The glow from Mae's phone screen seemed to pulse like a warning siren. Isla's stomach knotted as she stared at the post: Another girl chasing the broken boy. Place your bets. Hundreds of anonymous comments already stacked beneath it, some with laughing emojis, others with hearts and knives.
"Why would anyone…" Isla whispered.
Mae bit her lip. "There's an anonymous forum here. People treat it like a sport. Every time someone new ends up near Jasper, they turn it into a betting pool—how long before she gives up, how long before he pushes her away."
Isla felt her pulse in her ears. "That's disgusting."
"It's Westbridge," Mae said gently. "Talent brings drama."
Jasper's jaw worked. He'd gone still in the chair, guitar across his knees like a shield. "Delete it."
"I can't," Mae said. "Anonymous board. Only admin can remove posts."
Jasper stood so abruptly the chair clattered backward. "Of course. Same game, different year."
Isla looked at him. "This has happened before?"
He didn't answer. His gray eyes were darker now, shadows gathering like a storm. "Forget it. We're done for tonight."
"But the project—"
"Forget it," he repeated, slinging the guitar over his back. "You wanted a fresh start? Don't let them drag you into this."
He brushed past her, the scent of rain and cedar trailing behind, and was gone before she could speak.
Mae squeezed Isla's arm. "Don't take it personally. He… has a history."
"What kind of history?" Isla asked.
Mae hesitated. "His brother. Car accident. Whole school knows but no one talks about it. Some say he blames himself. Some say—"
"Stop." Isla pressed her palms to her eyes. "I don't want gossip. I just want to survive this semester."
But surviving Westbridge was easier said than done. The next morning whispers followed her down the hall like smoke. Girls glanced at her and smirked; boys elbowed each other. When she opened her locker, a sticky note fluttered out: New girl's turn. Don't get burned.
She crumpled it and shoved it into her bag. She told herself she didn't care. But her hands shook as she set up her paints in the lab later that day.
Jasper arrived late, sunglasses hiding his eyes, hoodie pulled up despite the warm room. He dropped his guitar case onto the table with a thud.
"Look," Isla said before he could speak. "I don't care what they say. We're partners. We're going to finish this project."
He didn't look at her. "You think you can ignore them?"
"I don't care about their stupid game."
His laugh was low, humorless. "That's what the last one said."
"The last one?"
"Never mind." He opened the guitar case, fingers tense on the instrument's neck. "You'll figure it out."
She set down her brush. "Then tell me. Instead of letting them scare me, tell me."
For a moment she thought he would. His mouth opened, then closed. "It's not my story to tell."
Frustration flared. "Then stop acting like I'm already guilty of something."
That got his attention. He looked up, eyes sharp. "I'm trying to protect you."
"From what?" she demanded.
He stared at her, then strummed a chord so sharp it vibrated in her ribs. "From me," he said quietly.
Silence swallowed the room. Isla's breath caught.
"Jasper…"
He shook his head. "Let's just work."
So they worked — in brittle, careful silence. She sketched panels for the mural; he played fragments of melodies that hung like ghosts between them. The tension became its own rhythm, pushing them to create even as it frayed her nerves.
When the bell rang, Isla gathered her things, exhausted.
"I'll email you the new chords," Jasper said without looking up.
"Fine."
She stepped into the hallway and nearly collided with a tall boy leaning against the wall, phone in hand. He smiled like a cat catching a bird.
"You're the new mural girl, right?" he said. "I'm Kellan. We haven't met."
"I'm busy." She tried to pass him.
He shifted to block her. "Just thought you should know — the bets are up to three hundred already. People are sure you'll last less than a month."
Her stomach twisted. "That's sick."
"That's tradition." His smile widened. "But if you want an out, I could help you. Make a post, say you're not interested, the pot dries up."
"I don't need your help."
He leaned closer. "Everyone does, eventually. Ask Jasper."
She shoved past him, heart pounding. Behind her he laughed softly.
Back in her room, Isla sat on her bed staring at her sketchbook. On the page she'd drawn without realizing — Jasper again, but this time with cracks across his face like a shattered statue.
She snapped the book shut. "I won't play their game," she whispered to herself.
Her phone buzzed. Another anonymous message: He's not who you think he is. Leave before it's too late.
Outside, the campus bells chimed the hour. Inside, Isla felt the walls closing in.
She didn't know who to trust. But she knew one thing: whatever this game was, it had already begun — and walking away might not be an option anymore.