Chapter 2: Ripped Open in the Hallway
1540 Words
If high school had a monarchy, Sienna wouldn't be running for queen.
She already wears the crown.
I see it every single morning — the way the hallway parts for her like she's a current and everyone else is water. The hair, the lip gloss that catches the fluorescent lights, that laugh designed in a lab to make boys forget their own names. Walking behind her feels like being the before photo in a makeover ad that never actually gets to the after.
The bell hasn't rung yet and I'm already counting the hours until I can close my bedroom door and breathe.
I'm at my locker, swapping out my English textbook for my sketchpad, when I hear it.
That laugh.
Loud. Bright. Laced with something sharp underneath, like sugar hiding a razor blade.
My stomach drops.
I know that tone. That tone never ends well for me.
I turn slowly, the way you turn when you already know the car is headed straight for you.
Sienna is standing in the middle of the hallway with Brianna, Cassidy, and Cole — the guy half the junior class has constructed a
religion around — and in my sister's hand, held up like a trophy, is my sketchbook.
My portfolio sketchbook.
The one with the pieces I'm submitting to Ashford.
The air leaves my lungs.
"Give that back." My voice comes out smaller than I want it to.
Sienna smiles. That slow, honeyed smile that looks gorgeous in every photo and absolutely lethal up close.
"Relax, Sloane. We're just appreciating your artwork."
Brianna leans over Sienna's shoulder, her acrylic nails clicking against the cover as Sienna flips the pages like she's browsing a
magazine at the dentist.
"Okay, what is this?" Brianna points, eyes wide in mock fascination. "An angel with a sword? Super dark. I'm kind of into it, actually."
"Bro, your sister's got range," Cole says, grinning as Sienna turns to another page. Then his eyebrows shoot up. "Wait — is this supposed to be her wolf?" He lets out a low whistle. "Damn. That wolf is actually kind of—"
"Give it back."
I shove through them and rip the sketchbook from Sienna's hands, pulling it against my chest so hard the spiral digs into my ribs. My
face is on fire. The hallway has noticed. Of course it has.
"What is wrong with you?" My voice shakes and I hate myself for it.
Sienna tilts her head. All innocence, all wide eyes. The performance she's been perfecting since we were six.
"What? We were just looking, Sloane."
"No," I snap. "You weren't. You were making fun of me."
Her smile sharpens at the edges.
"Don't be so dramatic. Honestly? You should be thanking me. People are actually noticing you for once."
"Noticing me." The laugh that tears out of me sounds nothing like a laugh. "By humiliating me?"
She shrugs. One shoulder, effortless, like flicking a fly off her sleeve.
"It's just drawings. Why are you acting like I killed someone?"
"Because they matter to me." My voice drops to a whisper. "They're all I have."
Sienna leans in close enough that I can smell her perfume — the expensive kind Mom bought her — and her voice goes quiet,
pointed, just for me.
"Then maybe stop hiding behind them and try being normal for once. It's getting sad, Sloane. Genuinely."
She straightens. Full smile back on. Cole's already laughing at something Brianna said, and Sienna falls into step beside them like the
conversation already evaporated from her memory.
Like I evaporated.
The bell rings.
I don't move. I just stand there with the sketchbook pressed to my chest, knuckles white, the whispers of passing students washing
over me like static.
* * * * * * * *
By lunch, the whole school knows.
Sienna doesn't need a group chat. She has something more powerful — charm, and an audience that worships her. By the time I get
to the cafeteria, I can feel the whispers before I hear them.
"Did you see her drawings?"
"Who sketches their own wolf before they've even shifted? That's unhinged."
"What if she ends up like her grandmother?"
"Red wolf. Imagine. So ugly."
I stab my salad like it owes me money and keep my eyes on the table.
"Is this seat taken?"
I look up.
Wyatt. Quiet, tall, always in the back corner of the library with a book stacked under another book. We've never spoken — not really
— but I've noticed him. Mostly because he's the only other person in this building who looks like he'd genuinely rather be anywhere else.
"It's all yours," I say.
He drops his backpack on the bench and sits, surveying the cafeteria with the calm detachment of someone who decided a long time ago that none of this matters.
"Ignore them," he says, nodding toward the nearest cluster of whisperers. "They're idiots."
The laugh that escapes me is the most genuine thing I've felt all day.
"Accurate," I manage.
He pulls a book from his bag, then pauses. "You draw, right? I mean — I've seen you in the library. The sketchbooks." He clears his
throat. "Not trying to make it weird."
I groan and press my forehead to the table.
"Please don't."
"Hey." His voice softens, and something about the lack of performance in it makes me look up. "They're just scared of things they don't understand. You've got real talent. Ashford would be lucky to have your portfolio."
I blink.
No one has ever said that to me. Not once. Not out loud.
Something cracks open in my chest — fragile, tentative, terrifying—
A shadow falls over the table.
I smell the perfume first.
"Well." Sienna's voice is warm brown sugar on top of something rotten. "Isn't this the most adorable thing I've seen all week."
She slides into the seat beside me without asking. Brianna and Cassidy materialize on the other side, boxing me in like parentheses I
didn't agree to. Wyatt goes very still across the table, his jaw tight.
"Go away, Sienna."
"I'm just getting lunch, relax." She sets her tray down and looks between me and Wyatt with sparkling, theatrical delight. "Sloane, you didn't tell me you had a lunch date. This is huge. Genuinely."
"It's not—" I start.
"Look at you two," she continues, loud enough for the tables around us. "Bonding over books and moody artwork. You're probably
mates, honestly. Two miserable nerds, cosmically assigned. The universe is so efficient."
"That's enough," Wyatt says.
His voice is quiet. Completely level. And something about the steadiness of it — the total absence of performance — makes Sienna
blink.
For one half-second, she's caught off guard.
Then she recovers.
"Oh, relax. I'm looking out for my sister. She doesn't exactly have a packed social calendar." She rests her chin on her hand. "Just
don't want her to end up alone with her drawings forever."
"Or at all," Brianna adds helpfully, stifling a giggle.
That's the one that does it.
Not the public humiliation. Not the ambush at the locker. That throwaway line, delivered by someone who doesn't even know my
name.
I push back from the table so hard my chair scrapes against the floor. I grab my tray. I don't look at Wyatt. I can't — whatever that
small, new, fragile thing was that just started to breathe between us, Sienna just walked in and stomped it flat.
Her laughter chases me all the way to the door.
* * * * * * * *
I lock myself in the last bathroom stall and slide to the floor.
The tears I've been strangling all day finally break loose, and I let them — silently, angrily, hating every single one of them for
proving she gets to me.
Why? The question burns through me like acid. We're twins. We're supposed to—
But I already know the answer. Sienna doesn't want to be the best. That would be enough if that's all it was. No — she needs me to
be less. She needs the shadow to stay shadowed so the light looks brighter.
I open the sketchbook.
The angel stares back at me — wings spread wide, sword raised, eyes that don't flinch. Everything I'm not. Everything I can't
manage to be when it counts.
And below her, on the next page — my wolf. Fire-red coat, strong spine, eyes like lit embers. She looks like she's never been afraid
of a single thing in her entire life.
She's going to be red, I think. Like Grandma. Like me.
And maybe that's not the curse everyone thinks it is.
Maybe it's the only inheritance in this family actually worth having.
I press my palm flat against the page.
One day, I tell her silently. One day I'm going to look like you.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out expecting nothing.
It's an email from Ashford University's Fine Arts department.
My application portal has been updated.
My heart slams into my ribs. With shaking hands, I open it — and the words blur in front of my eyes before snapping into
devastating focus.
- Writer
