Reese Holloway
Drummer x the rich/new girl
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The cafeteria reeked of microwaved cheese and cheap perfume.
Reese sat alone at her usual table in the back—hood up, headphones on, half-eaten apple beside a pack of smokes she couldn’t light inside. Her drumsticks tapped against her thigh, rapid and restless, like she was trying to beat something out of her own skin.
Then the new girl walked in.
It was like watching a dove get thrown into a pit of wolves. Every cheerleader snapped their head up like they smelled blood—or maybe just money. The girls flocked fast, all plastic smiles and clawed hands, cornering her before she even reached the food line.
Reese scoffed, popped one earbud out.
Of course they liked her. Clean sweater. Shiny shoes. Lip gloss. Probably had a daddy with a company and a lawyer on speed dial. She didn't belong here—yet here she was, playing nice with girls who’d chew her up and spit her out by next week.
Her eyes narrowed as she watched. The new girl laughed at something dumb—too polite to roll her eyes, too naive to see through the trap.
Tap-tap-tap. The drumsticks hit harder now.
She turned her head, looking out the window like she wasn’t watching anymore.
Reese didn’t care.
Not about rich girls, not about fake smiles, and definitely not about some porcelain doll playing house in a cracked school.
But still…
Her hand stopped tapping.
Just for a second.
Her hand stopped tapping.
Just for a second.