CriSSCroSSed

Chapter 1

SEVAN

They say time flies when you're having fun, which must be why the last hour of school always drags like hell. Doesn't matter if it's Monday or Friday, a full day or a half day, in-person or remote—those final sixty minutes feel like sixty years.

What makes it worse? It's only the third month of school and I'm already over it. And I still have another year left.

Junior year's supposed to be the one that "matters"—the year where you get serious about your future. That's what everyone says. But I'm the product of two teen parents who had me their junior year. So, trust me, I've been hearing about the consequences of poor planning since I was old enough to spell.

The irony? I'm actually good at this school thing. I've had a 3.8 GPA since freshman year. I'm in AP English, tested out of science, and spend both free periods as a TA. First freshman female to make varsity in school history. I've got colleges emailing me, DMing me, following me since last year. Outside of school, I even volunteer at my dad's job.

Basically, I'm out here grinding. And still, I'm stuck in this godforsaken classroom, grading tests for Mrs. Graves like my soul isn't slowly rotting.

"Miss McCoy, I understand this is above your pay grade, but please stop tapping your foot," Mrs. Graves said from her desk, snapping me out of my mental spiral.

I looked down. Yep. Foot tapping. Toe aching. I'd clearly been at it a while.

"Sorry, Mrs. Graves," I mumbled, trying to refocus on the stack of barely-legible sophomore math tests.

Mrs. Graves reminds me of one of those penguins from Madagascar—short, stubby, shuffles when she walks. She's about 5'3", older, and perpetually unimpressed. I didn't exactly choose to be her TA. Every teacher I wanted either had a TA already or didn't need one. She was my last resort. Otherwise, I'd be stuck taking another regular class—and I already have enough of those.

I sighed and kept grading, glancing at my Apple Watch like it owed me something. Only fifteen minutes had passed since the last time I checked. Great. Thirty minutes left. That's just two blocks of fifteen. I can survive two blocks.

Once I finished grading, I started organizing Mrs. Graves's desk, which, honestly, should be declared a biohazard. If I didn't clean it daily, I'm convinced it would start growing things. Her house and her car must look the same—cluttered chaos. I pray I never have to find out.

"Sevannah, leave that for now. I need these copied before the end of the day," Mrs. Graves said, interrupting me again.

Of course. Every time I try to make a dent in this mess, she needs something else. I swear, the woman might be a hoarder.

And God—I hate my full name. Sevannah. My parents named me after a spring break trip they took junior year, the same trip they found out they were pregnant with me. My dad says it was a good memory, so the name fit. Cute. But I've been going by Sevan since third grade. Literally no one calls me Sevannah unless I'm in trouble. Which I rarely am.

I tossed the trash from her desk into the bin on my way out and grabbed the worksheets that needed copying. The hallway was mostly empty, just a few kids dragging through the motions like I was. Mondays are usually chill—everyone still mourning the weekend. No energy left for drama. That comes on Tuesdays.

When I reached the teacher's lounge, the stench of stale meatloaf and fried socks didn't hit me for once. Small wins. I loaded the copier and started making the copies, quick and efficient. I always restock the paper when I'm done—because some people (cough grown adults cough) don't know how to act.

"Breaking and entering, I see," a familiar voice said behind me.

I didn't even have to look to know it was Zink.

They were leaning against the wall, smirking, dressed like an androgynous anime villain. Black flared mini skirt. White button-up. Black corset—worn upside down. Padlocked choker. Knee-high stockings. Beat-up black Doc Martens. And somehow, they pulled it off.

Zink always pulls it off.

Me? I'm the opposite. Today I was in a white Nike Air crop top, high-waisted black sweats, and black-and-white dunks. My locs were freshly dyed and half up, half down—light brown with hints of blonde. Zink says my style is "homeless chic." I say I just dress like I'm comfortable.

What I do take pride in is my hair. Three years into my loc journey and it's the best decision I've ever made. My dad's dark-skinned with tight waves and thick coils. My mom's Black and Puerto Rican, caramel-skinned with hair fine enough to star in shampoo commercials. I'm a hybrid of the two. Took several tries to get my hair to lock right, but I got there. And a Black girl's hair? That's her crown. Always.

Zink and I go way back. We even dated in 8th grade, before realizing we made better friends than anything else. They came out as gender fluid freshman year and changed their name from something traditionally masculine to Zink. I was the first person they told, besides their dad. He took it well—he always knew. We spent that whole summer rebuilding Zink's wardrobe, one thrift store and eyeliner test at a time.

"It's only B&E if you get caught," I replied, walking past them. They caught up easily, throwing their arm around my shoulder like always.

"Why'd this freshman ask me if we matched on purpose today?" Zink said, clearly amused.

I glanced down.
"I mean, we're both wearing black and white, but I wouldn't say we're matching."

"Exactly. I think he just wanted to flirt."

"Why are you even over here? Shouldn't you be in the Pit?"

Zink is TA for Ms. Leroy's art class on the other side of the building, in what we call the Pit—the non-academic wing.

"Yeah, well, Ms. L lost her mind if she thinks I'm cleaning brushes in this outfit," they huffed, gesturing dramatically.

I rolled my eyes. We've had this argument. Dress for the job you have, not like you're walking a runway at Hot Topic. But Zink does what Zink wants.

"So you've been wandering the halls for like seventy minutes?" I asked, laughing.

"Correction. First half I napped in the library. Then I flirted with the lunch ladies. Gotta get the good fries, you know."

I snorted. "Please. You just like flirting with anything that breathes."

Zink gasped, mock offended. "I am a people person."

We reached Mrs. Graves's room and they blew me a kiss before strutting down the hallway like it was a catwalk.

Inside, the class was buzzing. We only had five minutes until the final bell. I handed Mrs. Graves the copies and grabbed my duffel bag from behind her desk, my body practically vibrating with anticipation.

The last five minutes always feel like the worst part of the day—so close, yet so far from freedom.

Ding. Ding. Dong. Ding.

And just like that, the school day was over.