Truth tea and trap doors
1200 Words
The next morning, the halls of Westbrooke High were buzzing—and for once, it had nothing to do with Amanda Bentley’s outfit, her latest i********: post, or whatever brand of lip gloss she was aggressively promoting that week.
This time?
It was the tea.
And baby, it was piping hot.
The mysterious i********: account @TruthTea_WBHS had dropped its first post at 6:37 a.m. sharp.
A screenshot. Amanda’s name. A DM thread with a college guy where she clearly claimed to be eighteen. With heart emojis. And shirtless selfies. And the kicker? He’d replied with, “Aren’t you a junior?”
Oof.
By 8:00 a.m., the post had over 300 views, 90 shares, and had made its way into almost every group chat on campus. Someone even printed it out and taped it inside a bathroom stall with the words FAKE & THIRSTY written in glitter pen.
The best part?
Amanda had no idea it was me.
Because someone like Amanda Bentley could never imagine someone like me being behind anything so bold, so clever, so… viral.
No, in her mind I was still the nobody. The background character. The poor, pitiful punchline in her perfect little movie.
I was invisible.
And that was my greatest weapon.
---
“I’m telling you, it has to be one of the cheerleaders,” Amanda hissed later that day as I passed by her in the hall. “Probably Lauren. She’s always hated me.”
Lauren. The girl who once brought Amanda Starbucks for a month straight just to sit at her lunch table. Lauren who practically worshipped her.
“She’s a traitor,” Amanda snapped, her perfectly glossed lips pouting as she flipped her phone upside down. “And I will find out who did it.”
I almost laughed.
Almost.
Because that was the thing about Amanda—she couldn’t see past her own ego. The idea that someone like me could be the mastermind pulling strings behind the curtain? Not even on her radar. In her eyes, I was still a glitch in the system, a mosquito buzzing in her perfect little ear.
Forgettable.
And that was exactly how I needed it to stay.
---
At lunch, I slid into a seat next to Johnny, who handed me a bag of chips and grinned.
“She’s spiraling.”
“I know,” I whispered, trying not to sound too proud.
“She had Holly go through her own followers trying to find the mole.”
“She’s gonna lose her mind when she realizes it’s no one she even suspects.”
We both snickered.
Across the room, Amanda was glaring at her phone like it had just betrayed her. Emery walked in at that moment, heading straight for our table with that casual, unbothered air that made people move without him even asking.
He dropped into the seat across from me, leaned back, and looked satisfied. “Operation One: Successful.”
“You sure she’s not on to us?” Johnny asked.
“Positive,” I said. “She thinks it’s someone worthy of being her enemy. She’d never assume it’s someone like me.”
Emery looked at me with something soft in his eyes.
“She’s underestimating you,” he said quietly. “That’s her mistake.”
It was strange… how good that felt to hear. Not just the words—but the fact that he believed it.
That I was the threat.
That I was finally more than a ghost in these halls.
I wasn’t just surviving anymore.
I was making moves.
---
By seventh period, the fire was still burning strong. Amanda hadn’t posted on i********: all day—a sign that she was officially in panic mode. Her stories? Gone. Her usual lunch table? Empty. Her minions? Quiet.
But then, just when I thought the storm was settling, Westbrooke’s loudspeaker crackled to life:
“Attention students. We’re excited to announce that this year’s Prom theme will be Midnight Masquerade. The official Prom Court nominations will begin next Monday. As always, the championship football game will be the Friday before Prom week. Go Wildcats!”
My stomach flipped.
Prom.
The single most dramatic, high-stakes night in high school history. A social battlefield dressed up in sequins and stress. And now, with the TruthTea chaos setting fire to Amanda’s reputation? We had a chance.
Because Amanda Bentley was Prom Queen every year—even when it didn’t make sense. Even when it was technically not possible. She owned that crown like it was engraved with her name.
But not this time.
No. This time, the crown was up for grabs.
And I was coming for it.
---
After school, I met up with Emery behind the theater again. The sun was starting to dip, casting golden light across the back lot. He looked tired—but in that unfair, movie-star kind of way.
“You heard the announcement?” he asked.
“Prom. Masquerade. Drama,” I said. “It’s all happening.”
“I don’t really do dances,” he said.
“You’re going.”
He raised a brow.
“Why?”
“Because Amanda’s gunning for Prom Queen, and if I’m going to take her down, I need a King. Or, at the very least, a date who looks like trouble and smells like victory.”
He smirked. “So… me.”
“Exactly.”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “And what if I wanted to go… with you?”
My cheeks burned. I hated how easily he could do that to me.
“Then that works too,” I said, trying not to melt into a puddle.
We talked more about the plan for the next TruthTea drop—an anonymous video submission of Amanda bullying Martha, with timestamps, commentary, and a perfectly timed caption: “Your Queen, Unfiltered.”
It would go live during next Friday’s pep rally.
The same day Emery would take the field as the team’s newly minted wide receiver.
Because, surprise—Emery wasn’t just a moody movie theater worker. He was fast. Like break-school-records fast. The coach saw him practicing one day after school and practically begged him to join the team before playoffs.
Amanda noticed.
Of course she did.
She tried to flirt with him again during practice. She brought him a protein shake and a fake smile.
He dumped it in the trash.
Right in front of her.
It was glorious.
---
That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling and thought about everything that was coming.
Prom.
Football.
TruthTea.
Amanda’s downfall.
And Emery.
Always Emery.
I was catching feelings.
Hard.
And I hated it. I didn’t trust it. Every time I started to feel like I could breathe around him, something inside me screamed danger. What if he was lying? What if he was just like the others?
But then I’d remember the way he looked at me when no one else was watching. Like I was worth something. Like I mattered.
And I didn’t know what to do with that.
So I let myself fall—just a little more.
Because for once, it felt like someone might actually catch me.
- Writer
