THE LAST SEMESTER

Assigned Seating

Ivy found her before Wren found anyone.

"You're in 214," Ivy said, dropping into the seat beside her without asking, like they'd already been friends for years instead of forty minutes. She had the kind of energy that filled up a room without trying — dark curls pulled into a messy bun, a stack of bracelets that clinked every time she moved her hands, which was constantly. "I'm across the hall in 212. Dana told me the new senior got put in Kirkwood, and I made it my mission to find you before Sav from the other wing did. Trust me, you want me finding you first."

"Sav from the other wing?"

"You'll understand by Thursday. She runs a spreadsheet. An actual spreadsheet. Of who sits where at lunch. I'm not kidding." Ivy stuck out a hand, bracelets rattling. "Ivy. I already decided we're friends. You can fight it if you want, but I've been told I'm exhausting to say no to."

Wren almost laughed. Almost. It had been a while since almost had felt this close to actually doing the real thing.

"Wren," she said, shaking Ivy's hand like it was a normal, unremarkable thing to do, and not the first real introduction she'd let herself have in months.

She thought about telling Ivy what had happened the night before — the gym, the almost-smile, the residential staff member who'd stopped her in the hallway with a radio already halfway to her mouth. She'd lain awake half the night wondering if Beckett had gotten in trouble because of her, if her name was written down somewhere now next to his, filed away as a problem before the school year had even started. She didn't tell Ivy any of it. It didn't feel like hers to give away yet. Some things needed to stay small until you knew what they were.

By the time they got to first period, Ivy had already covered the entire social map of Blackwood Prep in the tone of someone narrating a nature documentary — who was dating who, who used to be dating who, which teachers actually cared and which ones were just waiting out their pensions. Wren mostly listened. It was easier than talking, and Ivy didn't seem to need much encouragement to keep going.

"And that," Ivy said, lowering her voice as they stepped into Senior English, "is Beckett Hale."

Wren's stomach did something complicated and unwelcome.

He was already seated near the window, jaw tight, staring at nothing in a way that suggested his morning had gone worse than hers. His practice jersey was gone, replaced by a plain Blackwood Prep tee, but he still had that same locked-in stillness from the gym, like he was somewhere else entirely. He hadn't noticed them come in. Or he had, and was doing an excellent job of pretending otherwise — Wren couldn't decide which, and hated that she cared enough to wonder.

"Basketball captain," Ivy continued, oblivious, sliding into the row in front of him. "Total mystery. Doesn't date, doesn't really talk to anyone outside the team, and somehow every girl in this school still has a theory about what's going on behind that whole brooding thing he's got going. His dad played pro, so everyone expects him to go D1. No pressure or anything, right? Personally I think he's just tired. Being that intense all the time seems exhausting."

"Sounds exhausting," Wren agreed, careful to keep her voice flat.

She did not mention the gym. She did not mention wrong door twice in one night and people start asking questions. She filed it somewhere private instead, somewhere Ivy's very thorough social commentary couldn't reach, and took the open seat two rows behind him without looking his way again.

It didn't matter. Ten minutes into class, Mr. Alvarez killed that plan without even trying.

"Since half of you clearly didn't read over the summer," he said, tapping a stack of paperbacks on his desk, "we're doing partner projects instead of the usual essay. Four weeks, in-class time twice a week, and I'll be assigning pairs myself. No trading."

A low groan moved through the room. Wren barely registered it. She was too busy doing the math on how many people were in this class, and how good or bad her odds were, and hating herself a little for caring either way.

"Calloway," Alvarez read, scanning his list, "and Hale."

Wren's stomach dropped before she'd even fully processed the words. Beside her, Ivy's head whipped around so fast her bracelets clattered against the desk.

Beckett turned in his seat — slow, deliberate, like he needed a second to confirm he'd heard right — and when his eyes landed on her, something flickered across his face that wasn't quite surprise. More like recognition catching up to inevitability.

"You know him?" Ivy mouthed, eyes huge.

Wren didn't answer. She was too busy watching Beckett's expression settle into something unreadable, the same almost-smile from the gym the night before, except now there was something else underneath it — wariness, maybe, or the ghost of whatever conversation he'd had with his coach that morning.

"Guess you found the right door this time," he said, quiet enough that only she could hear it.

Wren's face went warm. She hated that it did.

"Guess I did," she managed.

He didn't say anything else, just turned back around, but she caught the way his shoulders had gone a little more rigid than before, like he was bracing for something. She thought about Pruitt's radio, about the incident note Ivy hadn't mentioned but that Wren was starting to suspect existed anyway, filed somewhere with both their names on it.

Class ended. Ivy practically vibrated out the door, already demanding the full story in a whisper loud enough that two people turned around to look. Wren gave her the smallest possible version — wrong door, gym, nothing happened — and Ivy, for once, seemed to sense there was more underneath it that Wren wasn't ready to hand over.

"Four weeks," Ivy said instead, looping their arms together as they walked into the hall. "Partnered with Beckett Hale. Do you understand what you've just been handed? Half the senior girls would kill for this."

"A group project," Wren said. "That's it."

Ivy gave her a look that said she didn't believe that for a second, and honestly, neither did Wren.

She was still turning it over that afternoon, alone in her dorm room, trying to read the first chapter of the book Alvarez had assigned and getting nowhere, when her phone buzzed with a text from a number she didn't recognize.

This is Beckett. Got your number from Alvarez's list. We should figure out when to meet for the project — but there's something else you should probably know first.

Wren stared at the screen, thumb hovering, heart doing something it had no business doing over eleven words from a stranger.

What is it? she typed back.

The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Not over text, he wrote finally. Meet me after last period. Library, back table. It's about last night.