There are two kinds of people at Monroe High.
The ones who follow the rules.
And the ones who've been in Principal Donahue's office so many times, they could probably give the morning announcements from her chair.
Guess which one I am.
No, seriously. Guess. Because apparently "minor hallway detour" counts as trespassing now. And heaven forbid I accidentally blow a fuse in the chemistry lab that may or may not have knocked out power to the entire east wing.
To be fair, I wasn't doing anything dangerous today. I wasn't even trying to cause trouble.
I was just trying to steal a soda.
It started with math class. More specifically, it started with Ms. Durham's lecture on exponential decay, which is also the exact term I'd use to describe my will to live. I lasted exactly twelve minutes before I started eyeing the clock and wondering if I could get away with faking a nosebleed.
Then I remembered I had a fake hall pass in my bag and a reputation that made excuses completely unnecessary. Nobody would question Ava Monroe leaving class unannounced. They'd just assume I was on my way to either cause chaos or clean up someone else's.
So I left.
My destination? The front office. More specifically, the staff vending machine. The only one in the entire building that wasn't haunted, possessed, or rigged to steal your change and your dignity.
My craving was simple: one cold can of mango soda. The good kind. The one with the aluminum top that hissed like satisfaction when cracked open. And maybe, if fate was kind, a small bag of cheddar chips.
Instead, what I got was the end of the world. Or, well—the beginning of it.
The front office hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
There's something inherently suspicious about silence in a high school. You either assume a fire drill's coming, someone's pulled a prank, or the principal is up to something deeply unhinged. The front desk was empty, which was weird. Ms. Randle never left her post. The woman had eyes sharper than a hawk and a schedule tighter than a serial killer's.
But she was gone. No footsteps. No ringing phones. Not even the soul-crushing buzz of fluorescent lights.
Just me. And a door.
Principal Donahue's door.
It was open a crack. Not wide. Just enough to let suspicion creep in.
I swear I didn't mean to snoop. I just thought, If the vending machine's broken, maybe she's got something in her mini-fridge. The woman was practically married to her Diet Coke. She had to keep a stash somewhere.
So I knocked. Lightly. Politely.
No answer.
I pushed the door open.
Still no answer.
"Principal Donahue?" I called out, voice low.
Silence.
Now, most people—normal people—would've turned around. Walked out. Maybe even reported it to a real adult.
I'm not most people.
So, obviously, I walked in.
Her office smelled like peppermint and printer ink. The air conditioner was blasting like it was hiding something. I stepped inside slowly, glancing around like I was in a spy movie. Half-expecting lasers or booby traps or, I don't know, a bat signal.
What I found instead was a desk.
And on that desk, a folder.
Open. Facing me.
I didn't mean to look. I didn't. But red ink does something to a person. It jumps off the page. Screams read me in the same tone as a villain about to monologue.
And there it was.
A single sheet of paper.
A list.
THE LIST.
At the top, in all caps: STUDENTS TO WATCH — PHASE 3Underlined twice. In red.
Then came the names.
Lucas Meyer
Sophia Trinh
Ava Monroe
Jacob Torres
Mia Patel
I blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then leaned in to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.
Nope. Still there. Ava Monroe. Third on the list.
Phase. Freaking. Three.
My heart did this weird flutter-hiccup thing, like it couldn't decide whether to panic or punch something.
I grabbed the paper.
Then froze.
Footsteps.
Real ones.
Coming fast.
I shoved the list back into the folder, slammed it shut, and bolted for the door—just as Principal Donahue walked in from the hallway.
She stopped.
I stopped.
We stared at each other like two cats about to throw down in an alley.
"Ava," she said slowly, voice as tight as her bun. "What exactly are you doing in my office?"
I could've lied. Should've lied.
Instead, I blurted: "The vending machine ate my money."
A pause. She blinked. I blinked back.
"And you thought breaking into my office would solve that?"
"Well," I said, backing toward the door, "you seem like the kind of woman who stocks emergency snacks."
"I don't."
"That's…very unfortunate."
She stepped forward. "You know you're not allowed in here without permission."
"Totally fair. I'll just see myself out—"
Her eyes narrowed. "What did you touch?"
"Absolutely nothing," I lied, voice rising an octave. "Not even your weird paper stack with the red Sharpie. Total mystery to me."
Her jaw clenched. "Ava."
"Okay, I touched one thing. But it was purely accidental. Like gravity. Or fate."
"Out."
"Already halfway gone."
I spun and ran.
I didn't stop until I reached the girl's bathroom three hallways over.
I locked myself in a stall, sat on the toilet seat, and yanked my phone from my pocket like it was a lifeline. My hands were shaking. Like, actual trembling. My body doesn't usually react to fear that fast. Normally I have to process it, freak out later, maybe scream into a pillow or punch a wall.
But this?
This was something else.
I was on a list.
Not just any list.
A hit list.
I mean—technically it didn't say "hit" in so many words, but let's be honest: "Students to Watch — Phase 3" is creepier than any horror movie title I've ever heard.
What the hell was Phase 3?
And why the hell was I number three?
I took a photo of the list before I ran. Not great quality, but enough to read the names.
Lucas Meyer.Sophia Trinh.Me.
Lucas—wasn't he the guy who pulled the fire alarm during homecoming?
And Sophia—didn't she hack into the grade server last semester?
Suddenly it clicked.
These weren't just random students.
They were the rebels. The rule-breakers. The ones who'd gotten under the school's skin.
And now… they were being watched.
Or worse.
That night, I couldn't sleep.
I kept refreshing Sophia's social media page. Nothing new. No recent posts. Her last update was two days ago: a selfie in the science lab with the caption, "Tried to clone myself, but the clone's hotter. Rip me."
Lucas hadn't posted since last week. His account was private, but his stories were always chaotic—until now.
Maybe I was spiraling.
Or maybe this wasn't a coincidence.
I was so distracted I didn't hear my phone buzz.
Until the third vibration.
I checked the screen.
Unknown Number
You weren't supposed to see that.
My blood froze.
I didn't respond.
Mostly because I was too busy panicking. But also because my hands were shaking so hard, I almost dropped the phone.
Another message came in.
Don't tell anyone. This is bigger than you.
Then—
But you already know that, don't you… #3?
I dropped the phone.
Literally dropped it onto the carpet like it had burned me.
My room was dark. Too dark. I scrambled to turn on the lamp, half-expecting someone to be standing in the corner with a mask and a chainsaw.
No one.
Just my reflection in the mirror. Pale. Wide-eyed. And completely out of my depth.
This was not just a prank. Not some petty teacher conspiracy. Someone knew what I'd seen. And they wanted me silent.
Except I've never been good at staying quiet.
The next day, I showed the photo to my best friend, Jasmine.
She stared at the screen like it was a murder weapon. "Are you serious? This is real?"
"Swear on my lack of gym credits."
She leaned closer. "This is insane. Why would Donahue keep a literal list of students to... to what? Kill?"
"I don't know. But it's not a coincidence. Lucas and Sophia haven't posted in days. I think something happened to them."
Jasmine frowned. "You think she's doing something to them?"
"I think someone is. And Donahue's involved."
She let out a low whistle. "Girl, we're in a full-on YA dystopia and you didn't even warn me. I would've worn my spy boots."
"This isn't funny."
"It's a little funny."
I gave her a look.
She sighed. "Okay. Not funny. Definitely terrifying. So what's the plan?"
"We find out what Phase 3 is. We figure out what happened to the others. And we get me off that list."
"Or we fake your death."
"I'm serious."
"So am I. I've been watching documentaries. I could build you a new identity in, like, four days."
I rolled my eyes. "Let's try not to commit more crimes, okay?"
"No promises."
But that was the moment it became real. Jasmine was in. And once Jasmine's in, she's all in. She's ride-or-die energy with a glitter eyeliner addiction and a suspicious number of lockpicking skills.
She looked down at the list again.
"You know what this means, right?" she said, voice quieter now.
"What?"
"You're not safe."
I didn't respond.
Because I already knew that.
And maybe—just maybe—that's what made this the most fun I'd had all year.