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.
