The Wrong Kind of Perfect

Chapter Four

When silence becomes survival, even your reflection starts to lie.

⸻

I didn't tell anyone about the field.

Not about Reed.

Not about the deal.

Not even about the way his voice still echoed in my head when everything else went quiet.

Because even if I wanted to talk, I wouldn't know how to explain it. How do you tell someone the school's golden boy just threatened to protect you?

Or worse—how you almost let him?

So I did what scared girls do when they don't want to feel like scared girls.

I lied.

To my mom, who asked if everything was okay with that quiet-knowing look moms wear like armor.

To myself, when I said I could handle this.

To the girl in the mirror who used to believe in karma. Who used to think that being a good person was enough to keep bad things away.

She was gone now. Buried somewhere under the version of me that made deals with devils and pretended she wasn't shaking.

⸻

When Tuesday rolled around, I pulled myself together. Clothes, backpack, makeup—mask. I walked into school like I hadn't just exchanged silence for safety. Like I hadn't bargained with a boy who looked at me like I was both a problem and a prize.

Reed didn't even look at me. Not in homeroom.

Not in the hallway. Not during gym, where we were paired again for some twisted cosmic joke.

He didn't smirk. Didn't sneer. Didn't acknowledge me at all. It wasn't indifference. It was control.

That cold, clinical kind of power that makes you feel invisible—but also completely exposed. Like he owned the silence between us, and breaking it would come at a cost I couldn't afford.

When silence becomes survival, even your reflection starts to lie.

⸻

I didn't tell anyone about the field.

Not about Reed.

Not about the deal.

Not even about the way his voice still echoed in my head when everything else went quiet.

Because even if I wanted to talk, I wouldn't know how to explain it.

How do you tell someone the school's golden boy just threatened to protect you?

Or worse—how you almost let him?

So I did what scared girls do when they don't want to feel like scared girls.

I lied.

To my mom, who asked if everything was okay with that quiet-knowing look moms wear like armor.

To myself, when I said I could handle this.

To the girl in the mirror who used to believe in karma. Who used to think that being a good person was enough to keep bad things away.

She was gone now. Buried somewhere under the version of me that made deals with devils and pretended she wasn't shaking.

⸻

"Are you coming to the game Friday?"

The voice was sweet. Weaponized. I turned to find Camille—the kind of girl who had a glitter phone case and probably a burner i********: just for stalking ex-friends.

I recognized her as one of the girls I had seen one too many times with Skylar, they were best friends.

She smiled like a secret, like she already knew something I didn't. "It's home turf," she added, her tone syrupy. "Big night. Everyone's gonna be there. Especially Reed."

I paused, blinked. My chest tightened.

She saw the flicker in my expression and smiled wider, like a lion scenting blood.

That's how this worked.

He told me to stay quiet and they made sure I knew why.

After school, I didn't go straight home. I took the long way, sneakers dragging along the cracked sidewalks of a town that never really felt mine. Past the mossy trees that hung like ghosts. Past corner stores where the cool kids never went. Past everything that reminded me that Northbridge wasn't home. It was temporary. Transactional. A mask on a map.

My house sat on the edge of a street people skipped on tours. The paint was chipped, the lawn overgrown, and the screen door squeaked like a warning.

But at least here, the lies didn't wear designer cologne.

My mom was passed out on the couch, dark circles hugging her eyes, work scrubs still clinging to her frame. Another night shift. Another promise to herself that I'd never end up like her.

I kissed her forehead, careful not to wake her, and crept upstairs. I locked my bedroom door like it could keep the world out.

I pulled my journal from my bag—my one real place—and stared at the blank page until the silence got too loud to ignore.

Then I wrote:

Reed Carter is not the enemy.

But he's definitely not the hero.

And I'm not sure who I am anymore.

⸻

By Wednesday, the silence had turned to static.

Not about Reed and Skylar. That secret was still buried beneath bleacher benches and the scent of sweat and shame.

But the whispers had found me.

They curled through the hallway like smoke—soft at first, then suffocating. Glances lingered a little too long. Conversations ended when I walked by.

And then there was the flyer.

Taped right to the center of my locker like a badge of shame.

Back from the dead. Or just back to cause hell?

My stomach twisted. My fists clenched before I ripped it down, fingers shaking. My eyes scanned the hall. No one looked guilty. No one even blinked.

But I knew. Reed had said he'd protect me.

So why did I feel like I was wearing a bullseye?

It exploded in gym.

We were mid-sprints, the sound of sneakers squeaking and breath panting through the echo of the gymnasium, when her voice sliced through the noise like a blade.

"Watch it, Peteman. That track's for athletes. Not homewreckers."

Skylar.

Loud. Clear. Cruel.

Camille's laughter rang out loud and scornful. "Or Friend stabbers."

Every step stopped. Every pair of eyes turned.

I froze. My lungs stalled. The air thickened.

And Reed?

He just stood there. Silent. Watching.

Not a word. Not a gesture.

Just... smiling.

Like this was entertainment. Yeah, definitely sure I was entertainment to him, to these rich kids with stinking attitudes.

I turned slowly. My blood rang in my ears as I walked toward her. Each step deliberate. Loud. A challenge wrapped in rhythm.

"If you have something to say," I said, voice low and steady, "say it without the audience."

Skylar's glossed lips curled. "Who said I was talking about you?"

"Your face did."

The smirk twitched. Her eyes narrowed. "A little sensitive, aren't we?"

"And you're a little sloppy, aren't you?"

Her nostrils flared. "Excuse me?"

I leaned in just enough for only her to hear me. My voice, a whisper soaked in warning. "Don't worry. Your secret's safe. For now."

I started to walk away, victory buzzing in my chest.

Then I turned, slow and sharp. "Oh honey," I added, the venom sweet on my tongue, "you don't want to try me. You have no idea what I'm capable of."

She gasped, like I'd slapped her with the truth.

Coach's whistle cut through the air. "Ladies! Keep it together!"

But it was too late.

The damage was done.

The first shot had been fired.

And the war had officially begun.

Reed?

He didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. He just stood there and watched—like he'd lit the match himself—and smiled.

I left the gym burning. Not the good kind of fire and not adrenaline or heat from exertion.

Rage.

It crawled under my skin like gasoline, every nerve lit and screaming.

I shoved open the side doors and stormed outside, boots pounding the concrete like thunder. The chill slapped my face, but I welcomed it. Anything to keep from screaming.

"Peteman!"

I didn't stop.

"Zara!"

His voice cracked through the air like a whip, slicing straight through me.

I turned just as he caught up. His hand closed around my wrist, tight but not bruising.

My body recoiled like he was fire.

I yanked back, eyes blazing. "Don't you f*****g touch me."

He raised both hands in surrender, stepping back like I'd drawn a weapon. "Easy."

I wasn't sure which part of me he was trying to calm. My breathing? My fury? My heartbreak?

"You said you'd protect me," I snapped, voice sharp enough to cut glass.

"I did."

"No, Reed." My hands curled into fists. "You said you'd make sure my second chance didn't go up in flames."

I took a shaky breath, chest heaving. "But guess what?" He didn't answer. "I'm already burning."

His jaw clenched. A flicker of something passed over his face—guilt, maybe. Or regret. But it was gone too fast to hold.

"You don't get it," he said, low and steady, like he was trying to be the calm one now.

"Oh, I get it." I laughed, bitter and breathless. "You get to kiss whoever you want. Threaten whoever you want. You get to walk through this school like nothing touches you."

I stepped closer, close enough that I could see the muscles tense in his jaw. "And I'm just supposed to play the good little secret keeper. Swallow what I saw. Swallow what I feel."

His voice dropped an octave. "I'm not the one who made this complicated."

My heart thudded, but I didn't back down.

"Then who did, Reed? You? Skylar? Or me—for opening the wrong door at the wrong time?"

His silence was deafening and that was my answer.

I turned on my heel, throat tight and vision blurred. I didn't want to cry in front of him. Not again. Not when I was this raw. This vulnerable.

No, I am not weak.

But then—

He said it. Soft. Measured. A confession.

"I saw the video."

My breath hitched. My feet froze mid-step. "What?"

He was still behind me. And when I turned, the usual smirk on his face was gone—wiped clean, like he'd peeled away the mask.

There was something else in its place. Something dangerous in a different way. Concern.

"I saw it," he said again. "The party. Linwood. The fight. I know what happened."

His words sliced through every last defense I had like a scalpel. For a second, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't even blink.

The air around us felt too still. Too fragile.

My knees almost buckled.

Because there were three things no one at Willow Ridge was supposed to know about me.

One:

I wasn't expelled for cheating.

Two:

I didn't start that fight.

And three—

That video could ruin everything.