He Deserved It

Savannah Wren Parker had perfected the art of stillness. That sort of pageant-worthy poise people mistook for peace. She sat at the head of the long mahogany conference table, fingers laced loosely in front of her, nodding along as the student council treasurer presented a budget proposal for the upcoming spring formal. Around her, blazers rustled. A stainless steel water bottle clinked softly against the table. Phones were out, of course, but only discreetly—this was St. Joseph’s Prep, and decorum mattered. Her phone buzzed once in her lap. Then again. Then again. Three vibrations. All from the same sender. Group chat: "Queen Bees." Her heart skipped, then thudded back to life, like it always did when something pierced the script. Savannah kept her expression neutral. She dipped her head like she was reading the meeting agenda, thumbed open her phone, and saw the preview: omg tell me you saw this check your snap right now JORDAN?? Her breath caught. She tapped into Snapchat. There it was. A grainy video from Rio Del Sol High’s pep rally. The caption said, "Wildest school spirit ever 🤡🚩." It had nothing to do with school spirit. It was going viral for something else entirely. In the chaos of the bleachers and dancing students, there was a moment. A background moment. Not even two seconds long. But it was unmistakably him. Jordan Maddox. Kissing someone. Not just someone. A girl Savannah had never seen before. Curvy, laughing, hair long and glossy, pulled into a high ponytail with coral tips. She wore a Rio Del Sol hoodie and looked like she hadn’t had to try very hard. The kind of girl who didn’t need curation to be the moment. Savannah paused the video. Zoomed in. Jordan's hand rested at the girl's hip. The same way it had rested on Savannah the night he'd said she was the only person who ever made him feel safe. The councilroom spun a little. She blinked, glanced up. No one was watching her. No one had noticed. "Sav?" It was Brooke Martinez, seated two chairs down. "Do you have a vote on the DJ deposit?" Savannah smiled like muscle memory. "Let’s table it until we finalize the venue." Brooke nodded. The meeting rolled forward. Savannah turned her phone face-down and kept her hands still. By the time the meeting ended, her group chat had exploded. no way that’s current isn’t he like. YOURS? wait wait wait wasn’t that hoodie from you? your valentines pic had the SAME ONE She didn’t reply. She walked calmly out of the room, heels muffled by the velvet runner in the hallway, and ducked into the girls' bathroom near the main chapel. It was always empty this time of day. Inside the stall, she sank onto the closed toilet lid. Hands shaking now. She rewatched the video. There he was. Smiling. Comfortable. Familiar in a way that felt like betrayal. That hoodie had her initials stitched into the inner seam. Her mom had it monogrammed the week before Christmas. The same week Jordan had come over and told her he couldn’t stop thinking about her. She hadn’t stopped thinking about him either. Savannah gritted her teeth. A tear slipped down her cheek, and she wiped it away furiously. This had to be old. Had to be. Maybe from before they were official. Maybe before he told her she was the only one who really got him. The only one who made him feel clean. But she knew it wasn’t. The girl in the video wore a Rio Del Sol shirt from this year's homecoming, screen-printed with the theme: Saddle Up, Sols! Savannah had seen it on t****k last month. This wasn’t an echo. It was now. Her phone buzzed again. This time, a text from her mom: Before you post anything, call me. Board is still watching socials. 👊 Savannah didn’t answer. She stood. Straightened her skirt. Washed her hands slowly, like that might settle the shake. In the mirror, she looked perfect. Hazel eyes clear. Hair still curled at the ends. Not a tear in sight. The benefit of knowing which waterproof mascara actually worked. She reapplied gloss. Patted her cheeks. Put the smile back on. Then she walked out. ⋆⸻⸻⋆ Later that night, Savannah sat in bed with her laptop open and her desk lamp on low. Her little sister Harper lay across the foot of the bed, sketching in a bullet journal and humming a mashup of Taylor Swift and something from Six. “Can I borrow your pink highlighter?” Harper asked without looking up. Savannah tossed it toward her gently. “Put the cap back when you’re done.” “Obviously.” The text thread was still open on her phone. Judas Hour was now debating whether Savannah had known. Whether she’d been hiding it. Someone had posted a slow-mo screen recording of the kiss. Added music. Some lo-fi breakup track with falling petals. The likes were climbing by the second. Jordan hadn’t texted her. Not once. Not to explain. Not to lie. Nothing. Savannah reached for her burner i********: account. The one her mom didn’t know existed. The one without her last name. She uploaded the video. Typed out ten different captions. Deleted all of them. Finally, she settled on the only words that felt like hers: You see it too, right? No tags. No names. No hashtags. She hit post. Watched it upload. Then she silenced her phone and turned it face-down on the nightstand. There was something dangerously hollow in her chest. A stillness that didn’t feel like peace. She curled under the duvet, back to the wall. Pulled the covers tight, just like she did as a kid when the house felt too big and too cold. Harper’s pencil scratched lightly in the background. Savannah stared at the ceiling. Jordan had kissed her behind the parking garage at the Arroyo Mesa library. Said she was the only girl who didn’t make him feel like a fraud. He’d meant it. She wanted to believe he’d meant it. But that girl in the T-shirt hadn’t just stumbled into Jordan’s arms. He had made a choice. She wasn’t the only one. She had never been the only one. That thought slithered under her skin like cold water. Savannah closed her eyes and practiced her breathing. Inhale for four. Hold for seven. Exhale for eight. Just like her therapist taught her after sophomore year. But the breath caught in her throat, sticky with something shameful. Because deep down, she didn’t want to cry about Jordan. She wanted to destroy him. She wanted him to know what it felt like to be seen like this. Bare. Mocked. Made into content. Her fingers itched. Her mind sharpened. And just like that, Savannah Wren Parker began to plan. ⋆⸻⸻⋆ The next morning, she woke up to 217 notifications. The video had cracked 30,000 views. Her caption was being shared across stories. No one knew it was hers, but people were asking. In a town like Arroyo Mesa, secrets had legs. Her finsta got five new follows overnight. The messages rolled in: Who posted it??? It’s totally new, right? Is that Lia Navarro? Bruh. That’s def her. Savannah stared at the last message. Read the name again: Lia. She didn’t know who that was. But she would. Because whatever was happening here—it wasn’t just cheating. It was strategy. It was lies stacked like dominoes. And Savannah? She wasn’t about to be collateral.