𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐥

[ ₁₉₉₆! ]

Laura Lee's room smelled like lavender shampoo and vanilla-sugar perfume—sweet and dizzying, like the inside of a candle store at the mall. The kind of scent that clung to your clothes, soaked into your skin, and stayed long after you left. It was girlhood distilled into aroma: soft, saccharine, and a little suffocating.

The blinds were tilted halfway open, casting gold-striped shadows across the floral bedspread and cluttered vanity mirror. Dust floated in the late afternoon light like ash, spinning lazily in the air, catching on every surface.

Annie Jo sat on the edge of the bed, knees pressed together, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her church dress was stiff in the shoulders, pale blue with tiny white buttons and a lace-trimmed collar—a garment chosen by her mother the spring before, and worn only for photo days and potlucks. Her hair—soft, honey-blonde, parted with careful symmetry—was already half-curled by Laura Lee's steady hands. She could feel the residual heat at the nape of her neck where the curling iron had passed, a faint, prickling warmth like sunburn or shame.

On the dresser, a little plastic radio crackled with static. Gospel music played from its tinny speaker—some old recording of a woman singing about surrender, about being washed clean in the blood of the lamb. Annie Jo didn't know the words. She wasn't listening.

Her eyes stayed on the carpet, watching the sunlight slide across the floor in slow, syrupy ribbons. She picked at a loose thread on the hem of her dress, curling it around her pinky until it bit into the skin.

"You're real quiet," Laura Lee said finally, breaking the hush as she twisted another lock of hair around the foam curler. "Like... quieter than usual."

Annie Jo gave a small shrug, her gaze still downcast. "Just tired."

"Uh-huh." Laura Lee didn't sound convinced. She paused, set the iron on its little metal stand with a quiet clink, and studied her sister's reflection in the mirror. "Was it something Father Miller said?"

There was a split-second hitch in Annie Jo's breath. Barely noticeable. But Laura Lee caught it like a thread pulled taut.

"He talks a lot," Annie said carefully, her voice light but flat. "That's all. You know how he gets."

Laura Lee looked at her a moment longer, then gave a quiet sigh through her nose and let it go. Like she knew pressing too hard would only make Annie slam shut tighter, like a trap snapping closed.

She picked up the hairspray, gave it a gentle shake, and misted it lightly over Annie's curls. The scent bloomed sharp in the air—sweet and chemical, familiar. It made Annie's eyes sting.

"You looked like you were about to cry when you came up here," Laura Lee said softly.

"I wasn't," Annie replied, quick and even, like a reflex.

"I didn't say you did. Just that you looked like it."

Annie didn't answer. Her fingers moved to the silver cross around her neck, thumb brushing the smooth metal, rubbing over the edges. It was warm from her skin. Grounding. Heavy.

"I just think he's a little intense sometimes," Laura Lee added, voice quiet and kind. "Even when he means well. It's okay to feel stuff about it."

But Annie Jo couldn't speak—not to that. Not to any of it. There was something stuck in her throat, something shapeless and heavy, like wet paper pulp. It sat there, thick and sodden, refusing to move.

And then—

Brrrrng.

The cordless phone on Laura Lee's nightstand rang, loud and sudden. The kind of ring that made your nerves jump.

Laura Lee startled. "That'll be Mom, probably. Wanting to know if we're—"

"I got it," Annie Jo said, already rising. She smoothed her skirt with mechanical precision, crossed the room with a practiced grace, and picked up the phone with steady hands.

"Hello?"

There was a pause on the other end. A breath. Then—

"Hey. It's Natalie."

The sound of her name hit like a dropped match. Annie Jo's pulse stuttered so hard she felt it echo in her ribs, in her teeth. Her grip tightened on the receiver. She leaned slightly against the dresser for balance—the edge cool and unyielding beneath her palm.

Her eyes flicked to the blinds, where sunlight slanted sharp and gold through the room, then to the row of Laura Lee's perfume bottles, each one standing like a tiny saint on a mirrored tray. Their glass bodies threw shards of light across the wallpaper.

"Oh," she said, too quickly. She made herself slow down. "Hi."

She couldn't remember giving Natalie her number. Maybe she had. Maybe Natalie had gotten it from someone else. The fact that she'd called at all made something deep in Annie Jo's chest unfurl—shaky and terrified and electric.

"You still coming tonight?" Natalie asked, voice low and easy, like this was nothing. Like they'd done this a dozen times.

Annie blinked. "Uh. We've got a thing at church first. A little... celebration."

"For the team?"

"Sort of. Just me and Laura Lee. Our parents planned it." She hesitated. "With our pastor."

There was a beat. Then a dry, amused snort. "Of course they did."

The sound of Natalie's laugh settled in Annie Jo's spine like smoke—warm and curling, lighting her up from the inside. It wasn't loud. It wasn't even funny. But it was easy. Loose. Like it didn't care who was listening.

Annie felt it spark across her fingertips. It made her want to sit down. It made her want to run.

"I can come get you after," Natalie said, still soft, still cool. "Both of you. Don't really feel like walking into that keg party alone."

Annie Jo twisted the phone cord around her finger, tighter and tighter until it went white. Her voice felt far away when it came. "Okay. Yeah. That'd be... good."

Across the room, Laura Lee turned slightly from the mirror, raising one eyebrow.

Annie ducked her head, letting her hair fall forward like a curtain. Her face burned.

"I'll honk when I'm close," Natalie added. Then, a beat later, her voice dropped—teasing, low, velvet-edged: "You lookin' like church Annie or party Annie?"

The words hit like a spark to dry grass.

Annie Jo froze.

Her stomach dipped—sharp and sudden, like falling through the floorboards of herself. Her breath caught. Her skin flushed hot all at once, and she didn't know whether to scream or smile.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"They're... the same thing," she mumbled, but it came out thin, like tissue paper soaked through.

Natalie's laugh—soft, raspy, dangerous—poured through the line. "Sure they are."

Click.

The line went dead. But Annie Jo stayed there, receiver still pressed to her ear, listening to the faint, hollow buzz of the dial tone. Her heart thundered like hooves in her chest.

Everything in the room felt suddenly too much. The shimmer of the mirror. The gospel song still playing from the hallway. The dresses hanging on the closet door like pale ghosts. Everything was sharp-edged, buzzing.

She hung up slowly. Her hand trembled.

"Who was that?" Laura Lee asked. She'd turned fully now, smoothing her skirt with both hands like she needed something to do.

"Natalie," Annie Jo said, her voice easy. Too easy. Sugar-slick and false, like the smile she wore for the church ladies. "She's picking us up after. For the party."

Laura Lee's brows lifted, just slightly. A flicker of question passed behind her eyes. "Since when do we go to parties?"

Annie shrugged, tossing her hair over her shoulder like it was no big deal. "I guess since now."

They looked at each other across the room—Laura Lee in soft yellow, Annie Jo in light blue. The distance between them was short. But something else had opened up.

It wasn't judgment. Not exactly.

Just noticing.

Laura Lee smiled, small and uncertain. The kind of smile that didn't quite touch her eyes. Like she wanted to believe her sister's answer. Like she almost did.

"You didn't tell me what Pastor Miller said," she said after a moment. Soft. Like she was afraid the question might break something.

Annie Jo looked down.

The sunlight made bars on the floor, long and gold. They stretched between her feet like lines drawn in sand.

"It wasn't important," she said.

But her voice cracked—just barely.

And her hands wouldn't stop shaking.

‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

The fellowship hall had been dressed up like it always was for celebrations—desperately trying to be something it wasn't. It wanted to be festive. It wanted to be holy. Instead, it felt like a school cafeteria playing dress-up, all vinyl tile floors and foldable partitions trying their best to disappear beneath white tablecloths and silk flower centerpieces stuck inside mason jars like they were doing hard time. Faux-lace runners trailed crookedly down each table, curling at the edges. Every place setting had a cardboard frame trimmed in gold paint and filled with a Bible verse, like a party favor and a warning all at once.

Be a light to others.
Do not conform to the patterns of this world.

Above it all, the fluorescent lights buzzed like insects, unrelenting and cold, throwing a sterile, bluish cast across the room that made everyone's skin look pale and tired. Like ghosts trying too hard to smile.

Annie Jo stood near the cake table, her back stiff, a sheen of sweat gathering at the nape of her neck. She clutched a plastic knife in one hand—it was already sticky with melted frosting, the handle slippery. She hadn't taken a single bite. The sheet cake, proudly iced in curling pink letters, read Congratulations Laura Lee & Annie Jo! with a slightly off-center soccer ball drooping in buttercream. The heat from the lights had started to make it sag at the corners, like even the cake wanted to slip away from all this niceness.

The room was full of soft voices, plastic utensils clinking on paper plates, and the endless hum of lights. It was a familiar kind of noise: harmless, gentle, and completely exhausting.

Church folks floated past like polite phantoms, offering Dixie plates of cookies or punch in waxy cups, murmuring their congratulations like they were reciting blessings over dinner. The grown-ups all said the same things, with the same weather-worn smiles that stopped just short of their eyes. One after another, they came to shake her hand—deacons with stiff collars, Sunday school teachers with too-sweet perfume, choir ladies who smelled like cinnamon gum and Pond's cold cream.

"What a blessing you are."

"We're just so proud."

"The Lord is clearly working in you, sweetheart."

Each time, Annie Jo smiled. Each time, she said thank you, ma'am, or I appreciate that. Like reciting lines in a play she'd been cast in before she could walk. The words left her mouth like soap bubbles—light, delicate, and gone before they hit the ground.

Beside her, Laura Lee practically glowed. She had that effortless, soft-focus kind of grace that made people lean in. Her sundress was a pale butter-yellow, pressed smooth without a single wrinkle, and her yellow jean jacket. Her hair laid perfectly on her shoulders, a couple strands pulled back. She looked like a Sunday School illustration come to life—rosy, righteous, beloved. She moved through the crowd like she belonged to it, hugging folks, thanking them with genuine warmth, cheeks pink with joy.

Annie Jo tried to stand up straighter. She felt like a smudge beside her sister's golden light.

Their mother hovered behind them like a backstage manager, gently fussing with Annie Jo's sleeve, her voice low and tight. "You're doing fine. Just keep your shoulders back. Don't slouch, sweetheart."

"Yes, ma'am," Annie murmured, even as her spine ached from standing so straight.

Her father stood by the punch bowl, shoulder to shoulder with Pastor Miller. The two men laughed in low, knowing tones, like they were sharing a joke the rest of the world wasn't meant to hear. Annie had watched them laugh like that for years—behind pulpits, in Sunday School hallways, beside backyard grills. Confident. Untouchable.

Her dad was one of the ones who'd helped build this church—literally, with his own hands—after the last congregation split over a "doctrinal disagreement" four years ago,

That was the phrase they'd used.

What it meant was: the youth pastor had come out as a homosexual. And half the congregation had left.

No one talked about it anymore. But the silence itself had weight. The lesson had stuck. And it truly was a shame, Annie had taken a liking to the older man.

The cassette deck crackled in the corner, and soft organ music began to rise, its warbly pitch filling the corners of the fellowship hall like incense. Annie Jo caught little snatches of conversation from nearby tables—phrases like temptation, and living in sin, and that awful business out in California. Everything sounded soft and sweet and poisonous.

And then—

He walked in.

Thomas Fielding.

Button-down shirt tucked neatly into starched jeans, a braided leather belt pulled snug around his waist. His hair gleamed like plastic under the lights, stiff with gel. He looked like a boy in a church newsletter photo. Like something mass-produced to be someone's first crush.

He smiled as he approached, and Annie Jo could feel Laura Lee straighten beside her, like a sunflower tracking the sun.

"Annie Jo," Thomas said, voice warm, hands in his pockets. He smiled toward the older Chamber twin as well. "Laura Lee... congratulations. Y'all are really tearing it up this season."

"Oh," she said, caught mid-thought as Laura Lee gently jabbed her in the side. "Thanks."

"I mean it. You're fast. I've seen a couple games—my cousin's on JV. You've got moves."

Annie managed a polite smile. "It's a team sport."

He laughed, like she'd told a joke. "Sure, but every team's got a star."

His voice was low and even, the kind of voice that made girls giggle and younger boys try to mimic it. His eyes were kind. Truly. But the way he looked at her—soft, steady, like he was waiting for something—made her want to squirm out of her own skin.

"I told my mom I'd say hi," he added, rubbing the back of his neck. "She said we used to play together at the church picnic. Sprinklers. Popsicles. Water balloons. You remember?"

"Sort of," Annie said. A lie, maybe. Or maybe a memory worn down to fog.

"You've, uh..." He trailed off, searching for the right words. "You've grown up a lot since then."

There it was. Perfectly polite. Perfectly practiced. And it landed on her like a brick.

"Thanks," she replied, voice flat and dry.

He gestured toward the cake table. "You look really nice tonight."

Annie Jo swallowed. Nothing fluttered. Nothing blushed. Her stomach didn't flip. If anything, she felt more aware of the sweat on her back, the cling of her dress, the ache in her temples. Her fingers curled restlessly at her sides.

"Thank you," she said, a little too quickly.

Thomas didn't flinch. Just shifted slightly closer, like he was leaning into something he thought was mutual. "You thinking about playing after high school? You've got the talent. For sure."

Annie looked toward the floor. "Maybe. Depends on a lot of things."

He nodded slowly, like he was about to say something meaningful. "Well... I hope I get to keep seeing you around."

Before she could respond, Laura Lee stepped in with a practiced brightness, noting the awkwardness. "Thomas," she said, voice lifting like a hymn. "Did you get any punch yet?"

Thomas turned, his smile quick to warm. "Not yet. You want to show me where it is?"

"You'll find it," she teased gently, eyes glancing toward Annie Jo like she'd done her part.

Annie blinked. Her throat was tight. Her hands itched again.

Nearby, the organist's wife was talking in low, earnest tones about her nephew who'd "struggled" with "a certain lifestyle." How he'd gone to a camp in Georgia and come back "changed."

Fixed, really.

Saved.

"They just need structure," she said. "And prayer. Lots of prayer."

"You love the sinner," someone else added, "but not the sin."

The words hit like cold water. Annie Jo didn't want to hear them. Didn't want to be here. Her whole body felt like it was vibrating, like something inside her was trying to break out.

And then—a honk.

Loud, unrepentant. A sharp, blaring horn note that cut across the fellowship hall like a firecracker.

The room paused. Heads turned toward the front windows. Forks hovered midair. Somewhere, a child stopped crying.

Annie Jo's heart slammed against her ribs.

She turned—and there, through the glass, illuminated by the orange glow of parking lot lights like an apparition from another world, stood Natalie.

Leaning against the hood of her Civic like she'd parked it there to make a point. One headlight was fogged over, the bumper was half hanging off, and the engine idled with a sound like a cat with something stuck in its throat. A half-scraped sticker on the back read HELLA RAD in cracked neon font.

She looked like every warning sign Annie Jo had ever been given to not be around.

Natalie's choppy blonde hair was windblown and wild, her leather jacket shrugged open over a fitted black polo with a white collar, tucked haphazardly into a red-and-black plaid skirt. Her fishnets were shredded, her boots scuffed and planted like she was daring someone to come outside and ask her what she was doing here. She lit a cigarette like it was a challenge, eyes scanning the building until they landed on Annie Jo.

Then—just a flick of her fingers. A lazy, two-fingered wave. Like: You coming, or what?

"She's here," Annie breathed, not realizing she'd said it aloud.

Laura Lee's eyes widened. "Already?"

Annie didn't answer. Her feet were already moving.

She stepped toward the exit, her church dress swaying around her knees. Laura Lee hesitated, caught between propriety and concern, her gaze flitting toward Thomas, who stood frozen near the cake table. Still smiling. Still hopeful.

He didn't follow.

Annie Jo didn't look back.

‧₊˚ ཐི⋆♱⋆ཋྀ ˚₊‧

The road narrowed into gravel and shadows. Pines pressed in on either side, thick as a wall, their jagged arms closing out the moonlight. Natalie drove like she wasn't afraid of anything—elbow hanging out the window, fingers tapping to the beat of the PJ Harvey cassette playing low and scratchy over the Civic's tired old speakers. Her Honda looked like it had survived a war: faded maroon paint oxidized to a matte pink in places, a bumper held on with duct tape, and the faint, permanent scent of stale smoke clinging to the upholstery, soaked so deep even open windows couldn't chase it out.

Annie Jo sat shotgun, knees pressed tight, fingers worrying the hem of her church dress. She still hadn't changed—there hadn't been time—and the starched collar itched against her throat. Her armpits prickled with dried sweat. Her tights bunched at the ankles, already sagging. Everything about her felt too proper, too scrubbed, too painfully out of place.

"You sure this is the right way?" Laura Lee asked from the backseat, voice clipped with nerves. She sat rigid, arms folded, her yellow denim jacket pulled tightly across her chest like it might serve as armor. Her eyes darted between the trees, the creeping dark. "We've been driving forever."

Natalie didn't look back. "I said it's up ahead. You'll hear it before you see it."

She was right.

A minute later, bass began to thrum faintly under the wheels, vibrating up from the forest floor like a second heartbeat. The smell of woodsmoke curled through the open windows, mingling with the sound of distant laughter and someone hollering, "Keg's tapped!"

The whole night shifted. It went loose-limbed and feral, like the woods themselves were letting go of their breath.

Then the trees broke, and the clearing opened up like a secret city. Orange firelight flickered against the trunks. Teenagers spilled from trucks and cars, parked in careless rows. Someone had dragged a half-finished bonfire out from a construction site—rebar still poking from the edges. The flames leapt ten feet high, casting shadows that danced like devils on the gravel.

"Welcome to the end of the world," Natalie muttered with a smirk, cutting the engine.

They climbed out.

Gravel shifted beneath Annie Jo's Mary Janes, sharp through her thin soles. She felt wrong instantly. Her dress clung to all the wrong places. Her tights were itchy. Everyone else wore denim, crop tops, flannel knotted around their hips. Combat boots kicked up dust. Beer sloshed over the rims of red Solo cups. It felt like stepping through a portal into someone else's life—one she hadn't earned the map to.

Laura Lee stood frozen beside the car, mouth slightly open. "We shouldn't be here," she said softly, like a warning—or a prayer.

Annie Jo didn't answer. Her heart beat in her ears, too loud. She didn't know where to look. A couple was making out behind a pickup truck. Someone passed a joint to a boy in a letterman jacket. A girl in a Yellowjackets hoodie spun barefoot in the grass, laughing like the sky couldn't touch her. The whole scene buzzed with chaos and hunger and heat.

Natalie led the way toward the fire, cigarette already lit. She moved with the kind of ease that didn't ask permission—hips swaying, boots crunching, her hair catching the firelight like smoke. Annie Jo followed, too stunned to speak.

They passed a knot of teammates—Van, Molly, Lottie, and Shauna clustered around the keg, cups already in hand. Taissa stood apart, posture sharp. Jackie perched on someone's tailgate, cup balanced delicately between two fingers, laughing like she owned the night.

"Oh great," Laura Lee muttered. "Everyone's here."

Annie Jo drifted toward the fire, drawn by its glow. Natalie crouched low beside the flames, cigarette dangling from her fingers. Her face, lit by the fire, was all cheekbone and shadow. When Annie Jo stopped beside her, their eyes met.

"You look like you're about to bolt," Natalie said, tone dry and teasing.

"I'm fine."

"You're not. You look like someone dropped you off on Mars."

Annie Jo laughed, but it came out thin. "I've just... never been to one of these."

Natalie shrugged, flicking ash into the dirt. "First time for everything."

She stood and stepped closer, shoulders brushing. Annie Jo inhaled instinctively—the smell of smoke and shampoo and something sharp underneath. A chill ran down her back. Not from the cold. From how close Natalie was standing.

Natalie tilted her head slightly, eyes narrowing. Then she dragged on her cigarette, exhaled, and flicked it near Annie Jo's feet. The ember sizzled.

"You cold?" she asked.

Annie Jo paused. Her dress did nothing to keep the night off her skin. But it wasn't just that—it was the looks. The whispers. The heaviness in her own chest. She shook her head.

"I'm okay," she said too fast.

Natalie didn't believe her.

She shrugged off her leather jacket—one smooth motion, practiced—and held it for a beat. The way she looked at Annie Jo was different now. Not teasing. Not smug. Just... quiet.

"Here," she said.

Before Annie Jo could protest, the jacket was around her shoulders. Heavy. Warm. It smelled like Natalie. Like cigarettes and rain and something sweeter underneath.

Annie Jo's breath hitched.

"Thanks," she whispered. "You didn't have to—"

"I wanted to," Natalie said simply. She reached out—brushed a curl from Annie Jo's forehead, the touch featherlight. "You looked uncomfortable."

Annie Jo's lips parted. She couldn't make a sound.

Her throat had gone dry, like her body was trying to swallow a confession it didn't even have the words for. Natalie was looking at her—not teasing, not smug, just quiet. Open in a way that made Annie Jo feel too exposed.

"Guess I'm not great at hiding it," she managed eventually, her voice barely audible above the low thrum of music and fire.

Natalie gave a half-smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Not from me, anyway."

Then she flicked her gaze toward the keg. "Well. I need a drink."

"I'll come with you," Annie Jo said, too quickly. The words left her before she had time to interrogate them—before the fear could win.

They walked shoulder to shoulder, close enough for Annie to feel the heat radiating off Natalie's arm. The leather jacket swallowed her body whole, the sleeves flopping over her hands. It was heavy and worn and unmistakably hers. It smelled like smoke and winter air and something earthy beneath it—like pine needles. The collar scratched against her neck, and it was suddenly hard to breathe.

Every step made Annie Jo hyperaware of her body—how it moved, how it brushed too close, how her hands twitched like they didn't know whether to stay hidden in the sleeves or reach for something they shouldn't. For a moment—just one hot, unbearable second—it felt like their fingers might brush.

Then—bam.

A sharp shoulder slammed into her, jolting her sideways into Natalie.

"Oh—sorry—" she gasped, stumbling.

Shauna.

But the Shipman girl didn't even pause. She barreled past them like a lit fuse, eyes glassy, expression fixed somewhere between fury and heartbreak.

"I admire your resilience, Tai," Shauna spat, loud enough to snap the air around them. "Can't be easy. Knowing you fucking crippled someone today."

Natalie straightened beside Annie, lips pursing, shoulders squaring as she stood slightly in front of the younger girl.

Taissa looked up from pouring her drink, making eye contact with Annie and Natalie, before slowly resting her eyes upon the brunette in front of her.

"Oh no," Annie Jo whispered, barely moving her lips.

Taissa stood fully, slowly, deliberately. Her voice was cold steel. "Cool... Good talk."

Shauna wasn't done. She marched closer, red in the face. "Just admit you did it on purpose."

Taissa's voice went lower, more dangerous. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

Annie Jo felt the words rising in her throat before she could stop them. The dirty blonde walked past Natalie, moving closer to the arguing girls. "Shauna, you know it was an accident. A terrible one, but Tai didn't mean—"

"Shut the fuck up, Annie Jo."

The slap of those words landed harder than Shauna probably meant. They echoed inside her like thunder. Her face flamed. Molly and Laura Lee's heads turned in their direction, eyebrows shot up. That gathered the attention of Van and Lottie, who started edging closer to the scene with them.

Natalie stepped forward, body tense, voice tight and low as she glared at Shauna. "Hey. Back off."

Annie Jo's eyes darted to her, a flare of gratitude rising—and just as quickly, a sinking shame. Because even now, even in this mess, her first instinct was to lean toward Natalie.

Taissa's gaze swept over Shauna like a blade, scoffing. "You're wasted."

"And you're a fucking sociopath," Shauna hissed.

Van, Laura Lee, and Lottie edged closer. Molly let out a slow chuckle, then offered weakly, "Whoa, careful, Shipman. You can't just throw that word around. Somebody might get offended, y'know."

"No!" Shauna shouted, startling everyone. "Listen up, you guys, we don't have to worry about the Allie problem anymore—Taissa took care of it for us!"

Laura Lee blinked, confused. "What? What is she talking about?"

"She's talking about Taissa's little plan," Natalie said bitterly.

Taissa rolled her eyes. "Oh please. Since when do you care? Don't you have a bong to hit or a dick to suck?"

Annie Jo flinched like she'd been slapped. Her breath stuttered.

"Don't say that," she whispered, voice cracking around the words. It wasn't just disgust—it was panic, deep and coiled in her chest. That phrase was something she'd heard boys snicker in parking lots, spat out at girls who didn't dress modest enough at school. That kind of language didn't belong here. It didn't belong near Natalie. It didn't belong near her.

Taissa turned on her, eyes gleaming with something mean. "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, mock-contrite. "Did I offend the good little Christian girl? What—gonna run home and ask your pastor what it means when you get all red-faced wearing Natalie's jacket?"

It landed like a bullet.

Annie Jo's breath hitched. Her face went white, then hot—blood rushing to her ears, the air sucked from her lungs. Around them, a hush fell, sharp and immediate. The group's eyes turned, looking at the leather jacket on the girl. Natalie stiffened beside her.

The sleeves of the jacket swallowed Annie's hands. Her shoulders hunched like she could disappear inside it, inside herself.

She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

Laura Lee stared at her—hard. "What... what is she talking about?" she asked, voice pinched and unfamiliar.

"I—I don't know," Annie Jo said quickly, but it sounded fake even to her. Her tongue felt like paper. "She's just being cruel."

Taissa didn't back off. "Maybe next time don't make it so obvious. You're practically wearing the confession."

Natalie's jaw locked. "Back the fuck off," she said, low and dangerous.

Shauna stepped between them. "Leave them alone, Tai. This is about you."

"Oh, fuck off, Shauna," Natalie snapped, glaring at Shauna.

Annie Jo stared at the ground. The grass blurred. She could feel the weight of Laura Lee's gaze burning into her, full of something brittle—horror, maybe. She didn't know why she felt so ashamed.

Natalie's voice cut in again, sharper than before. "I don't need you to defend me. Last time I checked, you were fine with the whole freeze-her-out strategy."

Laura Lee tore her confused gaze away from her sister, looking back at Natalie. "Okay seriously—what are you talking about?"

"Shut the fuck up, Laura Lee!" Shauna and Tai snapped together.

Van intervened, trying to deescalate the situation. Now, more people's eyes were turned at the teams' raised voices. "No—no, stop it—"

Molly let out a long groan, folding her arms. "Jesus Christ. Did someone spike the drinks or what?"

Taissa growled, her eyes returning to the Shipman girl. "Somebody needs to take her wasted ass home."

"Say that again, bitch." Shauna fought back.

Van grabbed the brunette's arm, pulling her back. "Shauna, stop—"

"I will!" Taissa yelled, practically lunging against Van's other arm.

And then everything cracked open.

Mari shouting. Van pulling at Tai's sleeve, trying to calm her down. Laura Lee's clasping her hands together, praying. Annie Jo frozen, avoiding all contact with Natalie, who was standing eerily still, lost in thought. Molly leaned into Lottie with a muttered, "Okay, I'm taking bets. My money's on Shauna decking someone in the jaw."

Then—

"Catfight!" Randy bellowed from across the lot, gleeful.

That was it.

Jackie slammed her Solo cup down like a gavel. She stomped over, agitated to leave her boyfriend behind, steam practically coming out of her ears. "Enough! Yellowjackets, with me. Now."

The command hit like thunder. The crowd splintered.

Van tugged Tai backward. Lottie dragged Molly by the sleeve. Everyone stalked after the team captain, muttering under her breath. Laura Lee grabbed Annie Jo's wrist—gentle, but with an iron edge.

Natalie turned toward Annie Jo. Her mouth opened. Maybe she was going to say something—ask her to stay, even.

But Annie Jo stepped away.

Not because she didn't want to hear it.

Because she did.

Because if she stayed—if she let herself think about what Taissa said...She shook her head, following her sister, head bowed, jacket wrapped tight like armor, shame prickling hot behind her eyes.

Laura Lee leaned in, voice trembling. "Okay... seriously... what is happening right now?"

Annie Jo didn't answer.

She couldn't.

She just kept walking.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

You made it through Chapter Four (or at least Part One of it!) — thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed this first half of the party scene; I promise Part Two will be up tomorrow evening. Not sure why Wattpad didn't publish the chapter days ago like it should have, but I appreciate your patience.

We're so close to finishing the pilot episode of Season One — it's wild to think how far we've come already. If you're enjoying the story, don't forget to vote, comment, and add it to your library so you won't miss what's next (and so more readers can find it too)!

Seriously, even just a quick "hi" in the comments makes my day. I love hearing your thoughts and theories.

Question of the Chapter: Who is your favorite character so far + why?

'Til next time,
Lyss