There were two kinds of chaos at Saint Elara's School for the Gifted: the kind that came with surprise quizzes, and the kind that came with fire drills. This morning brought both.
Penelope was halfway through sketching a brooding raven perched on a thorny branch—symbolic of her mood lately—when the blaring alarm tore through the classroom like a banshee.
"Ugh," Veronica groaned, slamming her book shut. "If I die in a fictional fire wearing this outfit, bury me in shame."
They filed out with the rest of their classmates into the courtyard, where the sunlight made everything too bright, too real. Penelope shielded her eyes and scanned the crowd.
And there he was.
Marc stood near the east gate, talking to a teacher. Not laughing, not joking—just calm and serious, like the world didn't spin differently whenever he looked her way. He hadn't mentioned the sketchbook since he returned it, but the tension between them now hummed like an electric wire just under her skin.
Julian was there too, just a few feet away, watching. Penelope caught the edge of his expression—it wasn't jealousy. It was something else. Like he knew a secret he wasn't ready to say aloud.
"You've got eyes on you," Veronica whispered.
Penelope blinked. "What?"
"Julian's staring at you like he's memorizing your blood type. And Marc—he looks like he'd fight a war just to get your favorite pen back."
"That's dramatic."
"You're dramatic. They're just catching up."
Before Penelope could respond, a loud voice barked, "Everyone back inside! False alarm. Someone set off the fire system in the chemistry lab."
Veronica perked up. "Please let it be Scott. I bet he was trying to microwave a burrito again."
As they turned to head back, Marc slipped through the students and fell into step beside Penelope.
"You okay?" he asked.
"From the non-fire? I think I'll recover."
"You looked... tense."
She dared a glance up at him. "Why do you notice that?"
Marc gave a crooked smile. "Because I pay attention."
Penelope's heart stuttered, then sprinted. She hated that.
Inside, classes resumed, but Penelope's brain didn't.
Julian caught up to her at her locker after lunch. He leaned on the metal door like he'd rehearsed the move.
"I heard about the sketch," he said. No greeting. No warmup.
Penelope froze. "What sketch?"
"The one of Marc."
"Word travels fast."
"You didn't draw me like that."
Penelope turned, meeting his gaze head-on. "You didn't ask me to."
Julian's jaw tensed. He stepped closer. "You really like him?"
The silence stretched between them like an elastic band—taut, dangerous.
"I don't know what I like right now," she said honestly.
Julian softened. "Then let me help you figure it out."
But as he walked away, Marc appeared again—leaning by the staircase, watching them both.
Later that evening, Penelope sat in her room, phone buzzing beside her. Messages from both Marc and Julian. She didn't open either.
Instead, she picked up her pencil.
This time, she drew herself. But not as she was.
She drew a girl made of glass, with vines growing around her heart, and cracks that sparkled under pressure. A girl on the edge of something she couldn't name.