Chelsea took the stairs two at a time, her feet finding the rhythm of the treads that she hadn't walked in twenty-five years. The smell of bacon and maple syrup grew stronger with every step, a sensory assault that made her knees weak.

She burst into the kitchen.

Her father, George, was sitting at the round oak table, a newspaper spread out in front of him. He looked younger, his hair still peppered with black, his shoulders broad and unbent by grief. Her mother stood by the stove, flipping pancakes, her silhouette bathed in the morning light.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Dad mumbled without looking up.

Chelsea didn't speak. She crossed the room in three strides and wrapped her arms around her mother from behind. She buried her face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of vanilla and laundry detergent.

Her mother stiffened in surprise, then laughed softly. "Whoa, careful! You'll make me drop the spatula."

Chelsea squeezed tighter, feeling the solid reality of her. She was alive. She was warm.

"I love you," Chelsea said, her voice thick. "I love you so much."

Mom turned around, concern knitting her brows. She pressed a hand to Chelsea's forehead. "You okay, Chels? Bad dream?"

"The worst," Chelsea said, forcing a smile. She turned to Dad and hugged him too, burying her face in his flannel shirt. He smelled like Old Spice and coffee. She wanted to stay in this kitchen forever. She wanted to lock the doors and never leave.

But she had work to do.

Chelsea ate breakfast mechanically, her mind racing. When Dad offered to drive her to school, she shook her head. "I'll take the bus. I need to... review some notes."

She needed space. She needed to calibrate.

The bus ride was a blur of noise and teenage angst, but it gave her time to settle into her skin. When the bus hissed to a halt in front of Crestview Academy, she took a deep breath.

The school was a fortress of red brick and ivy, a monument to old money and pretension. Students milled about the courtyard, a sea of navy blue blazers and plaid skirts.

And then she saw it.

A bright red convertible pulled into the reserved parking spot closest to the entrance. The vanity plate read B-POTTS.

Brittany.

She hopped out of the car, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder. She looked radiant. Perfect. Innocent.

She was surrounded instantly by her court-girls who wanted to be her, boys who wanted to date her.

Chelsea stood by the bus stop, watching her. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. The urge to walk over there and snap Brittany's neck was so strong it made her vision vibrate. Patience, she told herself. You are a predator now. Predators wait.

Brittany spotted her. Her face lit up with that trademark smile-the one that didn't quite reach her eyes.

"Chelsea!" she squealed.

She ran over, her heels clicking on the pavement. She threw her arms around Chelsea.

Chelsea's body went rigid. Every instinct screamed danger. It took every ounce of her acting training to not shove Brittany away. She could feel the ghost of the poison burning in her throat.

"Hey," Chelsea said. Her voice sounded flat, but Brittany didn't notice.

Brittany pulled back, linking her arm through Chelsea's. "You didn't text me back last night! I was spiraling. Bennet was being so weird."

She was dragging Chelsea toward the entrance, her grip tight on her arm. It wasn't affectionate; it was controlling.

"Sorry," Chelsea said, putting on the mask. She widened her eyes, softened her jaw. She became the Chelsea Brittany knew-the doormat. "I fell asleep early. Headache."

Brittany rolled her eyes, but she bought it. "Ugh, you and your headaches. Anyway, we have a plan for lunch. I need you to look at my Yale essay. It's tragic."

"Yale?" Chelsea asked, playing dumb.

"Yes, Yale. The deadline is Friday. And you know I can't write to save my life." She squeezed Chelsea's arm, her nails digging in slightly. "Bennet says smart girls are sexy, but let's be real, I don't need to be smart if I have you."

Bennet says.

Chelsea almost laughed. The audacity.

"Sure," she said. "I'll look at it."

"Look at it? Babe, I need you to fix it. Rewrite it. Whatever." She checked her reflection in a window they passed. "Oh, and don't forget, you're doing my history presentation too."

They reached the main doors. The bell rang, a shrill sound that echoed through the courtyard.

"I have to go to my locker," Chelsea said, gently extricating her arm from Brittany's grip. "I'll catch up."

Brittany paused, looking at Chelsea. For a second, a flicker of suspicion crossed her face. Usually, Chelsea would cling to her like a limpet.

"Okay..." she said slowly. "Don't be late. We sit at the round table today."

She turned and sashayed into the building.

Chelsea watched her go, the smile dropping from her face instantly. Her expression went cold.

She walked into the building, passing the large bulletin board in the hallway. Mid-Term Rankings.

She scanned the list. Her name was at number 50. Right in the middle. Exactly where she had kept herself so she wouldn't outshine Brittany, who was miraculously at number 10 (thanks to Chelsea's work).

She touched the glass over her name.

"Not anymore," she whispered.

Lunchtime. The cafeteria was a zoo, but Brittany had cornered Chelsea in the hallway outside the library before she could even smell the pizza.

She shoved a sheaf of papers into Chelsea's chest.

"Here," she said. "The prompt is 'Overcoming Adversity.' I need it to sound deep, but not pathetic. You know?"

"Adversity?" Chelsea asked, raising an eyebrow. "Brittany, the hardest thing you've ever had to do was choose between the Range Rover and the Porsche for your sixteenth birthday."

Brittany glared at her. "That was actually really stressful, Chelsea. Just write it. Please? For me?"

She batted her eyelashes. The manipulation was so clumsy, so obvious. How had Chelsea never seen it before?

"Fine," Chelsea said, taking the papers. Her mind was already dissecting the prompt. She could write a Pulitzer-worthy essay in her sleep. And maybe she would. Or maybe she'd write one that was subtly, destructively terrible.

"You're the best!" Brittany blew her a kiss and strutted off toward the cafeteria.

Chelsea sighed and turned toward the auditorium. She needed quiet.

The auditorium was dim and cool. The smell of dust and floor wax hung in the air. A few students from the stage crew were up on the catwalks, adjusting lights for the upcoming fall play.

She sat in a seat about halfway down the center aisle, spreading the papers out.

Down near the stage, a boy was walking. Rory Lane. He was carrying a stack of textbooks that reached his chin. He was the quintessential nerd-thick glasses, suspenders, the whole package. Chelsea remembered him. He became a tech billionaire in her timeline, inventing some revolutionary AI chip. Right now, he was just the kid everyone tripped in the hallway.

Creak. Scccrrrape.

A sound from above. The grating noise of metal on metal. It was a sound she knew intimately from years on film sets. It was the sound of failing rigging.

She looked up. High above the stage, a heavy spotlight was swinging loose. A safety cable wasn't just snapped-it was slowly, audibly unraveling.

"Watch out!" someone yelled from the catwalk.

Rory looked up, freezing like a deer in headlights. He stumbled back, tripping over his own feet, and fell flat on his back. The books scattered.

The last thread of the cable gave way with a loud snap. The light fixture detached completely. It plummeted, a fifty-pound metal missile aiming straight for Rory's chest.

The scream caught in everyone's throat.

Chelsea didn't think.

The world slowed down. It was the adrenaline state-the "Zone" she had learned to access during her stunt training. She calculated the trajectory, the angle of descent, her required velocity.

She launched herself from the seat.

She was a blur, a streak of navy blue and plaid moving down the aisle. She vaulted over the orchestra pit railing, landing in a crouch on the polished wood of the stage.

Rory was just lying there, eyes wide behind his glasses, watching death fall toward him.

Chelsea dove.

It was a textbook Krav Maga evasion tackle. She hit Rory low, wrapping her arms around his waist. Momentum carried them both sideways. They rolled-one, two rotations-across the stage floor.

CRASH.

The spotlight smashed into the floorboards exactly where Rory's head had been a second ago. Glass shattered, spraying everywhere. Metal twisted. The impact shook the floor.

Dust billowed up in a cloud.

Silence. Absolute silence.

Chelsea lay on top of Rory, breathing hard. Her heart was steady, though. Controlled.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Rory stared up at her. His glasses were askew. He looked like he was looking at an alien. Or an angel.

"I... I think so," he squeaked.

Chelsea pushed herself up, brushing glass shards off her blazer. She checked him quickly-pupils equal, no bleeding. "You're fine. Just shock."

The students on the catwalk were shouting now, scrambling down ladders. The doors to the auditorium burst open as a teacher ran in.

Chelsea realized her mistake.

She had just executed a maneuver that belonged on a movie set, not in a high school auditorium. The "clumsy, invisible Chelsea" mask was shattered.

She quickly slumped her shoulders. She put a hand to her chest and forced her breathing to become erratic. She widened her eyes, feigning panic.

"Oh my god," she gasped, helping Rory up. "I just... I saw it falling and I just ran. I was so scared!"

Rory adjusted his glasses. He looked at the smashed light, then at Chelsea. There was a calculation in his eyes that belonged to a future genius.

"You moved really fast," he whispered. "The distance... it was impossible."

"Adrenaline," Chelsea said loudly, for the benefit of the approaching teacher. "My mom says I have a fight-or-flight reflex like a rabbit."

She gave him a shaky smile. "I'm just glad you're okay, Rory."

He nodded slowly, blushing a furious red. "Thanks, Chelsea. You... you saved my life."

"Don't mention it," she said. "Literally. Please don't make a big deal out of it."

She turned to leave before the interrogation began.

As she walked up the aisle, she felt a prickle on the back of her neck. The sensation of being watched.

She glanced up toward the balcony level, where the shadows were deepest.

A figure stood there. Tall. Broad shoulders.

He was just a silhouette, but she saw the glint of eyes watching her. Studying her.

Chelsea shivered, but not from cold. She hurried out of the auditorium, clutching her bag.

The gymnasium smelled of rubber soles and teenage sweat. The squeak of sneakers on hardwood was deafening. It was basketball practice, but because Bennet Livingston was the captain, half the school was watching.

Brittany had dragged Chelsea to the front row of the bleachers.

"Look at him," she sighed. "He's a god."

Bennet was dribbling the ball down the court. He was handsome, Chelsea had to admit that. Classic all-American looks, blonde hair, blue eyes. But now, all she saw was the rot underneath.

He stopped at the three-point line, spun, and shot. The ball swished through the net.

He turned toward them, flashing a million-dollar smile. He pointed at Brittany, then blew a kiss.

The girls around them screamed. Brittany squealed, digging her elbow into Chelsea's ribs. "Wave back! He's looking at us!"

Chelsea didn't move. She pulled a textbook out of her bag-AP Calculus-and opened it.

Bennet's smile faltered. He was used to her swooning. He was used to her being the grateful, quiet friend who worshipped him from afar.

The coach blew the whistle for a break. Bennet jogged over, wiping sweat from his forehead with his jersey, exposing his abs. More screams.

He walked right up to Chelsea. He didn't ask; he just extended his hand, palm up. Expecting her to hand him her water bottle. It was a ritual. She always brought him Gatorade.

Chelsea looked at his hand. Then she looked at his face.

"What's up, Ben?" she asked.

"Thirsty," he said, winking. "Hydrate me, Chels."

The arrogance. It was suffocating.

Chelsea reached into her bag. She pulled out a chilled bottle of water. Condensation beaded on the plastic.

Bennet reached for it.

Chelsea unscrewed the cap, lifted the bottle to her own lips, and took a long, slow drink.

The silence that fell over their section of the bleachers was instantaneous.

Chelsea lowered the bottle, capped it, and put it back in her bag.

"Refreshed?" she asked.

Bennet's hand was still hovering in the air. He looked like a glitching robot. "Excuse me?"

"I said, I'm refreshed. Thanks for asking." She turned back to her book.

A few guys on the team snickered. Bennet's face turned a mottled shade of red.

"What is your problem?" he hissed, leaning in so only Chelsea could hear. "Are you trying to embarrass me?"

"I'm just reading, Bennet. You're the one standing there with your hand out like a beggar."

Brittany gasped. "Chelsea!"

She quickly shoved her own pink water bottle at him. "Here, baby. She's just... cranky. Ignore her."

Bennet snatched Brittany's bottle, but his eyes were glued to Chelsea. They were cold, angry. "You're acting weird, Molina. I don't like it."

"I don't really care what you like," Chelsea said, meeting his gaze. Her voice was steady, bored. "Move. You're blocking my light."

He looked like he wanted to hit her. For a second, she saw the man who would one day leave her to die in a motel room.

"You'll regret that," he muttered, turning away.

Brittany glared at Chelsea. "What the hell was that? You're ruining everything!"

"I'm going to get some air," Chelsea said, standing up. "The testosterone in here is giving me a rash."

She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked out. She could feel Bennet's eyes boring into her back.

She walked out of the gym, past the locker rooms, and pushed open the heavy double doors to the outside. The cool autumn air hit her face.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A text from Bennet.

Stop playing hard to get. It's pathetic. Meet me behind the bleachers after practice and apologize, and maybe I'll forgive you.

Chelsea stared at the screen. The audacity was almost impressive.

She tapped the contact info. Block Caller.

She shoved the phone back in her pocket. She needed higher ground. She needed to see the horizon.

She headed for the maintenance stairwell that led to the roof of the science building. It was strictly off-limits, which meant it was the only place she could be alone.