The Wrong Kind of Perfect

Chapter Eight

Some people don't ask if you're okay. They just sit beside you until you are.

⸻

Wednesday morning tasted like the mint gum I chewed to keep from screaming. The halls of Willow Ridge felt louder than usual—too many glances, too many giggles behind hands, too many people trying to look like they weren't looking at me.

It was official. Whatever damage control Reed thought he had under wraps? It wasn't working.

Someone must've said something.

But the rumors had cracked wide open—and I was the new favorite target.

I kept my head down and shoved open the door to third-period Art, the only class where no one cared if you were weird, messy, or wearing your trauma like last season's denim.

And that's when I saw her.

Sitting cross-legged on top of the supply table like she owned it. Not leaning. Not slouching. Perched. Like a queen waiting for the world to catch up.

Her braids were long, jet-black with golden cuffs, and she wore a cropped "SZA is My Therapist" hoodie over plaid wide-leg pants and Jordans that probably cost more than my life.

She glanced up from her sketchpad and raised an eyebrow. "You gonna hover there or sit down before I judge you for being late and awkward?"

I blinked. "Excuse me?"

She smirked. "Yeah, that's the spirit. I'm Amaya. Amaya Rivera. Junior. Scorpio. Artist. Secret genius. Possible arsonist. Don't worry, you'll love me eventually."."

I paused. "Zara."

"Peteman," she said like she already knew. "The transfer. The ghost girl. The drama magnet."

My face tensed.

She held up a hand. "Relax. I don't believe everything I hear. I just collect data."

I eyed her suspiciously but sat anyway.

The desk beside her was covered in ink-stained sketches—mostly girls, mostly fierce, some crying, some stabbing hearts.

"You draw?"

"I breathe," she deadpanned.

"...Cool."

Amaya leaned over, sniffed me—actually sniffed me—then nodded. "You've got main character energy. Bruised, but brewing. Like you might key someone's car but apologize afterward."

I choked on a laugh. "That's... not entirely wrong."

"Thought so."

For the first time all day, my shoulders dropped. Not all the way. But enough.

"So what's your deal?" I asked.

Amaya shrugged. "I've got two dads, a dead sister, and an art scholarship that's hanging on by a string. I hate group work, Skylar makes me itch, and Reed Carter once asked to copy my homework, so I told him I was illiterate."

I blinked. "Wow. Okay."

"Don't look at me like I'm unhinged. I'm gifted. They said so in kindergarten."

"You're insane."

"I know," she said proudly, handing me a pencil. "Now draw something angry. You look like you've got rage to spare."

I hesitated then took the pencil.

And for the rest of the period, we didn't talk.

Not about Skylar. Or Reed.

Not about the note, the dock, the almost-kiss or the video that could still ruin me.

Just paper.

And pencil.

And the steady, sharp sound of someone finally sitting beside me—not because they wanted something...

...but because they just saw me.

"Most people just stare and whisper," I muttered under my breath to myself but she heard me.

She raised a brow. "Yeah, I noticed. What, did you kill someone?"

I turned sharply, startled.

She held up her hands. "Kidding. Mostly. But seriously, why do you look like the school's about to eat you alive?"

I stared at her. And maybe it was the exhaustion. Or the pressure. Or the weight of carrying everything alone.

But for the first time since I came to Willow Ridge, I let out a small laugh. A real one.

Amaya tilted her head like she was measuring me. "There she is."

"There who is?"

"The girl underneath all that armor."

I shook my head. "You don't know anything about me."

"Yet," she said simply. "But I will. Trust me. I always find my people."

I didn't say anything.

But I didn't have to.

Because for the rest of class, Amaya Rivera stayed by my side like she'd always belonged there.

By lunch, we were walking together through the courtyard. She showed me her sketchbook—it was wild and brilliant and chaotic, full of faceless girls with fire in their eyes, and handwritten quotes in Spanish like Las chicas como nosotras no se rompen—Girls like us don't break.

"You drew all of these?" I asked.

"Yup. Therapy I don't have to pay for." She paused, then nudged me with her elbow. "What about you? What's your thing?"

I hesitated. "I don't know," I said. "Used to be writing. But then life got... loud."

She was quiet for a second, then handed me a blank page from the back of her sketchpad. "Here," she said. "Make it loud in a different way."

I stared at the page then at her. She was serious.

So I wrote one sentence.

Just one.

The truth doesn't save you. It just tells you where the fire started.

She read it and grinned. "Damn, Zara. You're deeper than I thought. Maybe I will keep you."

And just like that, something shifted.

But now, maybe for the first time in a long time—I had a friend in this school.

"Okay, not to be dramatic," Amaya said, balancing a grape on her plastic fork, "but if I have to suffer through one more algebra class taught by that man with the coffee breath and the soul of a used napkin, I will combust."

I snorted. "Who's stopping you?"

She pointed the fork at me. "Exactly. That's why I like you, Peteman. You don't ask stupid questions. You just ride the chaos."

I gave her a mock-curtsy. "At your service, Your Chaotic Highness."

We were seated at the far end of the cafeteria, tucked into a corner table most people ignored—because it was too close to the trash bins, too far from the spotlight. Which was exactly why it worked.

For the first time since I got to Willow Ridge, I didn't feel like I was holding my breath.

Amaya made space without making it weird. She didn't ask about the whispers or the rumors or why I looked like I hadn't slept in three months. She just made it clear that she didn't care who I used to be.

Only who I was right now.

I pushed my tray away and rested my chin on my palm. "It's weird."

"What is?"

"This," I gestured between us. "Lunch. Laughing. Existing without being stared at like I'm on fire."

Amaya raised a brow. "You are on fire. You just stopped apologizing for it."

Before I could respond, a voice cut across the cafeteria like a knife through silk.

"Well, well. Isn't this adorable?" I didn't even need to turn. Skylar.

Of course.

She stood at the head of our table, all glossed lips and sharpened malice, with Camille just a step behind her—smiling like she'd been waiting all day to be mean.

I straightened my spine. So did Amaya, but she stayed seated—just lazily leaned back, arms crossed like she was waiting to be impressed.

"I didn't realize the island of misfit toys was taking reservations," Skylar said, eyeing Amaya with a sneer before turning her attention to me. "But I guess strays attract other strays."

I gave her a thin smile. "Funny. I was just thinking the same thing about you and Camille."

Camille bristled. "Careful, Zara."

Amaya smiled slowly. "Oh, please let her not be careful. I've been dying to throw hands this semester."

Skylar ignored her. "You know, I was trying to be nice. To warn you. About staying in your lane."

"Is that what that was?" I asked. "I thought you were just bored of bullying your usual targets."

Skylar stepped closer. "Don't forget who runs this school."

"You mean Reed?" I shot back. "Because from where I'm sitting, you're the one clinging to a throne that's already crumbling."

Camille gasped. "You think you're safe because you've got her now?" She nodded at Amaya, lips curling. "That's cute. But one freak friend won't save you from the fallout."

"Freak?" Amaya repeated, standing up so fast her chair scraped the floor. She grinned wide and unbothered. "Girl, I eat b*tches like you for breakfast. Try me."

Skylar faltered—just for a second—but then found her footing again. "You're both pathetic. One's a pity project with a past, the other's just an attention-seeking knockoff Cardi B."

Amaya actually clapped. "You rehearse that in the mirror, or is your trauma showing again?"

Skylar flushed, jaw tight.

"Zara," she snapped, turning her glare back to me. "You think this school is going to forget who you are? You think because Reed's been slumming it with you that people are just gonna forgive and forget?"

I stood up, eyes locked with hers. No flinching. No fear.

"You know what I think?" I said, voice calm but deadly. "I think you're scared."

Skylar blinked. "Excuse me?"

"You're scared people are starting to see through the performance. That maybe you're not as untouchable as you pretend to be. That maybe the only thing holding your world together... is someone like Reed. And he's slipping. And the fact that Cameron, poor Cameron may soon know what his beloved girlfriend has been doing behind his back."

Silence.

A few students nearby leaned in. Phones were already recording. I didn't care.

Skylar's lip curled. "You're going to regret this."

"No," I said. "I already regretted staying quiet. That part's over."

And with that, I turned, picked up my tray, and walked away—heart pounding, hands shaking, but head held high.

Amaya followed, casual as ever, twirling a grape between her fingers.

Once we were outside, past the cafeteria doors and halfway down the breezeway, she bumped her shoulder into mine.

"That was sexy," she said.

I laughed, loud and surprised. "You're insane."

She shrugged. "And you're terrifying when you're done being polite."

We kept walking.

And for the first time in a long time...

I didn't feel like I was fighting alone.