*Disclaimer: This tale is straight-up fiction. Ain't your typical high school soap opera. We're vibing in a universe where booze and smokes ain't age-gated, and getting into college is all about acing a beast of a test called the CAA. Rankings are life. Expect some rough edges, spicy language, and maybe a little love and chaos.
Chapter 1: The Rainy Night Grind
March rolled in, bringing those vibes that tell you winter’s ghosting us, but the nights were still dropping temps like they were hot. Ivy Sterling was all quick steps and hushed sighs, hustling home with one hand buried in her school blazer and the other gripping her umbrella like it was her lifeline. She’d swap hands every few blocks, picking up the pace.
The sidewalks in her old-school town were a patchwork of colorful bricks—some were straight-up wonky and had these ankle-spraining puddles. Ivy was all about that heads-down life, dodging those mini-lakes like a pro. A gust of wind decided to crash the party, sending the camphor trees into a frenzy and dumping a mini monsoon on her.
After she gave the local gym the side-eye, Ivy cut through the street. The hood was lit with all these eateries slinging dishes from every corner of the map, their greasy, delicious stank doing a tango with the rainy night air.
Stomach rumbling, Ivy stepped on it.
One hundred and twenty steps later, she dipped into this cozy burger joint without even peeping up. The place was buzzing, and it wasn’t even prime time yet.
"What time you call this? Didn't I say get back ASAP? Get over here and hustle!" That was Aunt Hazel, Ivy's personal tornado, cutting through the burger joint's chaos. Ivy tiptoed around the packed tables and slid into the kitchen zone like a ninja.
Aunt Hazel was in the weeds, flipping burgers like her life depended on it.
"Auntie, tomorrow..."
Her voice was practically a whisper.
She cranked up the volume: "Auntie, I got this killer exam tomorrow. Can I hit the books tonight?"
Hazel shot her the stink eye, "Can’t you see we’re slammed? And it’s not like you’re acing your classes. What’s cramming gonna do? Drop your bag and get to work!"
Ivy clammed up, ditched her stuff, and climbed the stairs to their crib.
Their three-bed pad was all bathed in that streetlight glow, with the scent of deep-fryer oil from downstairs muscling through the wind.
Ivy slammed the windows shut, ditched her backpack, and bounced back down to the grind.
She was on her feet till the clock struck eleven.
Post-shower, Ivy was chilling at her desk, slathering burn cream on her throbbing hand. She yanked out her study guides, ready for a late-night sesh.
Her hand was straight-up screaming.
That burn from flipping burgers had gone from zero to a hundred real quick, leaving her with a fan club of painful blisters.
She was scraping the bottom of the barrel with the burn cream stash at her place. She scooched her chair back and bounced to the living room. The gel tube on the coffee table was practically hugging air.
Aunt Hazel was getting all sizzle and steam in the shower, so Ivy grabbed her brolly and ghosted out the door.
The streets were lit, but most of the food joints had flipped their 'Closed' signs. Just a quick trek from her pad, there was this 24/7 drugstore.
The night was serving up a serious downpour.
Ivy let her scorched hand play in the rain, letting the late March drizzle work its chilly magic on the sting.
Chill vibes filled her lungs as she kept it moving, heading to the pharmacy.
She made it there in no time, shook her umbrella like it owed her money, and strolled in.
"Three tubes of burn cream, please." she told the dude behind the counter.
She was digging through her pockets for cash when this rowdy laugh track and boozy banter hit her ears.
They were wasted.
A squad of guys stumbled in, propping up their buddy who was all kinds of flushed and crinkly forehead. They were rocking school uniforms, looking hella out of place.
"Yo, hook us up with some gut meds and painkillers," they slurred.
The pharmacist was giving them the stink eye, "Don't be playing with painkillers. If your boy's hurting, get him to a doc, stat."
While he was dropping some truth bombs, he slid the burn cream across the counter.
Ivy tried to be low-key grabbing it, but the hand burn was screaming for attention.
"Ew—" one of the guys drawled, eyeballing my hand, "You let that get rained on? You ain't scared of catching something nasty?"
They were all eyes, "Better watch out, or you'll be waving goodbye to that hand."
Ivy got a little shook by his rambling and peeped at her hand like it was a ticking time bomb. She bit my lip and mumbled a "thanks" before dipping out.
She didn't wanna camp in their way, so she cut left, aiming to pop her umbrella under the overhang. Two steps in and she crashed into some dude's hand—
Right by the door, this guy in the same school uniform was all leaned up against the glass. Ivy brushed past just as he was flicking his lighter to life.
The lighter hit the deck with a snap.
She clocked it, dropped down in a hot sec, and scooped it up.
The ground was a soggy mess, and the lighter was caked in crud. Ivy whipped out a tissue and got to work, making sure it was mint before handing it back.
"My bad," She said, handing it over, "Really sorry, it's all good though."
Homeboy was chilling against the door, his blond mop all wild. The street lamp was throwing some moody shadows, making his damp hair glow and his face all mysterious.
He popped the cig back in his mouth, crouched down to her level, and tipped his chin at her.
Chiseled jawline and his ghostly pale skin, dude was straight-up giving off frosty vibes. He needed a light for his smoke.
Ivy was low-key about to spark it up for him when the wind got all up in their business, snuffing out the flame. She had to ninja-shield it with her hand to get that cig lit.
She didn't even lock eyes with him, not once. His hair was all damp and emo-style over his brows, totally obscuring his face. So, she's trying to light it, right? And then she clocks that she's using her left hand—the one with this gnarly burn slathered in this yellow burn cream that's mixing with the rain and looking all kinds of nasty.
"Oops, my bad," she mumbles, switching hands, but the wind wasn't having it, and the dude was towering over her. After a hot sec of indecision, she's back to using her left. She gets the job done quick and drops the lighter like it's hot.
This guy, Nolan Frost—yeah, that's his name—takes a drag and peeps her hand. It's this tiny, fragile thing that makes the burn pop even more. He's all cool and detached but takes a longer look when he catches the Riverdale High School badge on her.
Ivy's on edge, wondering why he's not taking his lighter back. He's all chill, with a side of 'couldn't care less.' But then, just as she dares to glance up, he swipes the lighter and bounces to the pharmacy, leaving her to exhale the biggest sigh of relief.
-
The next day, and it's still dumping rain. Ivy's doing her plant mom thing before diving into her Spanish audio drills and chipping in at the family burger joint.
When it's time to hit the books at school, Aunt Hazel hooks her up with a BLT and soup combo. Ivy's hands are like ice blocks, but that cup of soup is her savior, warming her up as she wolfs down breakfast before braving the rain again.
And that's just the morning tea. The math teach was all like, "Grab your notebooks tomorrow, 'kay?" while he was shoving his books into his old leather bag. "And hey, your physics prof is already on that grading grind, and for once, he ain't spittin' fire. So, hit those math books hard tonight—don't ghost on math just 'cause physics is all up in your grill."
Down in the trenches, her classmates were all chuckles and nods.
Math teacher did his nagging dance and bounced outta the room.
Ivy, she's stashed her books in her desk and was just chillin', head turned to the wall like she's watching some invisible Netflix.
Then—bam!
A bunch of chicks come storming in, kicking chairs like they're on some soccer field.
Ivy's gotta sit up straight now, but she's still got her head down, eyeing the trio of kicks by her desk.
One of the girls is all, "Girl, you sleepin' in class like it's your bed. You sneakin' out for some midnight mischief or what?"
Her voice dripped with that mean-girl syrup, thick with shade.
The other two hyenas cackled, jumping on the diss train.
"Brianna, she's flat as a pancake, no curves—like, who'd even?"
"Dummy Tommy from the second class would, that's who."
That's when the label drop. Brianna Caldwell, queen bee of the schoolyard hive.
"Yo!"
Ivy's still silent, so Brianna's foot goes rogue and slams into Ivy's desk.
Books go flying like they're tryin' to escape this mess. Brianna's sneaker leaves its autograph on Ivy's notebook—a grey, soggy stamp on all her hard work. Ivy's lashes flutter, she peeks, but then she's all, "Whatever," and looks away.
The class is buzzing like a beehive—gossip, games, cramming. Outside, peeps are strutting to the water fountain, hitting up the loo.
Ivy's just there, solo in her corner, breathing in the stank of high school drama.
The bell's a freaking chorus of angels.
Brianna throws Ivy one last stank eye and struts back to her throne.
And then, Ivy's like, "Crap, where's my eraser?" It's MIA—probably got yeeted to some dark corner when her desk got WWE'd.
She's eyeing the eraser in the next desk over.
"Hey, can I borrow your eraser, please?"
Crickets.
That's the deal in this jungle. You don't mess with Brianna's blacklist, or you're signing up for a daily dose of high school hell.
Author's drop:
* Stick with me, fam.
* We're talking school drama, with a side of "let's fix each other."
* And yeah, our guy? Total bad boy vibes.
