm less gullible than before, but also extremely, ridiculously cautious.

For example: after the Monarchy trashed all our lockers and spread edited pictures of me around the crime scene, I've looked over my shoulder to make sure no-one's watching me too intently. I tightened up my social media privacy settings and blocked all five of them. And ever since Terrence broke into my locker and stole belongings after Gym class, I've been resetting my combination at regular intervals. Thank you, WikiHow.

My hands are cold as I close my locker, regarding the cusses graffitied on them with no more than a mild disdain. Our lockers are still adorned with insults that someone — probably under Brittany's command — wrote, which our school refused to acknowledge, let alone remove.

Leah covered her locker with music stickers and posters, which she'll surely have to peel off before she graduates. Drew took a Sharpie and turned the swearing and insults into lopsided swords and dragons — which, to this day, I admire as a work of true creativity. The rest of us have just let them be. Because since that awful day, the graffiti has really lost its sting.

"Morning."

I jump involuntarily at the sudden voice piercing through my reminiscing. Yet a cheerful smile grows on me when I see Quentin at my side, flute clutched in hand. "Morning. You on your way to Music?"

"Yeah."

The weird sense that something happened — or will happen — plagues me on our walk to Music Theory. Once inside, things are as they normally are. "Damn, Sophie," Quentin chuckles. "You look so on edge. Too much coffee? Hungover?"

That makes me release a breath I hadn't realised I've been holding, and unclench my jaw and fists. "I didn't drink any coffee today. I'm just... overthinking and driving myself—"

"—crazy." Exasperated, Quen throws a hand into the air. "Tell me about it! I've been trying so hard to pass AP Chem I don't have any time or energy for anything else. I hate it."

"Then why'd you take it?"

"I want to study Engineering in college."

"Then things could be worse. You could be failing all your subjects, and Music Theory, too—"

He shudders, "Are you trying to make this worse? You're going to jinx it, Soph."

"I feel like I'm jinxed. I walked into school, and felt like everything had been moved one inch to the left."

"Maybe it has."

I slap his shoulder lightly, "I'm serious! This whole Revolution thing has taught me to trust my instincts. No-one is acting any different, but it seems like something is..."

"Missing?"

"Yes!"

Quentin laughs at my obvious frustration and sighs, letting his hands drop to his sides and leaning back on them. "Maybe you're crazy," he says. "And maybe I'm crazy for taking Chem."

"Maybe. But that's never stopped me."

In all honesty, my senior year would have been insanely monotonous without meeting the Monarchy and all the ensuing chaos. Back in my hometown, the most excited I ever got was over books and my weeks rolled past predictably. Here, I've had pies shoved in my face, danced with my girlfriends, flagged down a motorcycle, rowed a boat around Haywood Lake. Here, I never know if someone wants to support me or run me over.

The things that make Carsonville a nightmare also make it a dream. The unexpected things.

Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday pass with nothing of note. Neither good nor bad. During the free period I have on Thursday, I still can't make myself focus on my schoolwork.

None of the words I read register, and I find my eyes looping one line circularly. The textbook I use for AP Bio is one of the ones I didn't need to replace after the Monarchy trashed our lockers; others weren't so lucky. The lower quarter of the spine is ripped, but the book has held itself together steadily enough since that day—

Slowly, a litany of memories bubble up in my mind. Each is a clue that aligns and stitches themselves together in my head. And when the mental image is half-complete, I register why I felt so odd during this first week back to school.

I would be the last person to claim to know Brittany Stanson. She's a twisted, complicated person — but if there's one fact that has been hammered into my understanding by friends and foe alike, and by my own personal experience, is that she does not accept any challenges to her power.

I mean, in the second week of school, Delaney and I badmouthed her in the hallways and as a result her friends beat up our friends. After we dared to win a prize at the carwash based on our own hard work — step one: get attention — she had our lockers ransacked and our belongings destroyed. After we released a video in a school-wide assembly calling out her years of bullying — step two: spread the message — Terrence pulled his cruel Homecoming prank on all of us.

Step three? Recruit people.

I would say the Revolution has successfully completed that step because we've gotten the support of so many different clubs. Between them, an online movement taking a stand against bullying and a pretty gutsy call-out column in the school newspaper have appeared.

As unpopular as the Chronicle has been in the past, it's now become foolish to hope that the Monarchy haven't gotten their hands on a copy. Chances are that Brittany's already scrutinised every slanderous word Delaney has to write. And believe me, there are a lot of them. You basically called out the Monarchy in their own territory. And we're not strong enough to counter them so soon.

My concerned warning to her weeks ago completely warranted, despite falling on deaf ears. Delaney doesn't know the meaning of surrendering to fight another day. She'd rather charge through the flames than backtrack and find a safer way. And an attitude like that is sure to make her heaps of enemies; the Monarchy included. The hashtag and Delaney's column are the most explicit, widespread challenges we've ever made to Brittany's well-oiled machine.

At each step she's been poised to strike back. So where is her counterattack this time?

That is what is missing. That is what I was tense and ready for.

But now that I think about it, I've hardly seen any of the Monarchy. I pass by all the members of the Monarchy without either party antagonising the other — Reece in AP Bio, Derek in AP Calc, he and Madison in Music and Terrence in Home Ec. — but it's almost suspicious how inert they are, if they're even present.

Reece has excused himself this whole week with excuses of basketball training, and Derek hardly ever shows up to Calculus anymore. I pegged that to Reece's flippant attitude towards academia and Derek's flippant attitude towards being in school in general, but Terrence has been completely silent where he used to be annoying and Madison doesn't draw attention to herself in the manner she usually does.

The last time I saw them talking to each other is what I can't remember. They don't spend their lunches in the cafeteria anymore. Their pristine table underneath the painted crown on the wall is starkly empty; still, like Terrence's bus seat, no-one dares occupy it. It's almost like they've disbanded.

It's unnerving, like they're purposely acting aloof to throw us off the scent of something big. How long have they been disconnected?

I lean my head on my palms, staring down at words that have started swirling on the page. Rather than enjoy their absence, intentional or not, I'm still scheming and worrying. I think it's almost obsessive how I've let the Monarchy become such a driving part of my life. They would really enjoy knowing how much I think about them. But I can't help it. I've dragged so many people into this now, it's certainly not the time to relax.

Would it be too naive to hope that the Monarchy's inactivity is just a sign of them giving up? Would it be impossible that Brittany gave up after she cried in front of me?

After my confusion cools, my brain kicks into the problem-solving mode the events of my life have forced me to hone. Most importantly, I'll warn everyone not to let their guards down, like I was starting to, the next time I see them. Meanwhile, I need to find answers as to why the Monarchy has suddenly dropped under the radar. If they're planning something.

If this is the tidal recession before a tsunami.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

No-one is out and about right now, save for the occasional upperclassmen who have free periods. The maths and science department draws nearer with every step, until I'm walking past corridor upon corridor that all lead to classrooms. I have no reason to turn down one particular hallway, until my eyes snag on the tall figure pressing flat against the wall.

Silent as a shadow, he stands far enough to the side of the door's window, head straining to the left, to spy on the people inside without being detected.

And he's wearing a Letterman jacket.

"Reece?"

I really shouldn't concern myself being subtle, because I have a free period, and I can be here with no worries. Reece almost certainly shouldn't be here, spying on the AP Chem class. Callum, Quentin and Delaney would be inside. He quickly spins to face me, leaning over one leg.

With an amused smirk stretching out, I ask, "What are you doing?"

His eyes widen at the question, and just as quickly narrow into a menacing stare. I easily match his gaze. Surely we've known each other long enough to realise that neither of us can be scared off with petty glares.

Reece seems to admit this too. Although his face doesn't melt into any form of welcome, it isn't as defensive as it originally was. In fact, he seems a little lost about how to act around me without Brittany to direct him. "Well, what are you doing here?"

"I had a free period. Thought I'd head to my next class early seeing as I have nothing better to do. You should be heading there, too. AP Bio?"

The knowing smile on my lips does not escape Reece. He nervously takes a few shuffling steps away from the classroom, and closer to me. "Oh. Right."

His listless sigh permeates the awkward silence around us.

In my head I have a portrait of Terrence when he's not around the Monarchy — whenever it's just the two of us it's like the Monarchy doesn't even exist — sunny, mischievous and lighthearted. Things could be different if that was the largest side of him.

Now I'm sketching a similar portrait of Reece. Admittedly, he beat Drew and Benjamin to the point of needing stitches — albeit at Brittany's command. Because of that I was quick to write him off as a testosterone-fuelled jock that bullied and injured others to feed his own narcissism, but things have changed since the first days of senior year.

I've witnessed him letting his walls down and being vulnerable around Terrence. Though I can't fully comprehend what I overheard in the hallway that day, I know without a doubt that Reece was frustrated and tormented by something. He doesn't like being around Brittany, and looks forward to parting ways with her after high school. There's more to Reece than muscles, money and a Letterman jacket.

Everything is just so messed up.

His words. And I agree.

Reece looks so uncomfortable and harmless presently, purposefully avoiding making eye contact with me, that I can't but hopelessly wonder: what would all of them be like if they hadn't chosen power over friendship?

"You still didn't answer my question, Reece."

"Uh... I'm just waiting for my friend to get out of class. You probably misunderstood what I was doing."

Misunderstood. Sure. "Who's your friend?"

His hand comes up to run through his hair. He pauses. "A girl. Girlfriend. My girlfriend."

See, the way he talks is perfectly calm, almost rehearsed. What I'm fixated on is how his hand went through his hair, like when he sat across me in the Stereo Shack and hit on me. Like when Principal Fisher was questioning Brittany after we released the propaganda video and Drew, Derek, Reece and I were waiting to hear the verdict. Like when he gets called on for a question in class and doesn't know the answer.

Touching his hair is Reece's nervous habit, a sign that everything out of his mouth is hastily sewn together and complete, utter bullshit. My smile grows a fraction, and I reply sweetly, "I didn't know you had a girlfriend. What's her name?"

"Jane Smith."

With his looks and athleticism, Reece would find catching a girl from another school ridiculously easy. At this school, where he's nothing but a massive tyrant who skirts around drinking, drugs and plagiarism with abandon, any girl who'd openly date him is either insane, or fictional.

Or Jane Smith. "I haven't heard of her before."

"Well, you are kind of unpopular. I wouldn't be surprised," Reece casually replies. I don't miss the wariness in his eyes, and decide to up my game.

"Tell you what, I'll talk to my friends — who are in this class, did you know? — and see if they can tell me anything about this Jane Smith. You did say she's in there, right?"

It's like ice swallowing up a lake, watching Reece's easy-going smile freeze on his face, then shatter completely. "Fine," he sighs. "You got me. Fucking—"

"Not Jane Smith," I tease. As much as I hear girls praise his face and physique, Reece is less active in the dating department than I would have guessed. I think his association with Brittany scares girls off. Even those last four words might be true.

"Yes, I get it, Sophie. Can we change the topic now?"

"Good idea. How about we talk about why you're spying on a class? Or why your fellow Monarchs have gone radio-silent? I never see any of you around anymore — not that I'm complaining."

Reece flinches. Damn, such an intimidating guy should not break so easily under pressure. I guess his position in the school hierarchy means he's more accustomed to pressuring others. I didn't realise that we are only a few arm spans away from each other until he glares down the space between us. "I can't."

"Then I'll go to Brittany and see if she's any more talkative. We had a really productive conversation before winter break—"

"No. Don't go to her. I'll talk." It could be a trick of the light, because there's no way Reece just gulped. What is going on with him?

He seems to shrink back after he realises how much space his voice takes up in the empty, echoing corridor. Reece turns and starts walking. His voice drifts back several moments after I remain rooted to the floor. "You want answers or not?"

Something is definitely wrong with this boy, but I follow him. If there's one thing the Revolution has taught me, it's that whenever information presents itself, one should always follow. Most of the time, knowledge outweighs the trouble it took to get it.

Looking down at my feet, I trail Reece through the empty halls of the school. Occasionally, we see another student with a free period but a glance at Reece is enough to send them scampering off. I don't think he even notices.

He's so used to being avoided.