Chapter 12
Jul 18, 2025
Should’ve known Amber wouldn’t come for me with fists. She’s smarter than that. Strategic. Polished. The kind of girl who could ruin your life and still get a glowing letter of recommendation.
She didn’t need a fight. She had a clipboard.
Third period, a flyer appeared in every girls’ bathroom on the second floor.
A fake tutoring ad—with my name on it.
“Need extra help in chem? Or just craving male attention? Zoey Hale does both. Text for availability.”
Underneath was a number that wasn’t mine—but close enough to be believable. Close enough for people to try.
By fourth period, the screenshots were everywhere.
Texts from guys asking how much I “charged,” if I offered “hands-on help,” if I “worked weekends.”
Someone taped one of the flyers to my locker.
Another ended up on Coach Baird’s desk.
Mrs. Harper wouldn’t look me in the eye. Mr. Quill just muttered “disappointed” under his breath when I walked in late to fifth period.
I felt like I was being erased in real time. Not hated. Just reduced. Laughed at. Turned into a joke I didn’t write and couldn’t edit.
Coach caught me after gym.
“You okay, sweetheart?”
I wanted to laugh in her face.
“Peachy.”
She looked uncomfortable. “You might want to clear things up. Stuff like this… it sticks.”
No one asked if it was true.
Home wasn’t any better.
“Zoey Marie Hale, explain this to me right now.”
Mom stood in the hallway holding one of the flyers like it was evidence in a courtroom.
“You think this is funny? Letting people post trash like this with your name on it? You think this doesn’t follow you?”
“It wasn’t me.”
“Then why are people texting me asking what kind of example I’m setting?” She threw the flyer on the counter. “Your name’s on it. That’s all it takes.”
“It’s not real.”
“Neither is a college acceptance if they think you’re the kind of girl who lets this happen to her reputation.”
“My reputation or yours?”
The words detonated between us. She stepped back like I’d physically hit her.
“I didn’t raise you to be reckless,” she whispered.
“You didn’t raise me at all.”
Direct hit. Her face crumpled, then hardened.
I took the stairs two at a time, locked myself in the bathroom, and slid down the door until I hit cold tile. The mirror showed a stranger—red-rimmed eyes, wild hair, pulse hammering visibly in her throat.
The house felt like a tomb. Too quiet and too loud simultaneously.
My hands shook as I typed: Can I see you?
Sent it to Chase before my brain could interfere. Then I dropped the phone and stared at the ceiling, counting breaths like meditation for the psychologically destroyed.
Ten minutes. Twenty. An hour.
Nothing.
My stomach twisted into geometric impossibilities. Maybe I’d pushed too hard. Maybe he was done dealing with my catastrophic mess. Maybe I was exactly as alone as I’d always been, just with better eyeliner.
I curled tighter, jaw clenched, refusing to cry. Not here. Not over this.
Then—finally—the phone buzzed.
Two words that felt like salvation: Park. Midnight.
