The chocolate fountain exploded the second the lights dimmed for the slideshow.

For one suspended heartbeat, the junior class of Bookside High watched in slow motion as a curtain of glossy brown liquid arced up and out, the way it did in TikToks when something went horribly, hilariously wrong. It hung in the air like a wave. And then it came down—straight onto Ramona Hayes.

Gasps sliced through the gym. Phones flew up, camera lights winking like tiny, hungry stars.

Ramona stood in the center of it all in a white satin dress, dripping chocolate from her lashes, her hair, the fragile rhinestone crown perched on top of her perfectly curled head. The video on the projector froze on an image of ten-year-old Ramona at summer camp, grinning beside a bunk bed—while another girl cried and clutched a stained sleeping bag.

The crowd roared with laughter.

Ramona couldn’t yet know this was the exact moment everything would crack open: her reputation, her anger, her grip on the Spring Fling crown. She couldn’t know that somewhere in the crowd, a girl who used to be her best friend was finally being vindicated, and a stepsister she’d sworn to hate was already stepping in front of her, arms spread, taking the worst of the chocolate shower so Ramona wouldn’t have to.

All she knew right then was that the air smelled like sugar and betrayal, and there were a hundred phones pointed at her, waiting to see what she’d do next.

Three months earlier, she’d thought she knew exactly how this story would go.

The morning announcements crackled over the loudspeaker as Bookside High shuffled sleepily into another Tuesday.

“Attention, students! Tickets for the Spring Fling go on sale next Friday,” the vice principal’s bright voice boomed. “And don’t forget to cast your votes for your Spring Fling king and queen nominees!”

The hallway lights were too bright, the lockers too dented, but to Ramona, the air itself felt glittery. She could practically hear the soundtrack of her life swelling—some kind of soft-focus pop song with a slow-motion shot of her walking down the hall, hair bouncing, smile perfectly calibrated.

“Your aura is like a golden sunset,” Alana whispered, fanning her with a binder as they wove through the crowd. “Warm, radiant, impossible to ignore. Spring Fling Queen could never.”

Ramona pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, pretending she wasn’t secretly drinking in every word. Appearance was currency at Bookside, and Ramona was wealthy.

“This look?” Alana continued, reaching out to adjust the tiny charm necklace at Ramona’s collarbone. “Totally giving Sofia Richie hidden luxury era.”

Ramona smirked, flipping her glossy curls over one shoulder. “That’s the vibe,” she said. “Effortless, but make it curated.”

Then she saw him.

Bowie Turner. Leaning against the trophy case like a teen drama had spit him out: messy hair, dark blue hoodie, eyes on the paperback in his hands. The fluorescent lights caught the curve of his jaw. Ramona’s stomach dipped like she’d just gone over a hill too fast.

There he is, she thought. #DreamGuy. #MyFirstClassTicketToBeingCrownedSpringFlingQueen.

Her brain, which could memorize Spanish verbs just by glancing at them, blanked.

“Peppermint,” she hissed to Alana. “Get the peppermint!”

Alana dug in her tote, slapped a mint into Ramona’s palm like a nurse delivering instruments in surgery. “Queen, you are Ramona Reynolds,” she murmured, mixing up her last name but nailing the tone. “Just go talk to him.”

Ramona popped the mint, sucked in a breath, took one step toward Bowie—

“Progress check on my birthday invites,” Alana interrupted, shoving her phone under Ramona’s nose. “Tell me you’re free to hit the mall after school. I need my shopping soulmate. And that is you, babe.”

“I can’t,” Ramona said, still watching Bowie over Alana’s shoulder. “Dinner with Dad’s new wifey. She’s officially moving in since her lease is up. ‘Family bonding,’” she added, putting quotes around the words with her fingers.

“Tragic,” Alana groaned. “Anyway, this Spanish homework is killing my spirit. No matter how hard I try, no comprendar.”

“No comprendo,” Ramona corrected without thinking. “Here. Let me see.”

She took Alana’s worksheet and red pen, automatically drifting into tutor mode. Spanish was her thing. Her late mom had taught it at the community college before she got sick, and Ramona had soaked up every word like it was a way to keep her alive.

She had just circled a verb tense when Alana’s eyes flicked past her shoulder.

“Uh-oh,” Alana murmured. “Stalker alert. Twelve o’clock.”

Ramona stiffened.

Chloe Benson stood at the edge of their orbit, clutching a notebook to her chest like a shield. Her hair was pulled back, her clothes plain. There was something tentative and hopeful in her expression that made Ramona’s chest hurt and her defenses snap up.

Chloe had once been the third point in their triangle. Sleepovers, shared playlists, whispered secrets about crushes and college. That was before the photos. Before the journal. Before Ramona’s whispered accusation that Chloe had been “obsessed, like, actually obsessed” with her.

Before Chloe got labeled a stalker.

“I’m pretty sure she’s still manifesting that fake narrative,” Alana muttered now.

“Hi,” Chloe said, voice small. “Um. Ramona? Can we—”

“No,” Ramona cut in automatically. Then, softer, “I’m busy.”

Chloe flinched, but didn’t move. “I just… about the recommendation for the Spain program. Señora said—”

Ramona’s jaw clenched. That letter of recommendation was supposed to be hers. She’d worked for it. She’d stayed late, helped Señora grade quizzes, led extra practice sessions for kids who struggled.

“Whatever you think you’re going to say, Chloe,” Ramona said, “don’t.”

Chloe’s eyes shone. “But that’s not true,” she whispered. “I swear. I never—”

“Really?” Alana stepped in, voice sharp. “Then explain how photos of Ramona changing in the locker room ended up in your pre-AP assignment, and her schedule and outfits in your journal. Or what was found in your locker.”

“It was—” Chloe started, but before she could finish, the bell rang, and the hallway swallowed her excuse.

Señora Rivera’s classroom smelled like dry-erase markers and hope.

“Excelente trabajo,” she said, handing Ramona’s essay back with a tiny Spanish flag sticker on top. “I was very impressed.”

Ramona smiled. Praise from Señora hit different. It was the closest thing she had left to the way her mom used to beam when she conjugated a verb correctly as a kid.

“As you know,” Señora continued, addressing the class, “I can only write one letter of recommendation for the immersive summer program in Madrid. I will let you know my decision soon.”

She glanced between Ramona and Chloe, whose eyes lit up for the first time all week.

Later, in Principal Dempsey’s office, those hopeful eyes filled with tears.

“This kind of behavior is completely inappropriate,” Principal Dempsey said, the file on her desk thick with printed screenshots and confiscated notes. “Stolen photos in a class project, detailed logs of Ramona’s schedule, anonymous messages… I’m inclined to consider expulsion.”

“Expelled?!” Chloe choked. “But I didn’t—”

Ramona stared at her ex-best friend. She knew, deep in the place she kept her truths, that Chloe hadn’t sneaked into the locker room that day. Ramona had left her phone on the bench. Anybody could have grabbed it, snapped those photos, sent them to themselves. Anybody who resented the way Chloe’s quiet brightness pulled attention, maybe.

Her own guilt sat like a stone in her stomach.

“Principal Dempsey,” Ramona said slowly. “What Chloe did was really… unsettling. But I would hate for something like that to be on her permanent record.”

Chloe’s head snapped toward her.

“I just think,” Ramona went on, “we could all benefit from learning some boundaries. We were, um, very close. Lines got blurred. Maybe… expulsion is too much.”

Dempsey studied her for a long moment. “That’s incredibly considerate of you, Ramona,” she said at last. “All right. Chloe, you won’t be expelled. But you will not be permitted to take any of the same classes or participate in any extracurricular activities as Ramona. You will not speak to her on school grounds. My decision is final.”

Chloe nodded stiffly. “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered.

In the weeks that followed, Ramona told herself she’d done the right thing. She hadn’t confessed that she’d planted the journal in Chloe’s locker herself, back when her jealousy had outpaced her judgment. She’d just… adjusted the outcome.

It didn’t stop the whispers. “Psycho” floated down hallways. “Creep.” “Obsessed.” Ramona heard them and flinched every time, even though they weren’t aimed at her.

She wrote in her notes app:

My anger is a signal, not a threat.
I choose to respond, not react.
I am worthy of peace and calm.

Her therapist had given her that mantra when her temper had started showing up as slammed doors and broken phones. Ramona repeated it so often it lost its edges. And somewhere along the way, the words twisted, rearranging themselves into something darker in her head:

My anger is a signal and a weapon.
I choose to plot and plunder.
I am worthy of popularity, the Spring Fling crown, and that Spain program.
And I will not let go until I regain control.

“You know cyber school is still an option,” Ramona’s dad said one night, leaning against her doorway with a beer in his hand. “You don’t have to put up with all this… nonsense.”

“What, so I can look even more guilty?” Ramona replied, tossing her hair to cover how raw she felt. “No thanks. One day, Chloe is going to slip up, and I want to be there.”

Her dad sighed. “Suit yourself.”

He left the door half open, already scrolling back through his phone. Ramona stared at the crack of hallway light. “You act like Mom never existed,” she muttered under her breath. “I can’t wait to move out when I’m eighteen.”

The next night, she got her wish for a distraction.

“What’s taking Robin so long?” she asked, stabbing at her salad as she sat at the polished dining table that suddenly felt too big.

“She’s picking Kaylee up from the airport,” her dad said, checking his watch. “They should be here any minute.”

“Who’s Kaylee?” Ramona asked, even though she already knew. She’d seen the photos on Robin’s Instagram—sun-drenched beaches in Spain, a girl with long brown hair and big eyes always half-cropped out of frame.

“My daughter!” Robin sang as she bustled through the front door, pulling a suitcase behind her. “Sorry we’re late, sweetheart. LAX traffic is a nightmare. Kaylee, come say hi.”

Kaylee stepped into the foyer and smiled. “Hi,” she said. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. I was living in Spain with my dad, but now that he’s working full-time, I decided to finish high school here in the States.”

She said it in perfect English, with a faint Spanish lilt that made Señora’s classroom look like a movie set in Ramona’s memory.

Ramona’s breath hitched.

Summer camp, eight years earlier. Bunk beds and bug spray, counselors with whistles, lake water cold as secrets. A girl waking up in the top bunk to find her sleeping bag soaked. The smell, the panic on her face. The whispers: “She peed the bed.” The way Ramona had leaned in and made it worse, sliding chocolate syrup under the mattress the next day, snapping a picture, making sure everyone saw.

Summer Camp ’15.

Recognition flared in Kaylee’s eyes too.

“I’m the one you pulled that prank on,” she said later in the downstairs bathroom, where Robin had sent them to “bond” while she set the table. Her voice was low, almost calm. “The one you made it look like I… had an accident in my sleep. You tormented me for years after that. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Ramona swallowed hard. “I don’t blame you for hating me,” she said. “What I did was awful. I am sorry.”

“So that’s it?” Kaylee scoffed. “You tortured me every summer for years, and now you’re suddenly sorry?”

“Yeah,” Ramona said. “I am. I’m hoping you can find it in your heart to forgive me so we can just move past it.”

“Over my dead body,” Kaylee replied.

“This situation is feeling really sus,” Alana said the next day as they slid into their usual lunch table. “I could never forgive that. Not in this lifetime or the next.”

“Enough about stepsis,” Ramona said, staring at the cafeteria doors. It had been exactly six days since Kaylee had flown in on her metaphorical broomstick and she’d already charmed Robin, impressed Ramona’s dad, and breezed into Señora’s class like she owned it.

Ramona scraped her fork through her salad. “I’m finally going to talk to—”

She froze.

O.M.G. Who is that? she thought, because saying it out loud felt too obvious.

Kaylee had just walked into the cafeteria in a simple dress, her hair loose, her mom’s locket (Ramona’s mom, she corrected herself with a bitter twist) glinting at her throat. She smiled and waved at Chloe, who waved back awkwardly from her isolated table by the trash cans.

“What is she doing?” Ramona muttered. “That girl radiates delusion.”

In Spanish class, Señora’s eyes sparkled.

“Clase, I have exciting news,” she said. “We have a new student joining us. She just moved from Spain.”

Kaylee stepped to the front of the room, shoulders back. “Hola,” she said smoothly. “Me llamo Kaylee. Mi mamá y yo acabamos de mudarnos a la ciudad, y estoy muy feliz de estar aquí.”

The class applauded. Señora beamed. “I must say, I read some of your Spanish essays,” she said. “You are very talented. Bienvenida.”

Kaylee slid into the only empty seat—next to Chloe.

Kaylee glanced at Ramona as if to ask, See? You don’t control me. Then she leaned in to Chloe, murmuring something that made Chloe’s eyes widen and then soften.

“What was that about?” Chloe asked Ramona under her breath later in the hallway, when they nearly collided by the lockers.

“Let’s just say me and that girl have bad blood,” Ramona said. “I hate her.”

“Oh, trust me,” Kaylee replied, appearing behind Chloe. “Stepsis and I have history too. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that kindness can break the cycle of hate.”

She smiled at Chloe. “You seem like you could use a friend,” she said. “Spanish homework buddies?”

Chloe looked at Ramona, torn.

Ramona folded her arms. “If you’re going to be my sister,” she told Kaylee coldly, “you can’t be her friend. There was a stalking incident three years ago. It was… intense.”

“Three years is a long time,” Kaylee said. “People change. And whether you like it or not, we’re already sisters.”

She turned back to Chloe. “Sorry, Ramona,” she added over her shoulder. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. I can be nice to whoever I want.”

The cheer team practiced under the harsh gym lights, sneakers squeaking on polished floor, music thumping from a Bluetooth speaker.

“One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight,” Coach yelled. “Again!”

Ramona hit every move, smile pasted on, ponytail snapping. This was her domain. She’d been junior captain all year, waiting for the nod that she’d be varsity captain next.

“Um, Coach?” Kaylee called from the sidelines. “I was wondering if I could… try out? I was captain at my school back in Spain.”

Ramona turned, lips already forming a no. Coach raised a hand to shush her.

“Show me what you’ve got,” Coach said.

Kaylee took the floor. The routine she threw was sharp, clean, and dangerous—tucks, layouts, an aerial so pretty the entire gym made an involuntary sound at the same time.

“Welcome to the team!” Coach crowed. The girls clapped. Ramona’s stomach dropped.

“She’s good,” Alana whispered.

“I can do that too,” Ramona hissed back, immediately kicking up into an aerial of her own. She landed a little off, ankle twinging.

“I know you can, honey,” Coach said, distracted, already showing Kaylee where to stand in the formation.

The Spring Fling nominations rolled out over the loudspeaker the next week while students pretended not to care and then screamed anyway.

“Your nominees for Spring Fling King are: Stefan Michaels, Bowie Turner, and Kyle Sanders,” came the PA announcement. “And your nominees for Spring Fling Queen are: Alana Bennett, Ramona Hayes… and last but not least, Kaylee Whitmore.”

The lunchroom erupted.

“I’m voting Kaylee,” someone at the next table said. “She’s so nice.”

“Same,” another voice chimed in. “Mona’s cool, but Kaylee is just… such a genuinely kind person.”

Ramona forced her face to stay neutral.

“Congratulations on the nomination,” Kaylee said later in the hall, balancing a stack of textbooks.

“Congrats to you, too,” Bowie added, falling into step beside them. “I just finished that book you posted about. We should talk about it.”

“Yeah,” Kaylee said. “For sure. Chloe actually recommended it.”

He smiled, then kept walking.

Ramona chewed her lip so hard she almost drew blood.

At home, Señora’s email dinged into Ramona’s inbox like a tiny missile.

Deadline approaching for Spain program recommendations, it read. Decision soon.

Ramona marched to Señora’s room after school. “So?” she asked, hovering in the doorway. “Any update?”

Señora folded her hands. “Honestly, I’m torn,” she said. “You are talented, Ramona. Dedicated. But Kaylee… she writes with the heart of someone who has lived our language. I am still deciding.”

Ramona bit back the scream clawing up her throat.

In her room that night, surrounded by vision boards and crystals, she grabbed the amethyst on her nightstand and closed her eyes.

“My anger is a signal, not a threat,” she whispered. “I choose to respond, not react. I am worthy of peace and calm.”

She exhaled.

Then her eyes snapped open, and the mantra shifted again.

My anger is a signal and a strategy.
I choose to respond, not explode.
I am worthy of the crown.
I am worthy of the Spain program.
And I will not let anyone steal what I’ve earned.

Plan A was petty. Plan B was cruel. Plan C would be nuclear.

Plan A started with a smell.

“What’s that?” Coach asked at practice, nose wrinkling. “Do you smell that?”

“I think it’s me,” Kaylee said, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t know what’s going on, but my skin itches, and I swear I showered, but—”

“I have great shampoo and body wash you can borrow,” Ramona said quickly, guilt flickering under her words. She’d poured a small vial of “itching powder body glitter” into Kaylee’s locker that morning, thinking it would be funny. It had gone further than she’d planned.

“And I can run to the nurse’s office for an allergy pill,” she added. “It’s the least I can do after you helped me perfect this.” She popped into a toe-touch, landing perfectly.

“Thanks,” Kaylee said, eyes soft. “That’s… really nice of you.”

Behind them, Bowie appeared at the door with a paper bag. “Hey,” he called. “Figured you might want fresh clothes after practice.”

“For me?” Kaylee asked, cheeks flushing.

“No rush on getting them back,” he said. “Also, nice aerial.”

Ramona watched, the burning in her chest worse than any allergic reaction.

Plan A had backfired. Kaylee wasn’t humiliated; if anything, she looked more human, more approachable. Boys who never noticed Ramona’s outfit changes were suddenly offering Kaylee clean T-shirts.

“Clearly, Plan A did not work,” Ramona told Alana in a whisper at lunch, after hearing yet another “I’m totally voting Kaylee” float past. “Which means we need Plan B.”

“Plan B as in… Spain?” Alana asked.

Ramona nodded.

Ramona found Kaylee’s Spanish essay in the family printer tray two nights later, fresh from Google Docs.

It was good. Too good. Kaylee wrote about living between languages, about missing Spain and her father, about hearing Spanish in the grocery store and feeling like she’d found a piece of home.

Ramona stared down at the paragraphs. She wanted to hate it. She really did.

Instead, she felt the old familiar sting of jealousy, the ghost of ten-year-old Ramona watching a camp counselor praise Kaylee’s dive into the lake while Ramona’s own splash barely got a nod.

As she carried her own laundry downstairs, her fingers trembled. The essay slipped from her textbook and slid behind the laundry basket in the mudroom.

She didn’t notice.

Not until Robin poked her head into Ramona’s room the next day, brows knit. “Hey,” she said. “I was about to ask if you’d help me set up for your birthday, but first… do you know anything about this?”

She held up the missing essay, crumpled slightly.

Ramona’s heart lurched. “No,” she said. “Why would it be in our house? Maybe Kaylee—”

“Also,” Robin cut in gently, “I found this in the laundry room.”

She held out Ramona’s favorite hoodie. The one Kaylee had borrowed. The one that had somehow ended up splattered with a strange powder.

Busted.

“You’re grounded this weekend,” Ramona’s dad said that night, clutching the essay. “No party. No phone.”

“What? You weren’t even here!” Ramona snapped. “How is this automatically my fault?”

“How is it not?” he countered. “Kaylee gets a rash, her essay goes missing, her clothes smell weird, and your hoodie is covered in whatever that stuff was. You’re not going to that party, Ramona. And give me your phone.”

Ramona stared at him, betrayal bubbling. “That’s not fair,” she whispered.

“Life isn’t fair,” he said. “Ask Kaylee.”

He left the room with her phone in his hand. Ramona punched her pillow until her fists hurt.

“Girl, what are you doing?” Alana demanded Saturday afternoon, watching Ramona pace their group FaceTime call like a caged tiger. “You’re grounded. You look like a raccoon. And why are you hanging with the enemy?”

“I’m not,” Ramona snapped, even as she glanced toward the door where Kaylee’s voice floated down the hall. “She’s helping me with Spanish homework. And maybe she’s helping pick an outfit. Chill.”

“Miss Minimalist is helping Mr. Maximalist?” Alana snorted. “Your styles are diametrically opposed.”

“Vocabulary queen,” Ramona muttered, half proud. “Anyway, I have a plan. If I can’t go to my own birthday party…” She smiled thinly. “I’ll bring the party to me.”

Even grounded, Ramona couldn’t resist dressing up. The dress Kaylee picked from her closet was softer than Ramona’s usual glitter bombs—a pale blue slip that made her eyes look greener.

“This is… perfect,” Ramona admitted to her reflection.

“You look like the main character,” Kaylee said, standing behind her in the mirror. Her gaze slid to the small necklace Ramona had worn every day since elementary school. “I love your locket. Is that vintage?”

“It was my mom’s,” Ramona said. The word still hurt. “She gave it to me before she passed, when I was ten. I’ve never been able to get it open, though.”

“You’re the first person who’s ever even noticed it,” she added quietly.

“Here,” Kaylee said, unfastening the chain. “You should wear it tonight.”

Ramona frowned. “You should wear it,” Kaylee corrected herself, placing it over Ramona’s hair carefully. “But make sure I get it back. Or I’ll hunt you down.”

Ramona laughed despite herself. “Deal.”

The party at Stefan Michaels’ house unfolded the way parties in American teen movies always did: bass shaking the floorboards, fairy lights tangled in the trees, someone already doing a cannonball into the pool fully clothed.

Kaylee arrived in Ramona’s pale blue dress and her mother’s locket. Heads turned. Bowie, in a clean button-down, made his way over with two cups of punch.

“Happy birthday,” he said, handing one to Kaylee. “I got you something. Well, I got you something later. We’ll talk.”

Ramona watched the live stream on Alana’s phone from her bedroom, knees tucked under her chin. It felt like watching someone else’s life.

“That dress looks better on you,” Alana said through the screen, voice soft with something that sounded almost like guilt. “You sure about this, Mona?”

“Just stick to the plan,” Ramona said. Her heart drummed. “When the slideshow starts, we go.”

Downstairs, the lights dimmed. “Can I get everyone’s attention?” Stefan shouted over the music. “Since this is Ramona’s legal entrance into adulthood, I thought it’d be fitting to take a look back at the years past.”

The projector hummed. Photos of Ramona’s childhood flickered on the screen: her missing front teeth, her sixth-grade spelling bee trophy, her first day at Bookside. The older ones were scanned from the few printed pictures her dad hadn’t thrown into boxes when her mom died.

“Do you have any photos of Mom and me?” she’d asked him earlier that week. “I’m putting together a slideshow.”

“I got rid of all that stuff when she passed,” he’d said flatly. “No sense in keeping it around.”

It had felt like a slap.

So she’d gone to the garage herself, rifling through boxes until she found what she wanted: the camp photo. The one where she had grinned as her cabin posed, and Kaylee stood a step away, shoulders hunched, embarrassment burning her face. The night after the “accident” that Ramona had engineered.

Now, it glowed on Stefan’s living room wall, ten feet tall.

The sound system popped. The chocolate fountain, perched too close to the edge of the dessert table as part of Plan B, wobbled. One of Alana’s friends “accidentally” bumped the table.

The fountain lurched.

There was a heartbeat of silence.

Then the wave.

It should have hit Kaylee. She was standing dead center, her pale blue dress luminous in the projector glow, Ramona’s locket winking at her throat.

But Kaylee saw it coming a split second before it hit. She saw the angle, the tilt, the way the liquid arced.

She stepped forward.

She took the worst of it, shielding the crowd behind her like a bodyguard. Chocolate drenched her hair, her dress, the locket.

Gasps. Laughter. Someone screamed, “World’s messiest makeover!”

“How could you do this to me?” Kaylee cried, turning, wiping chocolate from her eyes. The hurt in her voice was so raw it cut through the jokes. Ramona, standing on Stefan’s staircase, suddenly felt like she was watching a rerun of her own worst moment—only this time, she wasn’t the victim or the villain. She was both.

She slipped away before anyone could see her.

A knock sounded on her bedroom door an hour later.

“You got a minute?” Kaylee asked quietly.

Ramona’s eyes were swollen. She’d washed her face three times but still smelled chocolate in her hair.

“Why did you do that?” she blurted before Kaylee could speak. “Why did you take that chocolate shower for me? After everything I did. After… camp.”

“Because,” Kaylee said, shutting the door behind her, “if anyone deserved to be standing under that chocolate rain, it was you. Not her.”

Ramona blinked. “Uh, thanks?”

“I mean it,” Kaylee said, perching on the edge of the bed. She looked tired. Older than seventeen. “What you did to me ten years ago was ugly. You made sure everyone saw me at my most embarrassed and you laughed. That stuff sticks.”

“I know,” Ramona whispered. “I was jealous.”

Kaylee raised her brows. “Of me?”

“You were better at literally everything,” Ramona said. The words, once they started, tumbled out. “We all had a crush on the camp counselor. You know, as little girls do. I wanted his attention. But you got the praise for every activity. You were the one the other girls wanted to sit with, the one they followed. Everyone liked you. I felt… invisible. So I did something awful to make myself feel bigger. And then I doubled down because I was too proud to admit I was wrong.”

“That still doesn’t explain why you had my back tonight,” Kaylee said. “You could have watched from your throne.”

Ramona hesitated, then crossed the room to her desk. She pulled open the drawer where she kept the locket’s original box. Inside was a faded Polaroid: two young women in overalls, arms around each other, laughing at something just out of frame.

“This is my mom and her sister,” Ramona said. “They were inseparable. Then one day, they had a falling out. I don’t even know what over. Something dumb. They stopped speaking. Years went by. And then my aunt got sick. She died before they made up.”

She swallowed.

“One of the last things my mom said to me in Spanish was, ‘Don’t let your anger outlive your love.’” Ramona continued. “I promised myself I’d never be a jealous, hateful person. That I wouldn’t keep grudges. But then camp happened. And Chloe. And you. I became exactly what I said I’d never be.”

She looked up, eyes wet. “Kindness can stop the cycle,” she said. “That’s what my mom used to say. I didn’t listen. I’m trying to now.”

Kaylee stared at her for a beat.

Then she sighed, stood up, and opened her arms.

“Okay,” she said. “Bring it in, stepsis.”

Ramona stepped into the hug. The chocolate on Kaylee’s hair smeared on her shirt. They both laughed for the first time in weeks.

Spring Fling was held in the same gym where pep rallies took place and where seventh graders once played dodgeball. Fairy lights dripped from the rafters. A photo backdrop made of metallic streamers and a rented arch turned the far wall into something almost magical.

“Ramona, you must be so excited for Spain,” Robin said as she adjusted Ramona’s corsage. “Señora told me you got the letter.”

“Thanks to Kaylee turning down her rec,” Ramona said, glancing at her stepsister.

“I’ve seen enough of Spain for now,” Kaylee said, shrugging in her simple, stunning dress. “Besides, somebody has to keep you grounded in America.”

“Good evening, everyone!” Principal Dempsey’s voice echoed through the speakers. “May I please have all nominees for Spring Fling king and queen on stage?”

Bowie, Stefan, and Kyle took the stairs two at a time. Ramona, Kaylee, and Alana followed, dresses whispering against the wooden steps.

“This year’s Spring Fling King is…” Dempsey paused for dramatic effect, “Bowie Turner!”

The gym erupted. Bowie ducked his head, embarrassed, as a cheap crown was placed on his messy hair.

“And for Spring Fling Queen…” Dempsey’s brows shot up as she read the card. “Oh. We have a tie. Our queens are: Kaylee Whitmore and Ramona Hayes!”

The cheers doubled. Phones lit up.

Ramona felt the weight of the plastic crown settle on her head. This was supposed to be the moment she’d been working toward all year: perfect dress, perfect boy, perfect crown.

Instead, she lifted the microphone.

“I have something I need to confess,” she said, voice trembling just enough to be human. “It’s three years late, but better late than never, right?”

The gym quieted.

“For a long time, everyone thought Chloe Benson was a stalker because of what I said,” Ramona continued. Somewhere near the back, Chloe froze. “But I lied. I hid photos and a journal in her locker and orchestrated the whole thing to make it seem like she was obsessed with me. She wasn’t.”

Gasps rippled like waves. Principal Dempsey’s jaw clenched. Señora pressed a hand to her heart.

“I was dealing with a lot of insecurity and jealousy because of something I never got over from seven years ago,” Ramona said. “Camp stuff. Old stuff. But I let it poison everything. I spread a rumor and watched it ruin someone’s life. And if I hadn’t, if she hadn’t been labeled that way, she’d probably be the one getting crowned tonight.”

She looked out into the crowd. “So, Chloe,” she said. “Will you come up here and accept this crown?”

It took a moment. Then Chloe stepped forward, pushed by friends she hadn’t realized she still had. Dempsey handed her a second crown. The crowd parted like a movie scene.

Kaylee started the applause. It caught and turned into a roar.

Chloe’s hands shook as she took the microphone. “Thank you,” she said simply, eyes shining. “For telling the truth.”

The DJ cut in with a slow song. “And now,” Dempsey declared, a little hoarse, “it’s time for the king and queens’ dance.”

Bowie appeared at Ramona’s elbow, smiling. “Save me from having to dance with Stefan?” he joked.

“Only if you don’t step on my toes,” she replied.

As they stepped onto the floor, Kaylee grabbed Chloe’s hand. “Come on, co-queen,” she said. “Let’s show them how sisters do it.”

“We’re not sisters,” Chloe said, startled.

“Not yet,” Kaylee laughed. “But give us time.”

Under the fairy lights, in a very American high school gym in a very ordinary California suburb, three girls who’d once been versions of each other—bully, victim, outsider—turned in slow circles with a boy who read paperbacks by the trophy case.

Phones recorded it all for Instagram, TikTok, and whatever platform came next.

But some stories never made it online. Some stories lived in the quiet space between a confession and forgiveness, in the way a locket finally clicked open years after it was given, in the way a girl who once weaponized rumors decided to break the cycle of hate instead.

For once, Ramona didn’t care how the photos would look. Her aura still glowed like a sunset, warm and radiant. But it wasn’t impossible to ignore anymore.

It was just… real.