It’s bad enough having failed a test this morning, and it’s even worse having to go spend ten minutes outside Mrs. Richlin’s office for a friendly little chat about school ethics. Our resident principle likes to keep things fair in this school between the Divergent and Non-Divergent kids, meaning that using your superpowers on school grounds without specific instruction to do so can kind of result in getting detention. Anything more, and some person on the internet would have a meltdown about it being some kind of personal violation for not letting us be who we are.

It wouldn’t be the first time San Angeles high got some kind of backlash online because of it, but at the end of the day, do you really want some bully with super strength to smack some poor guy over the head and put his skull through a locker by accident? No, I don’t think so, because that would be messy, and Dug from second period English wouldn’t have been expelled twice from his previous schools because of the rumors going around.

But, come on, all I did was fly. With the way my powers are now, that’s child’s play.

Literally, I’ve been afraid to so much as touch anything around me for days now.

If you ask me, I don’t really care—my Supe ID says I’ve got one superpower: flight, and it’s just my luck that she had been glancing out of her window when she saw me blast into the sky. When am I gonna catch a break? Its made even better after the fact that she makes me wait outside her office, my foot bouncing and my stomach on edge, wondering if she’s going to call my parents to tell them I was caught trying to skip school in the worst way possible. The people who pass me in the hall snigger or cheer me on for sticking it to the man for trying to escape.

It’s not the first time I’ve tried it. I’m just usually a lot more discreet.

But my sister left a bad taste in my mouth and my heart in a storm. I wasn’t being selfish. She doesn’t get the fact that I had been there that night. The same night people keep whispering about in class, coming up with zany ideas of what actually happened. Supervillains? Gang wars? Phil didn’t pay the wrong underground racket?

I’m not the quiet kind of person in class. I talk when I’m not supposed to, and I guess a lot more people must have been waiting for me to chime in about what I thought. I might not have many friends, but people like me.

All I’d given them in return was a shrug as I scribbled drawings into my notebook the whole class.

“Is this seat taken?” someone asks me. I glance away from the tiles I’ve been inspecting for the better part of twenty minutes, trying to ignore the sound of Mrs. Richlin typing away on her computer, hoping that it’s not an email to mom about my recent misconduct and me maybe getting dropped back a grade. “It looks kinda empty.”

Phoebe stands with her bag slung over one shoulder and a hand on her hip, baggy trousers and totally not school appropriate crop top with mesh underneath it loose on her frame. She offers me a fist and I bump it as she sits down beside me, hands behind her head and her backpack on the floor between her feet. “Heard you tried to skip.”

“You can’t tame a free spirit, you know,” I say, folding my arms and leaning back in the chair.

“Preach to the choir, sister,” she says. Her messy frock of white hair is a replica of mine, and I guess best friends do dumb things like that for no reason other than it makes us look cool. Same nose piercing and everything too, except her skin is soft enough to get a tattoo on her shoulder that I can’t. Her green eyes twinkle as she says, “I tried getting into the teacher’s lounge again. Old Man Sam stole my board when I was totally not using it in class.”

I blow a raspberry. “Guessin’ you didn’t make it all that far if you’re stuck here with me.”

“Ding, ding, ding,” she says, sighing. “We’ve got a winner, folks.”

“Shh!” Laney, the receptionist outside of Mrs. Richlin’s office hisses. She pushes her glasses up her pointed nose and goes back to her computer, where we can clearly see the online magazine reflected in her lenses.

We stay quiet for a moment after Phoebe sticks her tongue out at the young receptionist. The tv in the hallway keeps playing the same muted newsfeed happening outside of the Easy Mart. I can’t help but stare at the live pictures, the ones they put alongside another hero—Jakarta, or something like that; light brown skin, clean shaven head, a suit of black and gold with a sword on her back—who stands beside Bullet, taking photos and nodding along to what he’s got to say. How tragic. How painful. We must do better for our city! I feel like barfing.

“Heard they found a Molotov in there,” Phoebe mutters. “Owed some guy money apparently.”

I shook my head, heart in my throat as the feed went back to the studio. “Not Phil.”

She shrugs and shuts her eyes. “You never know with people. Two-sided, most of ‘em.”

I keep my mouth shut for my sake. After all, the same fingernails I keep picking are scrubbed clean right now, and I smell as fresh as I can be after gym two periods ago. No smoky tinge in my hair. No gore under my nails.

I’d even, for once, painted them a stark red color instead of their usual black. I don’t know. A part of me had thought it would quell my stomach, knowing that even if there was something I missed, nobody would see it.

At this point, though, I’ve nearly picked all of the paint off them.

Suddenly, Mrs. Richlin’s office door swings open, and both of us look at her. Tall, lean, in a pencil skirt that stops shy above her knees, and a blouse she’s rolled the sleeves up with. Her red hair is in a bun, stabbed through with a pencil nearly as thin as her wiry glasses. “The dynamic duo,” she says. “Inside, the both of you.”

We both pick up our bags and head inside her office, squeezing past as she looks down her nose at us. We’ve been inside this office enough times to know that I sit on the right, she sits on the left, and Mrs. Richlin’s many certificates and accolades, pictures with the previous two mayors, her family, and the smallest picture of all, her time working with HazVac before either of us was even born in the corner of her shelf faces us. She does this on purpose, letting the silence and the glossy picture frames and the decades worth of ambition engrain themselves into our eyes as she shuts the door quietly behind us. Phoebe folds her arms, slouched in the chair. I tap nervously on the arm of the old, creaky wooden seat, also slouched, but nowhere near as relaxed as the chick beside me is.

“Theft,” she says. Her pointed heels snap on the floor behind us. “Vandalism. Smoking on school property. Starting fights on school property. Rude to staff. Missing classes and missing homework. Failed classes and failed homework.” She’s pacing behind us, and only through her reflection in her picture frames can either of us see her. Not that Phoebe seems to care. She’s got her eyes shut and foot bouncing, as if she’s practicing her drum sets for a gig we don’t have any time soon. Then Mrs. Richlin stops behind us, making the room silent. “Miss Wilde.”

I look over my shoulder and nearly point at myself. “Uh, yes, ma’am?”

“I hear you were sick,” she says plainly. “Feeling better?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

She turns to look at Phoebe. “Miss Morgan.”

“Huh?” she says, opening one eye.

“Your probation worker says she’s not seen you in two weeks, and neither have we.”

She shrugs. “Got busy doing stuff and things, you know?”

The kind of silence that follows after the bell rings outside is palpable. I’ve seen Phoebe after school and back at her place plenty of times in the past few weeks to forget that I haven’t been seeing her in school lately. I look at her, but she doesn’t look at me as Principle Richlin settles into her stiff-back leather seat opposite us. She threads her fingers and looks at us from just over the brim of her glasses. “We need to have a serious talk, ladies.”

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“If you’re gonna expel us, just get it over with,” my oh-so helpful best friend mutters.

“Or,” I quickly say, before Richlin can stop feigning patience with us. “You give us another shot at this school thing and we get outta your hair in the next minute, huh? How does that sound? We’ll even go to class.”

Phoebe snorts.

“Oh, certainly,” Richlin says. “By all means, head to your next period and enjoy the rest of the day.”

That finally makes Phoebe open her eyes as we stare at her. We glance at one another as she sits there in front of us, head tilted as if waiting for us to follow her instructions, and sure enough, we start to pick up our stuff.

“Just know that if either of you touches that doorknob, it’ll be grounds for suspension, and possibly even having both of you get held back a grade.” My hand freezes above the handle, my heart a racing mess in my chest. I repeat a grade, and I’ll be a year behind Jade if I ever get into the Patriot Program. It’ll mean another two whole years before I ever get the chance at being a superhero. I turn around, chuckling uncomfortably, telling her that we were just kidding, you know? I drag Phoebe back to the seats, because you know us—kidders. We sit in silence. “Good.” She leans back in her chair. “Neither of you are outstanding students, and trust me, we as teachers have had plenty of meetings about the two of you and what we should do. We want to see you both prosper in this school.”

“And we totally will,” I say. “Just give us one more chance, and preferably not in the grade below us.”

“Miss Wilde,” she says. My throat dries. “You specifically are a mess for us. Captain of our soccer team and even a substitute on the boy’s baseball team. You can pledge D1 if you like, but you’re not focused on that.”

The only offers I’m looking for are the superhero kind, all due respect.

She turns to Phoebe. “And you.”

“What about me?” she asks.

“You’re capable. We all know that. The graffiti you leave in our bathrooms is less than savory, but it’s good. Possibly even great for someone who has only ever attended five of her art classes. You’re talented, Phoebe.”

She rolls her eyes and nudges me. “Get a load of her and her ‘poor teenager and her hidden talent’ shtick.”

We then sit in very painful silence.

Richlin sighs through her nose and sets her glasses down on her desk. She pinches the bridge of her nose and stares at us before she says, “Hard work only gets you so far in life, and so does talent. You’ve got to have the drive to want something that’ll get you anywhere to begin with. But luck, Miss Wilde, Miss Morgan, is where the best of us make a living, and I’m lucky enough to have the both of you under my watch. You don’t just wait for luck to fall out of the sky and onto your lap. You make it. And right now, you’re both going to be very lucky.”

I shift in my seat. “So does this mean you’re not gonna drop us down a grade?”

“It means, Kacey, that I’m both going to let you continue as is,” she says, and that makes us both sit up a little more, suddenly very attentive, because this is Richlin we’re talking about. I’ve seen her give detention to a new kid who got lost wandering around the hallway without a bathroom pass on his first day. “On a technicality.”

“Yeah, and what’s that?” Phoebe asks her.

Richlin slides open one of her many desk drawers and rifles through several sheets before sliding one across her desk toward us. Phoebe and I lean over it as she keeps talking. “What I have there is an opportunity for the both of you to not only show the staff that you’ve both got the commitment and level-headedness to keep your heads on straight for longer than a period duration, but to prove to people that you’re both hard working enough when you put yourselves to a task.” She clasps her fingers together. “I think it’s a reasonable offer I’m giving you.”

It’s an offer, that’s for sure.

I’m just not that sure of how good of an offer this is.

Phoebe makes the decision to speak on my behalf. “This is bullshit.”

Richlin doesn’t even pause—I guess she’s pretty used to us now. “It’s an opportunity.”

“To play in the school band?” she says, snorting. “I’m not stepping foot into that band room with a bunch of nerds who think playing the trombone makes any difference in a football game. C’mon, Kace, tell her it’s dumb.”

I slowly pick up the piece of paper. It’s a flier for the starting high school football season. The schedule is a mess because of having to deal with all the other States that have to make the not so very fun journey across New America down the Superpass. But if these games were important back in the old days, then they’re even more important right now. They’re huge. I mean, our school uses the city’s main stadium for its games, and we’re not even at the college level or ranked highest in the State either. Sue me for caring so much about sports. It’s nearly the only thing I’m good at, and it kinda matters to me, because that’s usually the same time of year I’ve got the most going on. Superhero stuff doesn’t mingle with real life. That’s just the way it is. Crime spikes, but so do the number of games I’ve got to attend, and the practice sessions I’ve got to do. But…well, it’s either this, or I get booted down.

Going down means no chance at joining varsity. Going down means bye-bye Superhero License.

I shrug and look at her. “I mean, we’re in a band for a reason. We can even call Sydney for base.”

She stares at me, mouth slightly open. “Are you hearing yourself?”

“Do you want to get stuck in this grade for another year?” I ask her. “That just means more school, and more school for us means that we’ve just got to do this school band stuff all over again for longer this time around.”

“But it’s stupid,” she argues. “We’re gonna look like idiots on that field in the marching band, Kace!”

“Imagine how we’ll look when we’re twenty graduating with a bunch of high schoolers.”

“Alright, alright,” Richlin says, chiming in. “It’s a matter for debate. It’s either this, or you both have to attend regular academic interventions after school under my watch every day of the week until you graduate.” She looks at Phoebe. “And personally, Miss Morgan, I feel as if neither of us would quite enjoy that very much, yes?”

She says nothing. Folds her arms and glares at her.

“One week,” she says, tapping the poster. “Then I want your names on a piece of paper on my desk. If I don’t see it, then we’ll be getting quite familiar with one another over the course of the next few years. Dismissed.”

Phoebe doesn’t even wait for me before she’s out of the office. I scramble to follow her into the empty hall, leaving Richlin’s door quietly snapping shut behind us. I hurry after her, sneakers squeaking on the floor until I catch up to her and grab her shoulder. Thankfully, my powers don’t act up, but my heart is already in my throat even before she whirls around on me, getting into my face as she says, “What the fuck was that! You just sold us out, K.”

“I don’t know why you’re so mad at this!” I say. “I’m trying to save both of our butts, Phoebe.”

“Oh my God,” she mutters, rolling her eyes. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

“What?”

“You forgot, didn’t you?” she asks, folding her arms. I want to answer that no, I did not forget, but I don’t even know what she’s talking about—it’s not her birthday, not our friendship anniversary, so what else…? Oh.

Fuck.

I swear and push my fingers through my hair. “Phoebes, I didn’t mean to—”

“Yeah, whatever,” she says, blowing me off. I get in front of her, stopping her from going somewhere, because we all know she’s not going to class. “Look, just save whatever apology you’ve got to say. It happened.”

I swallow the bitter saliva sitting on my tongue. “How bad was it?” I ask her quietly.

Her eyes move off of me, but I lean into her view, making her focus back on me. The walls are going up, and that’s not the Phoebe who’ll keep giving me chances. Finally, though, the skin around her eye slowly starts to turn a deep violent shade of purple-green, so swollen it makes me quietly gasp. Her right eye is a mess, and it’s gone the same second, her skin healing and her eye going from red and bloodshot to its striking green in seconds, too.

We stand in silence, neither of us really knowing what to say.

“He’s a hell of a pitcher,” she mutters dryly. “Especially when he thinks we’ve skimmed him.” I forgot we had a gig on Sunday. It’s as simple as that. Her notification didn’t come up on my phone because I’d swiped it away without a thought, because I’d remember, no point in making my phone ping, then I got to studying and pretending that…Fuck, I can’t even come up with an excuse. If I didn’t go to the Easy Mart, Jade would have probably gone.

And that thought is like a hot poker to the gut. Better me than her, is what I’ve always thought, because I can take the swing. It doesn’t matter. But if I had gone to the gig, then my sister would be just another dead body. And yet she isn’t, and my best friend got the shit kicked out of her because the shitty guy we use to book downtown gigs hates getting skimmed. I feel like there’s a building pressure in my head, one that’s getting heavier and heavier behind my eyes, making them sting. I massage them and tense my jaw, chewing down on my tongue until it bleeds.

Fix this.

I look at Phoebe and put my hand on her shoulder. She looks at it, then at me, but it’s hard to stare at her for long knowing that, without her healing, she’d be a bloody mess of scar tissue, open wounds, and bruises so black it would make Richlin’s heels seem pale. I’ll make it better. “School’s overrated. How ‘bout we go see some Capes?”