If there's anything I've learned in my sixteen years of life, it's this—chaos is an art form, and I am Picasso with a spray can.
My parents, however, called it "unruly behavior," "lack of direction," and "grounds for permanent boarding school placement."
So there I stood, outside the black iron gates of St. Agatha's Reform Academy, with a duffel bag in one hand and an absolutely satisfied smirk on my face. Behind me, my mother dabbed at her eyes like she was sending me off to war.
"Aria, please behave," she pleaded for the hundredth time.
My father—ever the stoic one—just kept the engine running, eyes forward like if he looked at me too long, I'd turn him to stone. I probably could, if I tried hard enough.
"Mom," I said sweetly, "if you didn't want chaos, you shouldn't have named me Aria Monroe. Sounds like a stage name for a rockstar or a convicted arsonist."
She sighed deeply. "Three schools in two years, Aria. This one is… different."
"Oh, I can tell." I motioned to the gothic architecture, towering stone buildings, and a nun glaring at me from the front steps like she was mentally preparing my exorcism. "It has that warm, homicidal charm."
My mom gave me a quick hug—tight but brief, like she didn't want to linger—and said, "Try. Just try."
And then they drove off.
Which was their second mistake of the day.
Their first?
Leaving me unsupervised near a ladder, a bucket of pastel purple paint, and the front entrance of St. Agatha's.
See, the thing about being sent away is—you may not win the war, but you can win the first battle. And mine was painting my arrival in bold, chaotic color.
I had everything timed. As the main bell rang and students filed in for afternoon prayers, I balanced that paint bucket perfectly on the edge of the doorway, tied to a thin tripwire just begging for someone to trigger it.
Enter: Sister Margaret.
She was tall, thin, and carried the kind of presence that could silence a riot with one look. Her habit flapped slightly in the breeze as she marched toward the door, arms full of hymn books, chin raised like she could smell disobedience.
Then—splat.
The bucket tipped.
The paint fell.
Sister Margaret was baptized in purple.
It was beautiful.
Gasps echoed from the crowd of uniformed students. Somewhere in the background, someone dropped their prayer book. A full minute of stunned silence passed before I burst into uncontrollable laughter from behind a bush.
She stood there, dripping, fuming, blinking slowly as paint dribbled down her nose.
"Which one of you demons did this?" she barked.
I stepped out, hands raised like a magician presenting their masterpiece. "Hi. Aria Monroe. Transfer student. I like long walks, short tempers, and pastel-themed anarchy."
Her eye twitched.
Two minutes later, I was being marched up the stone steps, Sister Margaret trailing purple footprints and rage.
"This is a place for correction and order!" she hissed. "You will obey, or you will wish you had."
"Is that a threat or the school motto?" I chirped.
She didn't answer. Just pushed open the heavy wooden doors and led me down a dark corridor that smelled like disinfectant, regret, and canned peas.
"Welcome to St. Agatha's Reform Academy," she said as we walked past bulletin boards full of biblical quotes and confiscated lip gloss. "We cater to troubled teens of all backgrounds—male and female. Our goal is not punishment. It is reformation."
I snorted. "Yeah? Then why does it look like Dracula's summer home?"
She stopped in front of Room 2C and handed me a key. "You'll share with another girl. Keep your behavior in check, Monroe. We believe in forgiveness. We do not believe in second chances."
"Noted," I said, popping my gum.
When I opened the door, the room was empty, beige, and soul-crushingly plain. Two beds, two desks, a single window, and one cross on the wall, watching me like even Jesus was judging.
I collapsed onto the bed by the window and stared up at the ceiling.
What now?
What does a girl do when she's been shipped off to spiritual boot camp?
Answer: cause more trouble.
I'd barely finished unpacking my stash of snacks and forbidden mascara when the door creaked open again—and in walked my roommate.
She had neon-green streaks in her hair, two nose rings, and a tattoo on her wrist that said "Bite Me." Instantly, I knew we'd get along.
"You the new one?" she asked, eyeing me.
"Aria. Reform project #782."
"Zara. Arson twice, theft once, attitude always."
"Marry me."
She laughed. "You're gonna do just fine here."
The dinner bell rang next—one of those giant ones straight from a horror movie—and we filed into the massive co-ed dining hall. Long wooden tables, rows of moody teens, and a few brave nuns watching like hawks.
The food? Gray. Smelled like it was cooked during the Great Depression.
Zara and I sat at a corner table beside two boys—one built like a tree and the other slouched, hood up, earbuds in, tuning out the world.
I nudged Zara. "Who's Moody McHoodie?"
She smirked. "That's Jace Donovan. Two-time expellee. Lit the chapel piano on fire last semester."
"Is that... like, a metaphor?"
"No. Real fire. Actual flames."
I was impressed.
I leaned over. "Hey, Firestarter."
He didn't look up.
"I'm Aria. New inmate."
Still nothing.
So I snapped my fingers near his face.
He looked up—slowly. "You're the reason Sister Margaret looks like an Easter egg, aren't you?"
Guilty grin. "I like to make an impression."
He studied me for a second—dark eyes, unreadable. Then, without smiling, he said, "You're gonna hate it here."
"Too late."
The rest of dinner passed in quiet rebellion. Forks scraped against old plates, someone tried to trade mashed potatoes for gummy worms, and Sister Margaret glared at me like she was plotting an exorcism.
After dinner, we had Reflection Hour in the chapel. It was mandatory, of course. Wooden benches. Cold air. The soft hum of an organ. Nuns at the front preaching about obedience, purity, and the road to redemption.
I pretended to listen while mentally planning a prank involving glitter, hymnals, and maybe a smoke machine if I could find one.
By the time we returned to our rooms, the moon was out and the halls were silent.
Zara flopped onto her bed, tossing her boots to the floor. "So. What's your plan?"
"Cause minor havoc. Get into major trouble. Escape in a blaze of glory."
She grinned. "I like you already."
I stared at the ceiling, candy bar in hand, smiling to myself.
Boarding school wasn't so bad.
In fact, it might just be the best mistake my parents ever made.
Especially if I could get Jace Donovan to talk to me again—and maybe help me figure out how to actually escape.
Because one thing was certain:
Reformed? Yeah, right.