A sharp poke to my back yanks me out of my thoughts, and I jerk sideways in my seat, startled.
I don't turn around right away. Mr. Collins is mid-lecture, and the last thing I need is to get caught not paying attention. I sneak a glance over my shoulder, squinting at the girl behind me with a silent glare, Knock it off. Then I turn back to the front, trying to refocus.
Another poke.
Seriously?
I roll my eyes and glance again. She's leaning down like she dropped her pencil, but instead of retrieving it, she's holding out a folded piece of notebook paper. I shake my head and mouth no, turning back to the professor.
But she's persistent. Another poke.
I whip around and give her the look of death. She responds with wide, pleading eyes—the kind that say Take the damn note or I'll keep poking you until graduation.
Fine.
I reach back, all stealthy-like, trying to be smooth. I snatch the note, hoping Mr. Collins doesn't notice. He's notorious for his zero-tolerance policy on distractions. On the first day of class, he handed out a syllabus that read more like a manifesto. Rule number one: No interruptions. No distractions. No exceptions. He promised public humiliation for anyone who broke it.
"Ms. Meyler."
Oh no.
"Is my lecture today boring you?"
Think fast. Distract him.
"No, sir! I find ancient civilizations fascinating. Especially the Druids. Did you know they—"
"Stop."
He holds up a hand, silencing me with a single gesture. "Please bring up whatever Ms. Dobson passed to you so the entire class can benefit from this urgent communication."
I freeze. The note crinkles in my hand like it's laughing at me.
I stand, shooting a glare at the girl behind me. She mouths sorry and shrugs, as if that makes up for the impending doom. I walk down the steps toward the podium, trying not to trip. Every eye in the lecture hall is on me. My face is already heating up.
Crappity crap.
I don't even know what the note says. What if it's something weird? What if it's personal? What if it's from someone I don't even know?
I hand it to Mr. Collins, silently praying it's not embarrassing.
He unfolds it slowly, like he's savoring the moment. Then he reads aloud:
"Hey, Beautiful. I was wondering if you had any plans to go to the Masquerade Ball? I understand you're hard-headed and you'll probably say you're not interested—"
Raising a bushy, overgrown eyebrow at me, he continues in his judgy voice, "Hmm, he seems rude—I would say no. Anywho—But I'd love to escort you. You can check Yes or No, and just leave it in the black Chevy truck parked in lot space 351. I want it to be a surprise when I pick you up that night."
Mr. Collins pauses, then adds with a smirk, "It even has a heart-eyed smiley face." Showing the class the letter.
The class erupts in laughter.
Twisting my fingers together, I wish I could cover my face with both hands and melt into the floor. My ears are burning. My cheeks are probably glowing like emergency beacons.
"Well, Angela," Mr. Collins says, holding up the note like it's a sacred scroll, "I'll keep this as a reminder. Let this be a lesson to everyone: the next person who passes a note, giggles, or talks during my lecture will not attend the ball—or any other event—until graduation."
The room goes silent. A few students grumble, but no one dares challenge him.
"Do I make myself clear?"
He raises his palm to silence the class before anyone can respond.
"That's rhetorical. Don't answer, David."
David, the class smartass, raises his hands in surrender. Mr. Collins shakes his head and gestures for me to return to my seat.
I walk back, head down, trying to shrink into myself. I slide into my chair and cover my eyes, pretending I'm invisible.
This might be worse than the time my mom showed up at middle school with a bag of feminine products, loudly declaring, "Aunt Flow doesn't wait till you're ready—it's her time!" She meant well, but she'd confused me with my sister. Again.
And my crush, John Carlson, was sitting right there. Watching. Mortified.
Mom did that a lot growing up.
Now, thanks to this mystery note, I've been publicly humiliated again. And I don't even know who sent it.
As soon as class ends, I grab my bag and bolt. I don't wait for Shelby. I don't wait for anyone. I head straight to the parking lot, determined to find space 351.
I need to know who sent that note. And I need to respond.
I weave through rows of cars until I spot it—a bold, brawny, and built-for-power, black truck, polished to a mirror shine. Lot space 351.
This is it.
I dig through my art case, fingers flying past pencils, charcoal sticks, and sketch pads until I find what I'm looking for: a permanent white paint marker.
I struggle to climb onto the hood of the car, heart pounding, and write NO in bold, dramatic letters across the windshield. I add a checkmark for flair. Then I slide the marker under the wiper blade like a calling card.
It's reckless. It's bold. It's me.
I slide off the hood, adrenaline buzzing through my veins, and walk away with a grin tugging at my lips.
But halfway to Shelby's little Volkswagen, it hits me.
I just vandalized someone's car.
My grin fades. My stomach drops.
If anyone saw me, I could get in serious trouble. Expelled, even.
I spin around, ready to run back and wipe it off—but the truck is gone.
Vanished.
I blink, stunned. It was there. I know it was there.
I shake my head, trying to clear the fog of panic. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe it was a different truck. Maybe—
No. It was real.
But it's gone.
I stand there for a moment, heart racing, trying to make sense of it. Then I whisper to myself, "I did nothing wrong."
It was an unconventional reply to an unconventional invitation. My professor took the note. I couldn't respond the normal way.
Yup. That works. No guilt.
As I walk away from the now-vanished truck, still trying to convince myself I did nothing wrong, my phone buzzes.
Unknown Number:
Nice handwriting. But you checked the wrong box.
She freezes.
Her heart skips a beat. She didn't tell anyone about the note. No one saw her write on the windshield. The car was gone before she could even second-guess herself.
She stares at the message, fingers trembling.
Before she can respond, another message appears.
Unknown Number:
You're not ready yet. But you will be. The Masquerade is more than a dance, Angela. It's a door. And you've already stepped through it.
Then, a photo.
It's blurry, taken from a distance—but it's unmistakably her, standing on the hood of the truck, marker in hand. The timestamp? Ten minutes after she left the lecture hall.
Her blood runs cold.
She looks around the parking lot. Empty. Still. But she feels it—that electric tension again, like the air is holding its breath.
And then she remembers something from the prophecy scroll:
The Keeper will be tested three times before the veil lifts.
Once by fire.
Once by choice.
Once by time.
She thought the prophecy was just a story. A myth buried in a forgotten scroll.
But now?
Now it feels like the story is watching her.