Rise of Ember Quin

3

It happens so fast Ember almost doubts it’s real: Jackson, arriving like a VIP, flanked by three teammates and the aura of having somewhere better to be. He’s taller than she remembered, face sharper from the summer’s lost baby fat, hair perfectly disordered. He wears the varsity jacket, even though it’s humid enough to melt plastic. The crowd tilts around his entrance—a brief hush, then the energy rebounding, more manic. Ember wonders if anyone else feels the gravitational shift.

She spots him instantly. She always does.

At first, he doesn’t see her. He’s busy trading bro-hugs, smacking backs, accepting a can of beer he’ll probably use as a prop. Ember feels her pulse spike, cheeks warming under Rae’s strategic BB cream. This is why she’s here, the moment Rae engineered: the possibility of Jackson seeing her, wanting her, not just as an afterthought or a study partner but as someone worth the main stage. She rehearses possible hellos in her mind, each more casual than the last.

He turns, eyes scanning, and—yes, contact. His gaze meets hers for a second, and something hot and animal surges in Ember’s gut. She lifts her hand, a hesitant wave.

Jackson doesn’t smile. Instead, his mouth quirks sideways, eyes narrowing with calculation. He says something to the teammate nearest him—a wordless joke, a snort—and the two of them exchange that particular smirk boys use when they’re sharing something at someone else’s expense. Then Jackson pivots, as if the sight of Ember has redirected him, but not toward her. He bee-lines for a group at the kitchen’s far end, where a huddle of girls in jean shorts and crop tops already ripple with excitement at his approach.

Ember’s hand floats awkwardly midair before she lowers it, fingers curling in on themselves. She tries to summon indifference, but the pit in her stomach is full of wet cement.

Rae, somehow back at her side, notices the moment. She leans in, voice pitched low. “He saw you. He totally saw you.” She’s trying to be reassuring, but the cracks show.

“Yeah,” Ember says, hollow. “I’m sure he did.”

She watches Jackson. He’s magnetic, even inoffensively so, moving from group to group with the practiced ease of someone who never doubts their place. Ember feels the edges of her own presence, like she’s trapped in a snow globe, the world outside shaking but she’s just the plastic figurine inside.

She wants to talk to him. She wants to talk to him so badly she can taste the yearning, sharp and tinny on her tongue. Rae nudges her forward. “Go. Say hi. He’s probably just nervous, too.”

The logic is absurd—Jackson nervous?—but Ember latches onto it, takes a step away from the wall. She’s still holding the red cup, knuckles tight. One more breath, she tells herself. One more step.

She doesn’t see the rug.

It’s one of those cheap, woven runners someone’s mom bought on sale, just slightly rucked up at the corner. Ember’s sandal snags, heel folding sideways, and momentum does the rest. She pitches forward, arms flailing, cup flying in a perfect red parabola. Time slows: she sees the liquid arc, a comet trail of punch, sees faces turn toward her with rapt anticipation.

Then: impact. Her knees and palms hit hardwood, which is less forgiving than she imagined. The cup lands beside her, splattering her dress and legs with sticky, sugar-bright spray. The music seems to hiccup, or maybe it’s just that every conversation in the living room pauses at once.

For a second, nobody moves.

Then the laughter starts, low and snickering, growing in waves as people realize what just happened. A girl’s voice, high and derisive: “Classic Ember.” Another, meaner: “Always the klutz.” Someone else, trying to whisper but failing: “No wonder Jackson’s over it.”

Ember’s face burns so hot she wonders if her makeup will melt off. Her vision stings, and she blinks hard, desperate not to cry in front of all these faces, these eyes. She tries to push up, but her knees slip on the wet floor and she wobbles, graceless and exposed.

Nobody helps. Rae is somewhere behind her, voice smothered by the rising tide of laughter. And Jackson—she glances up, just once—he’s not coming over. He’s standing by the kitchen, lips tight, eyes fixed on something very important on the opposite wall. His teammates elbow him, like he’s supposed to do something, but he doesn’t. He turns away, takes a swig of beer, and laughs along.

Ember’s hands tremble as she gets to her feet. Her dress is ruined, punch soaked into the hem and thigh, a red stain blooming up her side. The humiliation is physical, tangible, a nausea that won’t subside. She fumbles for the cup, but someone else has already kicked it aside.

“Nice one, Quin,” calls a boy from the couch, not unkind, but not kind, either.

She wants to vanish, to melt into the floor. Instead, she stands there, shaky and dripping, as the room resets around her. The laughter fades, replaced by new gossip, new spectacle. Ember wipes her palms on the ruined dress, uncertain what to do with herself.

She looks for Rae—maybe to find comfort, maybe to beg for an exit plan—but Rae is deep in damage control, hands on hips, already trying to shift the party’s attention. Ember realizes, with the cold clarity of someone just outside the radius of a bonfire, that she is alone. Absolutely, totally alone.

She doesn’t remember walking to the bathroom, but suddenly she’s there, door locked, light too bright and merciless. She stares at the mirror. Her makeup is streaked, eyeshadow smeared, lips bitten raw. The punch stain looks like a wound. She touches it, then sinks to the toilet lid, head in hands.

There’s no sound but the faint thump of bass through the wall. She lets herself cry, just a little, just enough. She wipes her face, stands, and meets her own eyes in the mirror. For a second, she almost laughs. The girl staring back at her looks like she survived a war.

She remembers the text from Jackson—see u there—and wonders if he ever meant to see her at all.

The party rages on, immune to her pain. Ember squares her shoulders, steels herself, and prepares to walk back out into the noise, the lights, the world that keeps spinning regardless.