CHAPTER 1
Tessa
BEFORE
LONG LIVE BEER AND BROS
My feet skid to a stop as I stare up at the large block letters rearranged over our high school entrance. Are you kidding me? Every senior prank day the graduating class tries to outdo the year before. Last June, they toilet papered the halls and stole all the furniture out of the teachers’ lounge; before that, all the classroom doors went missing—until the janitor found them on the roof. I’m sure beer and bros is just the beginning.
Students are already starting to crowd the entrance, gawking at the sign, snapping photos, and smacking one another on the back. Apparently, a lot of dudes are going to miss a lot of other dudes. It’s hard being a bro on the brink of graduation.
I sigh, standing on my tiptoes to peer over the heads in front of me. What other horrors are waiting inside? I knew we shouldn’t have scheduled the Marjory Fieldman Honor Roll luncheon for today. I begged Principal Evans to postpone to next week, but did he listen? No. And now sensible-shoe-wearing, church-choir-conducting Marjory Fieldman herself will probably turn around with her giant custom-made scholarship check, declaring a full ride, and hightail it out of here in moral outrage over “kids these days.” Goodbye, scholarship. Goodbye, financial aid. Goodbye, all hope for my future.
“Your strawberry milk tea with boba, milady.” Brandon, my longtime boyfriend, stops beside me with my morning fix of tapioca pearls.
“Are you seeing this?” I gesture dramatically at the word scramble above, foot tapping in righteous indignation. Brielle van der Born, our high school namesake, must be turning over in her grave. Or maybe not. She was Dutch. I’m pretty sure they like beer.
“I got a photo when I parked my car. Only one spot left at the back of the senior lot. You’re so lucky you get a reserved space with the teachers. The perks of being student body president.” He sighs wistfully. Brandon isn’t ambitious, but he’s happy to live vicariously off my ambition. I’m not entirely sure why we’re still together—except he’s always so sweet with the boba.
I take a pull off the straw and get a delicious hit of chewy tapioca goodness. “That’s why I ran for president, for the perks. And the tea.” I give him a quick peck on the cheek. “Why did you take a picture?”
“I don’t know. It’s funny. I wanted a memory of our wild high school days.” He pumps his fists in the air while headbanging like we’re at a concert, then almost loses his balance.
“No offense, Brandon, but there is nothing about me, you, or our high school days that is remotely wild.”
Brandon’s more … dependable, like a warm sock. He’s mildly cute if you catch him in the right light, when his shaggy, sandy hair is out of his eyes. But he’s about as wild as a potted plant. Brandon likes tea. And jazz. Not to play, just to listen to in his car. His idea of a fun Friday night is to swap calculus notes … and listen to some jazz … in our warm socks.
My life is so depressing.
At the edge of the parking lot, Donika Chaudhari and her boyfriend, Davis Miller, are taking selfies as they kiss with the sign in the background. I wish Brandon and I did that more often, but it’s like we’ve forgotten what it even means to be a couple. Trying to resurrect whatever spark we used to have, I give him my most sultry and smoldering expression wondering if he’ll do the same, but he’s busy tugging a string loose from his shirt.
“What? Is there something on my face?” He rubs his chin when he catches me staring.
So much for romance and excitement. I return my attention to the sign, trying to will the letters back into place. How long until Janitor Bailey can get a ladder up there to rearrange them—unless he’s dealing with something far worse? My stomach tightens around the thought.
Teetotaling Ms. Fieldman once huffed out of a church fundraising dinner for Habitat for Humanity after they served wine to the adults in attendance. I can’t chance her getting offended now and storming off. Neither of my parents attended college, but my dad especially is counting on me to finish what he couldn’t. Life has a way of derailing you, so don’t let that happen, kid, he said, and I don’t plan on it. My life’s mapped out perfectly, my course charted. I know exactly what I want—two years at SUNY Albany so I can remain close while my father gets back on his feet after losing his job, before transferring to NYU to study chemistry and eco-friendly textile design. Then, I’ll be ready to wage my one-woman war against the fast-fashion industry.
Which is why things cannot go sideways today, not when I’m so close to seeing my plans through.
“So … there’s just one beer for all those bros to share?”
“There’s only one S.” I squint at the sign, running all the letters that would normally herald the entrance to Brielle van der Born High School through my head.
“Why not long live beers and bro, then? Isn’t it better to share many beers with one good bro than one beer with many bros and only get a sip each?”
A laugh flies out of my mouth, startling me. “Brandon, you made a funny.”
“I didn’t say anything.” He shrugs.
What? Who’ve I been talking to? I turn to Brandon, standing next to me, gazing at the entrance sign, and that’s when I realize there’s someone standing next to him. That someone leans forward, a smirk lighting up his face.
Reed Walker.
My nemesis since the sixth grade, when he moved to our upstate New York town from wherever evil spawns. Denver, apparently. Valedictorian to my salutatorian. Stealer of spelling bee trophies and science fair titles. The smile drops off my face faster than Ms. Fieldman dashing out of here in her sensible shoes clutching my giant check.
Reed arches an eyebrow at me. “I mean, with all those letters at their disposal, they could have been more creative and gone with …” He takes a moment to consider. “… neighborhood hellraiser?”
What is going on right now?
“Or … maybe …” He points at the school entrance. “… doing believable horrors.”
“How are you word scrambling these so fast?”
Reed winks. He enjoys rubbing his stupid hyper-computing robot brain in my face.
I glare at the sign. Then the letters start to shift in my imagination and take shape. “Wait. Um … alien … um … slobbering alien … overlord! Slobbering alien overlord!” I jump up and down, proud I found one. Brandon high-fives me.
As Reed taps his chin, determined to best me, I catch the fraction of a dimple I never noticed before. “How about …” He looks me right in the eye. “Horrible Brandon.”
He’s arrived at the idea like it’s obvious. So rude.
“Hey, my name’s in the sign!”
I roll my eyes. I have no time for smug, entitled pricks. “Don’t you have other people to torture?”
“So, Reed.” Brandon moves the conversation along, oblivious. “You ready for your speech next week?”
“Pretty much.” He shrugs. “Will you be accompanying the ice princess to graduation?”
“Who?”
“He means me.” I sigh.
“Oh, Tessa? Yes.” He half mumbles it, distracted by something across the parking lot.
I shoot Brandon a dark look. I guess I’ll have to defend my own honor. But I don’t get a chance: Reed’s music friends are running over. Kira’s all tats and piercings and purple hair. She’s nonstop energy. Santiago’s more chill. He’s rocked the same orange knit beanie since ninth grade. Either he’s cultivating it as a look, or he’s too stoned to remember he still has it on.
“The English hallway is sick,” Kira shouts, tugging Reed across the parking lot.
Oh God. What now? “Why? What’s happening?” I race to catch up. The scholarship luncheon is supposed to be held in the library—which is next to the ELA classrooms.
Kira turns to speak with me, but neither of us can see past Reed’s enormous guitar backpack. He brings that ridiculous instrument wherever he goes. Pretentious much? I don’t think I’ve ever heard him play, but that doesn’t stop him from reminding us all that he does play by carting it around everywhere.
“It’s like a troll doll army threw up in there,” she says.
Oh hell no. Not on my watch. “Brandon,” I call.
“On it.” Brandon whips out a notebook, awaiting further orders.
Kira does a double take, surprised we’re still following.
I race ahead, shoving past students still gaping at the entrance sign to throw open the double doors to the English corridor. It’s way worse than I thought. Blue shaving cream is smeared over the lockers, dribbling into puddles of goo below. Multicolored Silly String dangles from the fluorescents overhead, creating a forest of impassable sticky vines, while the floor is coated in a two-inch-thick moat of glitter slime. I’ll probably need a hazmat suit to enter.
“Oh shit,” Reed mumbles on a laugh as they arrive behind me.
I knew something like this was going to happen. I swear if I lose my scholarship over this BS, I’m going to haunt this school for eternity. A mounting anger bubbles and froths inside me. So many of these students, Reed included, don’t need to stress over money for college. But some of us have to work extra hard to get out of this town. And that’s just what I’ll do now. Like always.
I hand Reed my bubble tea. “Hold my beer, bro.”
CHAPTER 2Tessa
I always wondered how I’d behave if oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling of an airplane as we plummeted in altitude, careening toward the earth below. Would I put mine on then calmly help my neighbor? Would I prepare to grab my seat cushion in case of a water landing? Or would I unbuckle my seat belt and race through the aisles screaming, “There’s no hope left! We’re all gonna die!”
I think I might be the kind who panics.
My stress and anxiety become my own personal jet fuel. Which is a useful trait, since I’ll need all that jet propulsion to give the teachers’ lounge a makeover. I scan the site of today’s new luncheon location. Armed with fabric from the drama department and a bag of past spring fling dance decor, I’ve had to make quick work of the space. I run over my to-do list. Rearrange the chairs around the perimeter. Check. Hide any random boxes of copy paper in Principal Evans’s office. Check. Call Ms. DelVino, PTA president, and inform her that we’ll now be stationed far away from the English hallway disaster. Check. If I throw a few more decorations up and arrange the flowers, my work will be done. I set out some donated bouquets, hoping a particularly tall vase of sunflowers can somehow disguise the vending machines.
“How do you do it, you radiant goddess you?” Tilly, my best friend since kindergarten, dashes in during passing period.
“Tills, thank God you’re here. Principal Evans has been sending me volunteers all morning, but it’s like herding cats. We only have an hour left. Tell me it looks okay.” I gesture to the buffet tables draped in purple fabric, each covered with colorful confetti that I’ve spent my morning hole punching.
She puts her hands on my shoulders. “Only you could convert the teachers’ lounge into a thing of beauty.”
“Thanks—wait. Hang on, Tills.” Across the room, Brandon’s precariously balancing on a chair as he hangs crepe paper from the ceiling. “Brandon,” I shout.
“Yeah?”
“You have to twist the colors together to create each bow. You can’t just tape it up and call it a day. Grab Jenny Chu, she did the other side.” Jenny shoots me a side-eye, annoyed I’m doling out commands. Tough luck, J Chu, I have no time for your feelings.
I bet she’s only here because she thinks she can sway the scholarship results at the last second. But last month, Principal Evans pulled me aside to tell me I’d won the Marjory Fieldman Scholarship for Outstanding Moral Fiber and made me swear to keep it on the down-low. Not only am I in charge of the event, but I desperately need the money. And Jenny’s family doesn’t. It’s as simple as that.
Tilly spins me around. “You did the braids! And check out your gorgeous threads!” She knows how much this day means to me.
“Yep, it’s a braid day.” I turn to show them off. I always wear my long black hair in two messy buns at the nape of my neck, but when I’m really trying to make an impression—and today I am really trying to make an impression—I braid my hair into the buns.
“And I’m loving this sea-foam color and fifties A-line cut. Is your suit from Second Place?”
Second Place: my apparent lot in life and my favorite vintage store. “I made a quick trip to Albany last weekend. The cherry blouse was hard to pass up, too.” I smooth the blouse out and rebutton my jacket. I buy and alter almost all my clothes from secondhand shops. Part of it is style, part is funds, and part is a commitment to upcycling. I have a good eye. I can find a diamond in the rough. “Besides, who are you calling gorgeous, goddess divine!” I say as Tilly struts across the room in her lemon jumpsuit, a splash of sunshine against the dark tones of her skin. She always dresses like candy. “You, my love, are as effervescent as a sunrise after a storm at sea.”
“Well, you’re the mist rising off the ocean on a cool spring morning.”
“Oh stop!”
“No, you stop!”
“Could you both stop? I’m going to be sick.” Jenny sneers, teetering on a chair as she tries to help Brandon finish up the bow he was having so much trouble with before.
My phone vibrates in my pocket with a text.
MOM: Sweets, I got the graduation tickets you sent but didn’t realize it’s the same day as Michael’s piano recital. He’s been working so hard this year. I don’t think we can miss it. Let’s celebrate together when you visit Phoenix this summer instead.
I stare at the message, a lump forming in the back of my throat.
“Oh no, what is it?” Tilly’s brow crinkles in worry.
I pivot the screen around for her to read. When our eyes meet, her look says it all. Tilly knows. We’ve helped each other through a lot—my parents’ divorce and our financial hardship, her mom’s breast cancer, which is thankfully in remission now. Tilly is that kind of friend. We can laugh together, but she’s not afraid to face the hard stuff.
Copyright © 2026 by Gwenyth Reitz
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