Amy Greene had spent the entire summer planning this moment.
New year. New dorm. New notebooks with glittery stickers. And most importantly—new reputation. Senior year wasn't just another school year. It was the year. The year people would finally stop calling her "that girl who faceplanted at prom rehearsal" and start calling her… well, something cooler.
Preferably something like Queen Amy.
She stepped off the bus, dragging her suitcase behind her with the elegance of someone about to conquer the world—or at least the hallways of Westbridge Academy, her beloved boarding school.
In her head, it was cinematic: slow-motion walk, hair catching the breeze, her oversized sunglasses glinting in the morning sun.
In reality? The wheels of her suitcase got stuck in a crack, and she nearly faceplanted onto the pavement.
"Classic," muttered Sarah, who was trudging behind her with a duffel bag and zero enthusiasm.
Amy yanked the suitcase free, tossed her hair back, and pretended like nothing had happened. "Sarah, we are seniors now. SENIORS. The world is our oyster. The cafeteria is our kingdom. And—" She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "Rumor has it there's going to be a welcome-back party tonight."
Sarah raised a brow. "Rumor has it you started that rumor."
"Details," Amy said with a dismissive wave. "The point is, this year will be epic. Legendary. Life-changing. Think Gossip Girl meets High School Musical."
"More like Survivor meets Detention," Sarah muttered.
As they climbed the stone steps toward the main building, Amy couldn't help gawking. Seniors lounged across the quad like they owned the place. Freshmen scurried around, wide-eyed and terrified. And somewhere, near the old fountain, she spotted a cluster of boys tossing a football, laughing like they'd already been cast in her imaginary teen drama.
This was it. The stage was set. Amy Greene was ready for her spotlight.
She dramatically pushed open the doors to the dorm lobby—only to trip over a mop bucket and land flat on the floor, arms spread like a starfish.
Every head turned. A group of juniors snickered. The RA sighed. Sarah covered her face.
Amy, refusing to let humiliation win, sat up, struck a pose, and declared:
"Senior year… has officially begun."
And somewhere in the crowd, someone whispered the four words that would fuel her every waking thought for the next twenty-four hours:
"Are you going to the party?"
***********
The thing about Amy Greene was this: she didn't wait for opportunities. She tripped, stumbled, or flat-out barged into them.
Which is why, less than an hour after arriving at Westbridge Academy, Amy had already launched a mission—codename: Operation Party Invite.
Step one: Information gathering.
Step two: Strategic charm.
Step three: Acquire party details and pretend she was already on the guest list.
Easy.
"So," Amy said casually as she and Sarah unpacked in their dorm, "who usually throws these things? Seniors? Football team? The mysterious underground society of glittery influencers?"
Sarah looked unimpressed, folding her clothes with surgical precision. "It's the senior welcome-back. You know—invite-only, off-campus, rumored to be insane every year. And you? Not on the list."
Amy gasped. "Not on the list? Impossible. I was born to be on the list."
"Last year you weren't even on the list for the yearbook committee pizza night," Sarah reminded her.
Amy ignored that. "Fine. If they won't invite me, I'll… strategically invite myself."
Before Sarah could argue, there was a knock on the dorm door. Amy flung it open—and there stood Chloe Davenport, queen bee of Westbridge. Perfect curls, perfect nails, perfect smirk.
"Well, well," Chloe said, eyeing Amy up and down. "Greene's back."
Amy plastered on her brightest smile. "Chloe! You look… rich. I mean radiant."
Sarah groaned from her bed.
Chloe stepped inside without asking. "Just letting everyone know—party tonight. Only the seniors who matter are invited." She leaned in, her perfume smelling suspiciously like intimidation. "Try not to embarrass yourself this year, Amy."
And with that, Chloe strutted out, leaving a trail of expensive hairspray in her wake.
Amy shut the door, fists clenched in determination. "Step four has been added to the mission."
Sarah didn't look up. "Step four?"
"Crash the party. Obviously."
Sarah sighed. "Obviously."
Amy flopped dramatically onto her bed, staring at the ceiling with fiery resolve. "Senior year hasn't even started, and I already have an arch-nemesis, a mission, and a destiny. It's like I'm living in a Netflix series."
"Yeah," Sarah muttered. "One season. Canceled after ten episodes."
But Amy wasn't listening. Her eyes gleamed with reckless confidence. Tonight, she was going to that party.
And nothing—not Chloe, not Sarah's realism, not even gravity—was going to stop her.
*
*
*
By 7 p.m., the entire senior dorm was buzzing. Laughter in the halls. Music blasting from someone's speaker. Perfume clouds thick enough to suffocate a horse.
Everyone was getting ready for the party.
Everyone except Amy Greene.
Amy was pacing her dorm like a military general preparing for battle. She'd sketched out a map (actually a doodle on the back of her homework planner) with arrows, exclamation marks, and the words Operation Party Crash circled dramatically in glitter pen.
Sarah, sprawled on her bed with earbuds in, looked up once and shook her head. "This is a terrible idea."
"Correction," Amy said, pointing to her glitter map, "this is a legendary idea. Do you think people remember the seniors who play it safe? No. History remembers the bold. The daring. The unstoppable."
"History also remembers the expelled," Sarah muttered.
But Amy was already rifling through her closet. "Outfit is crucial. Something that says: I totally belong at exclusive parties." She held up a sparkly top. "Too desperate?"
"Too disco ball," Sarah said.
Amy tossed it aside, then gasped as she pulled out a sleek black dress. "This. This says: mysterious transfer student from Europe. Very Emily in Paris."
"You've lived here your whole life," Sarah reminded her.
"Details!" Amy snapped, yanking the dress over her head. She admired herself in the mirror, striking poses. "If Chloe Davenport sees me walk in like this, she'll choke on her imported sparkling water."
Sarah rolled her eyes but secretly handed Amy her mascara. That was the thing about Sarah—she complained endlessly, but she'd never let Amy storm into disaster without at least looking good.
By 9 p.m., the dorm hallways had emptied as the chosen few filed out toward the off-campus mansion where the party was happening. Amy peeked out the window, spotting the trail of students heading down the hill.
Her heart raced. This was it. Showtime.
She grabbed her phone, her glittery map, and her courage. "Sarah, if I don't make it back, tell my story. Tell them… Amy Greene lived fabulously."
Sarah smirked. "More like Amy Greene died of embarrassment."
Amy ignored her and slipped out.
The walk to the mansion felt like marching into destiny. Lights flashed in the distance, music thumped in the air, and the closer she got, the more alive she felt.
She ducked behind a tree, smoothing her dress. A group of seniors walked past, laughing. Among them—Chloe Davenport, in a gold dress that probably cost more than Amy's entire tuition.
Amy narrowed her eyes. "Step one: sneak past the enemy."
But before she could make her move, someone tapped her on the shoulder.
She spun around—and there he was.
Ethan. Locker Boy. Except now he wasn't just Locker Boy. He was Party Boy, wearing a leather jacket and holding a red cup, like he'd walked straight out of every YA romance novel ever written.
He tilted his head, smiling. "Locker Inspector?"
Amy froze. Her brain short-circuited. Then, in the most dignified tone she could muster, she said:
"…I'm undercover."
Ethan laughed, shaking his head. "You're ridiculous. Come on, let's get you inside before Chloe spots you."
And just like that, Amy Greene's mission was no longer a solo operation.
It had become a duet.