Without Lily as my safe blanket, the constant pushing from my fellow junior legacies and the suffocating pressure from Zach and the senior legacies feels like a relentless undertow, threatening to drag me under. And then there is the insidious, sneaky social media campaign brewing behind my back—thanks to Jake, bless his occasionally loyal heart, for letting me know—there is a rising hashtag going through the networks, trending like a digital wildfire.

#PrinceSlater&KookyAbbie

At home, I reluctantly survey X, Facebook, Instagram, and Snapchat, each app a fresh wave of digital torment. That stupid hashtag is everywhere. It's growing and spreading like a particularly nasty strain of internet flu. I can't pinpoint who truly started it, probably Riley and his cronies, but seeing most of my friends' social media pages and other classmates' feeds, they are mostly sharing that idiotic hashtag. I understand they want to see this as some epic rom-com gone wrong, a joke for their fleeting amusement. I examine some of the different posts throughout the social media apps, a morbid curiosity mixed with rising anger. There are some common shared memes of me and Abigail all over the internet. Some are actually kind of funny, I'll admit. There's one where I'm dressed as that ridiculous astro-knight—definitely a snarky callback to my moment of makeshift heroism—lifting Abigail, who is Photoshopped with green skin and antennae, into my cardboard spaceship. Another shows me as an actual knight in shining armor, looking constipated, rescuing Abigail from a crudely drawn dragon labeled "Reality."

But then... there are the weird ones, the ones that make my skin crawl and my stomach churn. There's a sickeningly sweet Photoshop job of us kissing under a comet crashing down hard, labeled "Our Destined Love," and another where I'm serenading the X-Files theme song to her with a poorly drawn guitar, hearts and blurry spaceships floating around us like digital confetti. And the worst, the truly vile ones, are the demeaning images of Abigail, portraying her with wild eyes and tinfoil hats, labeling her as crazy and unworthy of anyone's attention. I can't stand it. This just makes me want to throw my phone into the nearest black hole. All I do for the rest of my night, other than forcing myself to finish my homework and halfheartedly studying some play adjustments from Coach Thompson, is just burying myself in those astronomy books Abigail foisted upon me. The universe suddenly feels like a much saner place than Bayman High.

I want to tell Abigail about those ridiculous memes, about the way people are twisting our... whatever this is... into some bizarre online soap opera. But something inside me refuses. I don't understand why. Is it because I know it would crush her, expose her to the cruelty of our classmates? Or maybe it's because admitting it would mean accepting this twisted narrative people are spinning, acknowledging that their perception matters. The few times Jake or Brett or some other clueless idiot pushed me about my "feelings" for Abigail, I vehemently denied any romantic inclinations. Never did, never will. It will always be Lily.

My Lily, even though we're not together anymore, the thought of us still flickers in my mind like a stubborn star. But seeing those images of Abigail, a fierce, unfamiliar protectiveness flares within me. I keep ignoring the relentless posts, which have now seeped through my texting notifications, and try to push them out of my mind, a futile exercise in digital denial.

The next day after school and a surprisingly grueling practice, I head to Heavenly Eats to volunteer, seeking a sliver of normalcy. Abigail is there, her smile radiating as she helps out alongside Gwen. The familiar faces of the other volunteers are present – Roberto and Tanya still efficiently serving food with practiced ease, Javier, Keshawn, Benice, Laura, and Ant a whirlwind of activity in the steamy kitchen, chopping vegetables and stirring pots. And surely the best for last, Big Wallace, the gentle giant quietly cleaning up in the back, his presence a comforting anchor. Gwen's uncle, Mr. Kim, the kind-eyed owner of Heavenly Eats, is also there, his calm demeanor overseeing the organized chaos.

Abigail is in her element, her eyes sparkling as she chats animatedly with the regulars, her hands carefully ladling out bowls of creamy meat and vegetable soup, her voice warm and genuine. Roberto expertly manages the bread roll section, his movements rhythmic. Gwen and Tanya are out in the small sitting area, efficiently serving drinks and engaging in friendly banter with the patrons. I watch Abigail, so happy, so content in this mellow yet peaceful environment, and a fresh wave of guilt washes over me. She doesn't know about the memes, the hashtags, the cruel jokes that are painting her as some kind of sideshow attraction. Hopefully, she just ignores them if any of the well-meaning but clueless fellow volunteers mention them to her. She's just living her life, oblivious to the digital storm brewing online, a storm I inadvertently helped create. As I glance quickly over to the sitting area, Gwen spots me and waves enthusiastically. I wave back, a forced smile on my face, and then I hear my name called from the serving counter.

"Hey, Slater!" Abigail calls, her smile infectious as she waves me over. "Ready to serve some soup and spread some cheer?"

As I approach, forcing a smile that feels about as genuine as a three-dollar bill, I try to match her energy. "I'm here to do your bidding... I mean... I'm here to help."

Abigail giggles, a bright, melodic sound, and as I reach the counter, Big Wallace silently passes along that familiar, slightly stained tan apron. I grab it and give him a grateful nod. As I jump right in, dapping Roberto and some of the other volunteers, Mr. Kim acknowledges me with a warm smile. I nod back, feeling a small sense of belonging in this unexpected community. Standing next to Abigail, our elbows occasionally bumping, she gives me a small, genuine smile. I smile back, the normalcy of the moment a welcome balm. But every time I look back at her, at her unguarded happiness, those cruel meme images flash in my mind, and it makes my stomach churn with a potent mix of guilt and anger.

***

Days later, as junior prom looms just a few weeks away, followed by the dreaded senior prom and the looming threat of final exams, my mind has reluctantly shifted back to the pressure of playoff baseball. My fellow Lions and I have just clawed our way to a hard-fought victory against East Mountainview in our first playoff game, a tense battle that left us bruised but victorious. Though our second playoff game is a rematch against our rivals, Riverton, the stakes higher than ever, with all playoff games being held at the neutral, imposing Maybrook Stadium.

The atmosphere is electric, a palpable buzz of anticipation and rivalry. The stands are packed, a roaring sea of green and white on our side, a defiant wave of blue and gold on theirs. Quickly observing the stands, a bittersweet pang hits me as I spot my family, Jake looking uncharacteristically nervous, and several more familiar faces, including the other players' families. And then, a twist of the knife I even spot Lily, looking stunning in a simple blue dress, sitting with Cameron, his arm possessively around her shoulders. I hate it, the possessiveness, the picture of them together...but ah well, I messed that up. A large contingent of Bayman High is also present—the principal looking surprisingly animated, the perpetually dour VP Mr. Reynolds, many teachers including a surprisingly enthusiastic Mr. Charles, and a huge, cheering group of students. I even spot Otto, looking out of place but determined, next to his usual herd of nerds, and if my weary eyes aren't playing tricks on me, I see Abigail sitting with Sophie and her family, a small, hopeful smile on her face.

Surprised she and her group actually showed up, considering everything, I feel a surge of unexpected gratitude. Though as much as all of them are there, offering their support, the tension down on the playing field is thick enough to cut with a knife. I stand on the mound, the familiar dirt grounding me, trying to keep my cool amidst the deafening roar of the crowd. The game is a brutal back-and-forth, every pitch feeling like a potential turning point, a make-or-break moment. We're neck and neck with Riverton, each inning more grueling than the last, the score stubbornly refusing to budge.

This might be the most intense game yet out of all the games we have played, the weight of the playoffs pressing down on us.

It's the bottom of the ninth, the tension reaching a fever pitch, and the score is tied 8-8. Riverton has a runner on third, the winning run just ninety feet away. I wind up, trying to block out the deafening noise, the suffocating pressure, the crushing weight of everyone's expectations. And coming up to the plate, their last hope, is Riverton's star junior batter, the scouters' most prized target, Peter Lachlan, a kid with a swing smoother than a Sinatra song.

I throw two of my best pitches, each a fastball whistling right down the middle, painting the corners, leaving him swinging at air for two strikes. I feel a surge of confidence, the crowd roaring its approval. I soon try to fool Peter, hoping to get Riverton's third base runner stranded. I try to land a wicked curveball, a knee-buckler, right into Leo's waiting mitt. Peter tries to swing a desperate left angle, but he misses, the bat whistling harmlessly. Hoping it was a third strike, the umpire actually calls it a foul ball, his arm a slow, agonizing motion. Getting a bit irritated, the sweat stinging my eyes, I reset, hearing Coach Thompson's frantic instructions from our team's dugout. I sigh, exhaling a few shaky breaths. Laying the worn leather of the ball close to my lips, a superstitious habit, I want to pitch this stress away, help us force an extra inning, and hopefully keep our shot at the semifinals alive. However, just as I think I land a wicked fastball, a blur of speed that might finally stun the great Peter Lachlan, he surprisingly connects, the crack of the bat echoing like a gunshot, sending the ball soaring into the outfield. Liam races back, his cleats digging into the dirt, but it's just agonizingly out of reach, the ball dropping just beyond his outstretched glove. The runner from third crosses home plate, a triumphant slide, and seconds later, Peter limps across as well, mobbed by his ecstatic teammates. I thought I had him, two strikes, my best stuff... but because of that one lucky swing, the game is over.

Riverton wins 10-8.

The Riverton Badgers are jumping around like they've won the World Series, a chaotic celebration of blue and gold, and I can't even bring myself to look at my devastated teammates. Coach Thompson looks utterly heartbroken, his usual stern expression, the ever-present wad of chewing gum momentarily forgotten, is now replaced with a crushing disappointment that mirrors our own. I glance at the stands and see my parents and Ethan looking ashen-faced. Most of our side are in stunned silence, the cheers dying in their throats, replaced by a heavy, suffocating disappointment. Yet there's the Riverton side, a jubilant mass jumping sky-high. It sucks losing, especially when we were so close, the taste of victory snatched away at the last second.

As we gather our things, the silence heavy with unspoken grief, I can feel the weight of the loss settling over us like a dark, suffocating cloud. The bus ride back to Bayman is eerily silent, everyone lost in their own private hell of what-ifs. I can't shake the image of that last pitch, the one that cost us the game, replaying in my mind like a broken record. Coach Thompson already gave us a pumped-up, albeit slightly hollow, speech while we were in the locker room, but now, his voice hoarse, he tries to rally us again, pushing us to continue to support the seniors, even though the season is over for most of us. He did focus on the positive – making it to the playoffs was a high achievement in our division – but it's hard to see past the raw, stinging disappointment.

***

I'm still reeling from the game, the loss a dull ache in my chest. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily overhead, feeling numb, disconnected. I can't even clearly remember if we won or lost yesterday, the whole day a blurry mess of adrenaline and crushing defeat. My mind is a fog. I don't want to go out, don't want to face anyone; I just want to stay here and wallow in my misery.

My mom enters the room, carrying a plate of my favorite comfort food: a PB&J sandwich with some carefully sliced strawberries and a tall glass of ice-cold chocolate milk. She knows me too well, her intuition a superpower I both appreciate and resent. She sets the plate gently on my lap and sits on the edge of the bed, her hand resting lightly on my leg.

"Hey, sweetheart," she says softly, her voice filled with a quiet understanding. "I thought you could use a little pick-me-up."

I look at the sandwich, the two slices of soft, white bread pressed together like comforting clouds, the thick layer of chunky peanut butter, and the tangy apricot jam oozing slightly at the edges. I take a big bite, and the familiar taste brings a rush of nostalgic warmth, a fleeting reminder of simpler times when a lost game didn't feel like the end of the world, when everything felt okay.

"Thanks, Mom," I mumble around a mouthful of sandwich, the sweetness a small comfort.

She pauses, her gaze steady and kind, then asks gently, "Do you want to talk about what's been going on, Slater? All of it."

I hesitate to reply, the words caught in my throat. Not willingly ready to unpack the maddening movie that has been my life these past few months. It's still too raw, too painful to fully articulate after suffering that hard exit from the playoffs – a loss that still feels squarely on my shoulders, despite Coach's reassurances. As my mom tries to ease me, her touch gentle, it's as if she already knows the tangled mess of my emotions. That's the scary thing about mothers; they have that uncanny, almost supernatural ability to sense when their children are at their weakest. What's it called again? 'A mother's intuition.' She comforts me, offering helpful solace, reminding me that the game wasn't solely my fault. It was a team loss, she insists, echoing Coach Thompson's words. And for the six hours since the final out, I'd stubbornly believed it was only me who failed. Leave it to Mom to gently nudge me back into focus. And soon, that triggers something, a dam breaking within me. Just like how I eventually spilled everything to Ethan that night at Duke's, I eventually disclose everything to Mom. I tell her about Abigail, the ridiculous dare that started it all, helping at the soup kitchen and the unexpected sense of purpose it gave me, my sudden stargazing craze, the discovery of the pills, Abigail's mental health struggles, the agonizing drama between me and Lily, the chaotic cupid act with Otto, the surprisingly meaningful reason I dressed up as that ridiculous astro-knight, and much, much more. It wouldn't fill an entire book, but definitely a few dramatic chapters. She listens to it all quietly, her expression thoughtful, absorbing every detail.

"Slater, it's not fair to use Abigail for this dare," she says gently, her voice firm but compassionate. "If she's been honest with you, shared something so deeply personal and vulnerable, you owe her the same respect, the same honesty. If you really want to be one of her devoted friends, not because of some silly competition, you need to be honest with her, and with yourself."

As she soon lays a soft kiss on my forehead, a silent blessing, she gets up and quietly steps out of the room, leaving me alone with my sandwich and her powerful words. Still lounging on my bed, finishing the last bite of my PB&J, her wisdom hits me hard. She's right... she always has been. I've been so fixated on the dare, on "winning" this stupid popularity contest, that I've lost sight of what really matters. I've already potentially lost my love, lost a good friend in Otto, tarnished the Wilcox Pride in my own chaotic way, but I can't lose Abigail's fragile faith in me.

***

The next day after school, we have our last, somber team meeting with Coach Thompson. He gathers us in the echoing locker room, his expression serious but kind, the deflated basketballs and discarded jerseys a testament to our season's end.

"Boys, it's been a tough season, ending in a way none of us wanted, but I'm proud of each and every one of you," he says, his voice strong despite the underlying disappointment. "We've had our difficulties, our ups and downs, but you've shown heart and determination. Hold your heads high. You fought hard."

The team murmurs in agreement, the mood somber but surprisingly supportive. As we break up, the silence punctuated by the rustling of gear, I spot some of my fellow junior legacies – Brett and Noah – glancing at me with unexpected nods of support. But then, like vultures circling, senior judges Joshua and Tristian approach me, their expressions unreadable.

"You know about the hashtag campaign," Joshua mentions, his tone flat.

"Yeah, it's been pretty hard to miss," I respond, a touch of sarcasm lacing my voice.

"Zach just left us a message to share with you, Wilcox," Tristian says, his gaze intense. "Make sure Abigail is at prom."

"Why? Why should you guys even care? It's a dance for juniors." I ponder aloud, genuinely confused by their continued obsession.

"If you care about the family's legacy, Wilcox, you do it," Joshua says, a subtle but unmistakable threat underlying his words.

"Just do it, Slater," Tristian echoes, his tone less menacing but equally insistent.

As they both walk off, leaving me standing numb and confused amidst the lingering scent of sweat and defeat, I feel a surge of frustration. It sucks that they keep reminding me of the social media pressure, this ridiculous narrative that has continued to paint me and Abigail as some kind of tragicomic couple, and worse, has subjected her to online ridicule. I cannot comprehend why Zach and his minions are so aggressively pushing for Abigail to be at the dance, and for the life of me, I don't know why. But my ingrained competitiveness, the stupid legacy whispering in the back of my mind, gets the best of me...and I cave.

Minutes later, I see Abigail walking down the sidewalk near her house, her head down, seemingly lost in thought. I approach her, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in my stomach, a bitter taste of guilt rising in my throat.

"Abigail, hey," I call, catching up to her. "I was wondering..." The words feel like lead in my mouth. "..." I pause, the lie caught on my tongue.

"Slater?" She looks up, her brow furrowed with a gentle curiosity.

I don't want to say it, every fiber of my being screaming against it, but something insidious, a desperate need to appease the pressure, forces the words out. "I was wondering... if you'd go to prom with me. Just as friends, of course." I stutter, the qualifier feeling pathetic and hollow even to my own ears, shamed that I let it out, that I'm using her again.

She looks at me, her eyes widening with surprise, then a hesitant flicker of excitement. "Really? I...I'd love to!"

I force a smile, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in my gut, the weight of my deception pressing down on me. "Great. Just... make sure you're taking your medicine, okay?" The concern feels genuine, but it's tainted by my ulterior motives.

She nods, her smile bright, but a shadow of confusion crosses her face. "Okay..." She responds slowly, not fully meeting my eyes, a subtle uncertainty in her tone. "Thanks, Slater."

She then surprises me by racing up and giving me a giant hug, her warmth a stark contrast to the coldness spreading through me. I appreciate the gesture, the innocent joy in her embrace, but it only amplifies my guilt. A few seconds later, she skips off, clearly thrilled at the prospect of prom, her earlier somber mood completely forgotten. I watch her go, feeling utterly conflicted, a battle raging between the genuine care I feel for her and the selfish desire to appease the expectations. And then, a familiar ping sound comes from my phone. I pull it out and see a sudden flood of X notifications cascading down my screen. #PrinceSlater&KookyAbbie is trending yet again, the digital vultures circling. Posts are exploding with a renewed frenzy:

"Slateman did it!"

"The Crazy Girl is going to the dance!"

"OMG!!!"

and a barrage of heart emojis and speculative comments.

I start to feel weird, almost physically ill, the weight of their expectations and my own deceit pressing down on me. Looking back around the school premises, I glance at several onlookers already locked on their phones, their faces illuminated by the glow, observing us like lab rats in a twisted experiment. Of course. Then, near the senior parking lot, I spot them, Zach and his minions, leaning against a car, their smug faces radiating a sickening satisfaction. It would be nice if they'd all just look up at the actual stars for once, instead of obsessing over me and Abigail. But that's all they seem to care about...the spectacle. I lean heavily on the gated chain fence, the cold metal digging into my forehead, a full-blown panic attack threatening to engulf me. But it's not entirely because of what I'm doing to Abigail. In a messed-up way, I gave everyone what they wanted.

Stupid Slate strikes again.