𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄
eat, scream, & repeat
❪ Tuesday, Ridgeway High, 1087 Blackthorn Drive, Oregon ❫
⏰  7:30 a.m.

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The classroom of AP Chinese Language and Culture was cold — the kind of cold that made you second-guess your life choices, your outfit, and the air conditioning budget of the school.

Sunlight streamed in through tall windows, illuminating chalk dust particles suspended midair. Posters of Chinese idioms lined the back wall, and today's whiteboard read, "你吃了吗？(Have you eaten?) - A traditional Chinese greeting."

Nadia sat front and center, as always — posture perfect, mechanical pencil poised like a weapon of mass precision. When the bell rang, she didn't even flinch — she was already halfway through her pre-lesson quiz.

Jaydee strolled in two seconds after the bell. He flopped into the seat two rows back and one over from Nadia. One row to the right of him sat Aurelius Parker — hoodie up, eyes on his phone, humming quietly to himself. Eli always looked like he existed in soft focus — bright-eyed, golden-skinned, and slightly out of place in a high school setting, like someone who was meant to be in a coming-of-age movie, not real life.

Jaydee's eyes landed on him.

Again.

Eli didn't notice at first — he was doodling something small and absurd in the margin of his vocabulary sheet. It looked like a dumpling with a little crown. Jaydee tilted his head.

Cute.

"大家好," the teacher chirped at the front, starting the lesson with cheerful tones. "Let's review family vocabulary!"

As pairs were called up to practice phrases, Nadia raised her hand without hesitation, gliding up to the front and reciting her example sentences in near-perfect pronunciation. She was focused, impassive, sharp — the kind of student everyone hated to follow.

Jaydee blinked as his phone buzzed.

He looked down at a draft message he was crafting during Nadia's mini-presentation — one of those stupid flirty lines he liked to toss around. Nothing serious. Just something to pass the time.

"你是不是偷走了我的心？因为我一直看你呢。"
("Did you steal my heart? Because I can't stop looking at you.")

He smirked at his own cheesiness, thumb hovering over Send. His brain said, send it to Mac. His close friend from the music club, he'll laugh his ass off.

His heart said, send it to Eli.

His finger twitched — and sent.

Immediately, his eyes went wide. He checked the recipient field.

Eli Parker.

"Shit," he mouthed, nearly knocking over his water bottle. Across the room, Eli's phone buzzed. He picked it up, glanced at the screen.

Paused.

Then turned... slowly... toward Jaydee.

Jaydee's entire soul fled his body.

Eli raised an eyebrow. Smirked.

And sent back, "你看得我很开心。"
("Then keep looking. I don't mind.")

Jaydee choked on air.

"Jaydee?" the teacher called out. "你下一个。"

There was a beat.

Jaydee stood from his chair, tugging the hem of his hoodie down like he was shaking off whatever awkward moment just happened. His face settled into the calm, cool mask he wore during exams — and when he spoke, his Mandarin was effortless.

"我家有五口人：我爸爸、妈妈、哥哥、妹妹和我。我们住在一个安静的小镇上。我的妈妈是医生，爸爸是律师。我最喜欢我们家的晚餐时间，因为那是我们聊天、笑和分享一天的时刻"

("There are five people in my family: my dad, mom, older brother, younger sister, and me. We live in a quiet town. My mom is a doctor, and my dad is a lawyer. My favorite time is dinner, because it's when we talk, laugh, and share about our day.")

His pronunciation was crisp. Tone-perfect. Not a stammer in sight.

The teacher paused — clearly surprised — then smiled, scribbling something quickly on her clipboard. "非常好, Jaydee. 很自然。你的语法和语调都很棒。" (Very good, Jaydee. Very natural. Your grammar and tone were excellent.)

Jaydee nodded once, cool and collected, before dropping back into his seat.

He didn't look over at Eli this time.

But Eli was already looking, still lounging in his chair, chewing lightly on the end of his pencil, that signature grin creeping back onto his face like he knew something Jaydee didn't.

Jaydee rolled his eyes.

And, okay—maybe he grinned a little too.

──

Social Studies was supposed to be her easy class. The kind where she could scroll TikTok behind a propped-up binder and maybe bully three people with her eyes alone. Gabrielle Lind — the girl who once made a junior cry with a single glance — didn't do surprises.

Which is why Mari Castillo walking into class felt like an insult. "Didn't expect to see you in a classroom before noon," Gabby said coolly, not looking up from her nail polish — glossy pink, freshly applied, deadly. "What happened, your boxing ring close for fumigation?"

Mari dropped into the seat next to her with a grin like sin. "Thought I'd grace you with my presence. Looks like it worked — you're already annoyed." Gabby turned, slow and precise, cocking a perfectly arched brow. "Annoyed implies I care."

"C'mon, Gabs," Mari drawled, slouching in her chair like she owned it. "We've been desk buddies for what, a semester now? I'm starting to think you sit here on purpose."

Gabby snorted. "Trust me, if I had a choice, I'd sit next to someone with less... rage and body odor."

"Body odor?" Mari said, mock-offended. "That's bold coming from someone who wears overpriced perfume that smells like daddy issues with a platinum card." Gabby turned her head slowly. "Say that again, louder, I dare you."

The tension hung between them like a drawn bow. Around them, the class buzzed on in apathy, oblivious to the crackling energy between the school's sharpest tongue and its sharpest fists.

Gabby crossed her legs, chin tilted high. She hated that Mari always looked so... alive. Like she belonged in a movie — messy, defiant, unpredictable. Gabby was the picture of control. Glossy lips. Designer heels. And yet, for some stupid reason, her gaze kept flicking sideways.

And that hoodie. That goddamn hoodie.

Mari leaned in, eyes gleaming. "You missed me, admit it."

"In your dreams, Castillo."

Mari smirked. "I'm in yours, babe." Gabby snapped her gum. "Delusional."

But she didn't move away.

She hated the way Mari made her feel off-balance — like a crack was forming in the cold, curated shell she worked so hard to maintain.

Gabby didn't like being intrigued. It was messy. It was dangerous. And worst of all... it felt real.

And real? Real was a threat.

So she rolled her eyes, grabbed her pen, and leaned back like she wasn't thinking about the girl next to her — and why her heart had picked now to start beating too loud.

──

Despite the fact that two students were dead, school moved on — like grief could be rescheduled between third period and lunch.

Yuki Usumaki flopped into her seat beside Yale Beren. "Okay, Mr. Mysterious," Yuki said, leaning in with a grin. "So this essay — tragedy in Shakespeare. Very topical, huh?" She made a little dramatic throat-cutting gesture, then quickly winced. "Too soon?"

Yale didn't respond.

He just looked at her like she was a particularly energetic storm cloud that had been assigned to follow him for the rest of the semester. "Right," she muttered, brushing her curtain bangs back. "Mood killer. Got it."

Their teacher, with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly had no clue two students were recently murdered on school property, announced, "You'll be paired up for this essay. Explore how Shakespeare uses violence as a storytelling tool."

Yuki's jaw dropped. "Oh my god. This is literally cursed." Yale side-eyed her. "I mean, we're talking about murder during a literal murder spree," she whispered, leaning in like they were co-conspirators. "That's weird, right? That's not just me?"

"Still due today," their teacher called out.

Yuki stared at the assignment sheet in horror. "Okay. Okay. Essay time." She glanced at Yale and gave him a hesitant smile. "So... we're partners. How do you wanna do this?"

Yale said nothing. Just opened his laptop and typed a heading. Yuki watched him for a beat. "You're a 7, huh?" He blinked. "What?"

"Academically. Like, you give off 'I actually read the syllabus' energy." He paused, then nodded slowly. "...And you're a 4."

"Excuse you, I am trying," she said with mock offense. "I just learn better with, like, visual materials. And interpretive dance. And snacks." Yale didn't look up. "Noted."

"Don't worry," she said cheerfully, scooting her desk a little closer. "I'm super good at brainstorming. And metaphors. And, like, I once cried over a BuzzFeed quiz. I know emotions."

"Great," Yale muttered, tapping his keyboard. "I'll write. You... vibe?"

"Exactly!" She grinned, satisfied. "Teamwork makes the dream work." He gave her the smallest glance. "You really don't take anything seriously, do you?"

She paused at that. Just for a second. "I do," she said, quieter. "Just not in front of people."

That made him pause.

She brightened again. "Anyway, want snacks? I brought marshmallows. Totally essay fuel." Yale didn't say no.

So she opened the bag and passed him one — and when he took it, just barely, with two fingers like he wasn't sure if it was a trap, Yuki smiled like she'd won a prize.

Outside the window, the clouds were gathering. But at that desk, under the flicker of too-yellow lights and the weight of a very cursed assignment, they were — weirdly — okay.

For now.

──

The overhead lights buzzed faintly in Room 108, the way they always did when it rained. It was one of those late spring drizzles — soft, constant, just enough to smear the windows and cast a gray blur over the football field.

Mattheo Leone sat in the third row, slouched like the back of his chair had personally offended him. Pen spinning between his fingers. Notebook open, but blank. The lined paper stared back at him like it expected more.

Like everyone else.

"All right," came a soft voice from the front of the room, "let's dive into The Great Gatsby. Chapter Six today. Let's look at Gatsby's obsession with the past."

Miss Belle.

She always said the book titles like they were sacred. Like something beautiful and broken and worth protecting.

Mattheo didn't look up, but his jaw tensed. He didn't need to. He knew every curve of her voice. Had memorized it like scripture. Low and warm and slow — like she was letting you into a secret, even if it was just about Fitzgerald's symbolism.

She moved to the board, scribbling illusion vs. reality in purple marker.

He tapped his pen harder.

She had started here last year — wide-eyed, fresh out of college, way too young to be taken seriously by the staff but way too beautiful not to be noticed by every guy with a heartbeat.

And Mattheo?

He noticed.

Not at first. Not in the obvious way.

It was the way she saw him that got under his skin.

Like someone... trying.

She once called his essay "achingly good." Wrote it in the margins with a little star next to it. No teacher had ever said anything like that before.

That was the first spark. A comment. A look. A late chat after class that lasted twenty minutes too long.

Now, here he was — senior year, sitting in her class again, pretending he didn't know the way her hands shook the day she told him they "should stop."

They never did.

"Mattheo?" she said suddenly.

He blinked. Looked up, slow and careful. Her eyes met his — a little too long. A little too much.

"What do you think Gatsby is trying to recreate?" she asked, voice steady. Mattheo cleared his throat. "His dream."

"What kind of dream?"

He gave a small shrug, leaning back. "The kind that doesn't survive daylight."

That made her pause.

The class didn't catch the shift. But she did. Her lashes fluttered once — barely noticeable. Then she nodded. "Exactly. Gatsby is a prisoner to the version of the world he wants to see."

Mattheo smiled faintly, just for her. Not a real smile — the kind that said I know you heard that. She looked away too quickly.

The class scribbled notes. Rain tapped on the windows like restless fingers. Somewhere behind them, a girl whispered about the kill list. But Mattheo didn't care.

Not right now.

Not with her five feet away, trying not to look at him the way she did when no one was watching. He watched her write on the board again. Her hand shook the tiniest bit.

No one else noticed.

Except Jules.

She sat in the back corner, slumped under her hoodie, chunky rings clacking lightly against her mechanical pencil. She didn't even pretend to take notes. Instead, her dark eyes flicked between Mattheo and the teacher with a growing sense of well, well, well.

She'd seen enough weird shit in this school to know when something wasn't right. And whatever was simmering between Miss Belle and the Team Captain wasn't just extra-credit tutoring.

She took a quiet bite of her grape-flavored gummy worm and chewed slowly, eyes narrowing as Mattheo flicked his gaze back toward Miss Belle like a magnet drawn to a pulse.

It wasn't romantic.

It was tension.

Like standing on a frozen lake and knowing exactly where the cracks are.

Jules didn't know what had happened. But she'd seen enough haunted dolls and cursed thrift store paintings to recognize a bad vibe when it walked into class wearing Nikes and a letterman jacket.

In front of her, Miss Belle was now talking about Gatsby's desperate attempt to rewrite the past, and Mattheo leaned back in his seat, arms folded, watching her like he was remembering something he shouldn't.

Jules raised an eyebrow and leaned closer to her notebook. She didn't write a word. Just drew a doodle of two stick figures — one with a football, one with long hair — both standing on fire.

The lights flickered for a second. No one really noticed.

Except Jules.

And the corner of her mouth tugged up, just slightly.

──

❪ Tuesday, Cafeteria ❫
⏰ 12:32 p.m.

──

The air was a humid mix of microwaved meatballs, hormonal teenagers, and passive-aggressive glances. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like anxious bees, and the dull roar of laughter, tray clatter, and overlapping gossip was relentless.

At Table 3, the football team were in full testosterone-fueled glory. Mattheo Leone leaned back with one arm stretched across the bench, watching his teammates act like idiots. Someone whistled at a sophomore walking by. Dylan barked out a laugh. Mattheo rolled his eyes, flicked a grape toward a tray, and yawned.

At Table 7, Gabrielle Lind sat with her legs crossed, acrylic nails tapping her phone screen. She didn't speak — that was Sloane's job. But when she did raise her voice, it sliced through the noise like a blade dipped in lip gloss and venom. Their table smelled like overpriced perfume and judgment.

Across the room, buried in a booth near the vending machines, sat Nadia Chung. Alone.
A pristine pile of AP flashcards sat beside her untouched sandwich, but she was nose-deep in a worn copy of a romance novel — something with a dramatic title like Midnight's Regret. She looked calm, composed, until someone screamed from across the room. She flinched, turned the page like nothing happened, and took a bite of her apple without looking up.

At the very back, the school's band were mid-discussion on whether oboes were cursed. Jules toyed with a half-eaten apple and a plastic fork like she was conducting an orchestra of chaos. Beside her, Yuki giggled at something one of the trumpet boys said, her energy like a fizzy soda can threatening to burst. They were discussing possible songs for Friday's practice but had already gotten distracted planning a Halloween prank.

Table 10 housed the swim team, and as always, Yale Beren sat like a sculpture — beautiful, cold, unreadable. He listened, but didn't speak much. The others laughed about a TikTok trend where athletes dove into bushes, but Yale simply sipped his water, eyes occasionally drifting across the room like he was mapping something out.

Jaydee Davenport sat with a few music club kids, casually bouncing a pencil against the table as he talked about his latest arrangement.

Eli Parker sat at a table covered in camera gear and photo mags, laughing with his friends from photography club. They were trying to decide who to shoot next for their portrait project. "What if we did a noir theme? Black and white, dramatic lighting—"

"Bro, that's literally your vibe every day," someone said. Eli laughed, stealing a fry off someone's plate.

Mari Castillo sat with her friends, the Untouchables, flicking her straw at someone trying to flex their drawing. "You can't shade like that," she said flatly. "It looks like a butt." The table erupted in cackles.

Mari sipped her drink. "Y'all are really pretending we're not walking bullseyes," she muttered, loud enough for her voice to cut across the hum. Gabby rolled her eyes. "Maybe some of us have less to worry about."

"Oh yeah?" Mari snapped, swiveling halfway toward her. "You scared, or just pissed no one's scared of you anymore?"

"Do you ever shut the hell up?" Gabby tossed her fork down, the clatter sharp. "I'll shut up when you stop being a knockoff Regina George."

Then it happened.

A rogue grape — or maybe a tomato — flew across the room. No one knew who threw it. It landed smack in the middle of Gabby's salad.
She blinked. "Who the hell just violated my avocado?"

Sloane gasped. "You've got red on your... Lululemon." Gabby stood. Mari's eyes snapped to her like magnets.

The room fell dead silent for one beat.

Then Eli, very unhelpfully, muttered, "incoming."

Mari grabbed her mashed potatoes and launched it across the table. It missed its target (Gabby) and splattered across Jules' trumpet case.

"Oh, now it's personal," Jules deadpanned, standing with an unholy screech of chair legs and grabbing a milk carton.

Nadia didn't even flinch. She just closed her book. "This is why I eat in the library."

A mashed banana splattered across Yale's white shirt. He blinked. Looked down. Then calmly, picked up a cup of chocolate pudding. "No," Yuki whispered, eyes wide. "No no no—"

SPLAT.

"OH MY GOD," Gabby screamed.

Five seconds later.. chaos ensued.

Food flew like projectiles in a war zone. Spaghetti on the ceiling. Nuggets in someone's shoe. Someone screamed "FOR ELIZA!" and Jules hurled a tray like Captain America. Mattheo, expression unreadable, simply stood there as someone's juice exploded across his hoodie.

Mari had climbed onto the table like she was leading a revolution. Jaydee was dual-wielding ketchup packets. Yuki accidentally elbowed Eli in the ribs and screamed, "SORRY I PANICKED!"

Nadia tried to duck under the table, but her perfectly sharpened pencil impaled a corndog and she hissed like a cat. Gabby was using a cafeteria tray as a shield, yelling, "I just got my hair done, you little shits, I have STANDARDS!"

Jules was humming the American Psycho theme.

Sloane lobbed a breadstick at someone's face. Mattheo, half amused, grabbed a tomato from a salad tray. He squinted across the room.

Probably aiming for Dylan. Or Gabby.

Maybe Mari.

Instead...

SMACK.

The tomato landed with surgical precision in the center of Nadia's white blouse. She froze.

Time. Froze.

Her eyes dropped slowly to her chest, where the red pulp bloomed across her like a gory flower.

"...Oh my god," she whispered. Her scream? Deafening. Opera-level. Blood-curdling. "WHAT THE HELL!?"

Every head turned.

Jules dropped her fork. Gabby paused mid-catfight. Yuki squeaked. Mattheo blinked like he just came out of a trance.

Nadia's hands trembled at her sides. Her romance novel was now sauce-soaked. Her flashcards? Ruined. Her blouse? Carnage. She looked like a victim of a pasta massacre.

That's when...

"WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?!" Vice Principal Rowe's voice boomed from the double doors.

Silence.

The only sound was a sad glob of yogurt dripping from the ceiling onto Yale's shoulder.

She stared at all of them — every last one of the guilty teens, still dripping in food and chaos. "You. All of you. Detention. Today. After school. I don't care if you're dying — you're staying."

Nadia just stood there, hands trembling, covered in starch and rage. Gabby muttered, "This is so beneath me." Mari grinned. "Totally worth it."

Yuki tried to fix her hair with spaghetti still tangled in it. Yale finally muttered something under his breath, the first word all lunch, "...Gross."

Mattheo... just stared at Nadia. A flicker of guilt crossed his usually unreadable face. She glared back, tomato dripping down her collar, voice hoarse from screaming.

They didn't know it yet.

But that chaotic, messy moment — every last one of them — would lead them straight into hell together.

And detention?

Would be the least of their problems.

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𓈀 ❪ ISO'S NOTES ✶ ❫ I love a classic food fight 😪😪 I rewatched sky high and figured this is a great reason for the main cast to end up in detention together LOL. Also !!! Some interactions in this chapter are sneak peeks to who your OC's love interest is for this af, if you don't like who they're paired with kindly comment here !! If you want them to have their own love interest ( like not with the main cast ) feel free to include that also.

See you in the next one !