Chapter Text
chapter 1
i am sick
i am horrified at everything i hear
the youngest daughter lost her way again
every day repeats itself again
the cycle of our misery, it drives us all insane
please come home
Emily Prentiss took one last drag of her cigarette before flicking it into the parking lot, watching the ember arc through the September air like a tiny comet. The first bell wouldn’t ring for another ten minutes, but she could already feel eyes on her – new girl syndrome, amplified by the fact that she looked like she’d crawled out of a Hot Topic catalogue and didn’t give a single fuck about it.
She adjusted the straps of her messenger bag, heavy with dog-eared paperbacks and her battered composition notebook, and took in Rosewood Highschool. It looked exactly like every other suburban highschool her ambassador mother had dragged her to: brick facade trying too hard to look prestigious, a quad with picnic tables that probably had their own hierarchy, and that particular scent of teenage desperation mixed with cafeteria pizza that seemed universal.
This was her third school in four years. Rome, London, and now bumfuck Virginia. At least her Italian had gotten pretty good.
Emily pulled out another cigarette, cupping her hand against the morning breeze to light it. Her black nail polish was chipped – she liked it that way. Her smoky eye makeup was deliberate, practiced, perfect. The fishnets under her ripped jeans were an aesthetic choice and a middle finger to the preppy blonde clones already giving her looks from across the parking lot. Her Bauhaus t-shirt was vintage, actually vintage, picked up from a thrift store in Camden Town.
“You know those things will kill you, right?”
Emily turned to find a girl with blonde hair in multiple pigtails, cat-eye glasses perched on her nose, and a smile that could power a small city. She wore a cardigan covered in what appeared to be hand-sewn patches of various computer icons and a skirt that defied at least three laws of physics with its volume of tulle.
“So will high school,” Emily replied, exhaling smoke away from the girl’s direction out of courtesy. “At least cigarettes are honest about it.”
The girl laughed, loud and genuine. “Oh my God, I’m going to like you. I’m Penelope Garcia, but everyone calls me Garcia. Well, everyone who matters. The administration calls me, ‘Ms. Garcia, please report to the principal’s office for unauthorized network access.’” She said this last part in a nasally impression of what Emily assumed to be the principal.
“Emily Prentiss.” She offered her hand, and Garcia shook it enthusiastically. “Let me guess – you’re the quirky tech genius who’s going to show me around and warn me about the social landmines?”
“See? You’re smart. I like smart.” Garcia bounced on her heels. “And yes, absolutely. First landmine: see that table?” She pointed to a cluster of picnic tables near the front entrance where a group of girls in designer jeans and carefully coordinated outfits held court. “That’s the soccer table. Secifically, the girls’ varsity soccer table. They run this school like it’s their personal fiefdom.”
Emily studied the group with the detached interest of an anthropologist observing a new species. There were maybe six or seven of them, all with that particular brand of athletic grace and casual confidence that came from being good at something people actually cared about. They were pretty in that catalogue-model way – interchangeable except for hair color and varying degrees of fake tan.
Except for one.
The girl sat at the center of the group like a sun with planets orbiting around her. Blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail that probably took three minutes but looked effortless, blue eyes visible even from this distance, and a smile that she wielded like a weapon. She wore her varsity jacket with the same confidence some girls wore couture. When she laughed at something one of her friends said, the whole table seemed to lean in, desperate for proximity to that brightness.
Emily felt something twist in her chest. Annoyance, probably. Rich girls who’d never had to question their place in the world always annoyed her.
“That’s Jennifer Jareau,” Garcia continued, following Emily’s gaze. “But everyone calls her JJ. Captain of the soccer team, straight-A student when she bothers to try, and basically untouchable. Her family has lived here since like the Revolutionary War or whatever. Old money, big house, country club memberships – the whole deal.”
“Let me guess,” Emily said, taking another drag. “She’s dating the quarterback, volunteers at the animal shelter on weekends, and has never had an original thought in her life?”
Garcia snorted. “Close. She’s dating Will LaMontagne – captain of the Lacrosse team, future finance bro, daddy’s money. The rest is probably accurate though I’m sure the volunteering thing is just for college applications.” She paused. “JJ’s not… I mean, she’s not the worst of them. That would be Sarah Morrison.” Garcia pointed to a brunette girl whose smile looked like it could cut glass. “But JJ’s the one with real power. She doesn’t have to be mean – everyone just does what she wants because they want her to like them.”
“Sounds exhausting,” Emily murmured.
“For us or for her?”
Emily looked back at JJ, who was now standing, slinging her designer bag over one shoulder with practiced ease. For just a second, Emily could have sworn she saw something flicker across that perfect face – something tired, something caged – but then JJ was laughing again, and the moment passed.
“Both,” Emily finally answered.
The warning bell rang, a shrill electronic sound that made Emily’s teeth hurt. She dropped her cigarette and ground it out with the toe of her combat boot.
“Come on,” Garcia said, already bouncing toward the entrance. “I’ll show you where the freaks and geeks congregate. That’s us, by the way. I’m President of the unofficial club.”
Emily shouldered her bag and followed, very deliberately not looking back at the soccer table.
-
The morning passed in the usual blur of administrative paperwork, guidance counselor platitudes, and getting lost trying to find her locker. Emily’s schedule was blessedly heavy on AP classes – AP Literature, AP History, AP French – which meant she’d at least be intellectually stimulated while socially isolated. She’d perfected the art of being alone in a crowd.
By third period, she’d already pegged the major players: the burnouts who hotboxed in the bathroom between classes, the theatre kids who spoke exclusively in musical references, the actual nerds who’d rather solve differential equations than deal with social interaction, and the vast middle ground of students who were just trying to survive til graduation.
And then there were the soccer girls, who seemed to materialize in every hallway like beautiful, athletic ghosts.
Emily was digging through her locker, looking for her copy of The Scarlet Letter for AP Lit, when she heard it.
“Oh my God, what is that?”
The voice was female, young, and dripping with performative shock. Emily didn’t turn around. She’d heard variations of this comment in three different countries. The script never changed.
“I think it’s supposed to be fashion?” Another voice, also female, trying to sound sympathetic and failing. “Like, goth or whatever? Very 1999.”
“It’s giving ‘I shop exclusively at Halloween stores.’”
Laughter. Multiple girls. Emily finally found her book and straightened slowly, dliberately, before turning to face them.
There were three of them: two brunettes Emily didn’t recognize and, because the universe had a sense of irony, Jennifer Jareau herself. They stood in a loose triangle, backpacks slung over one shoulder in that careless way that suggested they’d never had to worry about pickpockets or long walks home. They were all looking at Emily like she was an exotic animal in a zoo - slightly facinating and slightly distasteful.
Emily met JJ’s eyes directly. Up close, they were even bluer than she’d thought, the kind of blue that belonged in pretentious poetry. There was something sharp behind them, something calculating.
“Can I help you?” Emily asked, her voice flat.
One of the brunettes – Sarah Morrison, Emily finally remembered – smirked. “Oh, it talks. We were just wondering if you knew Hot Topic had a return policy.”
“And I was wondering if you knew that personality was sold separately from your designer jeans,” Emily replied without missing a beat. “Guess we’re both disappointed.”
Sarah’s face flushed red. The other brunette - her lackey, clearly - looked between them nervously.
But Emily kept her eyes on JJ, who was watching the exchange with an expression that Emily couldn’t quite read. Not quite amusement, not quite discomfort. Something perfectly inbetween.
“That’s cute,” Sarah recovered, her voice icy. “New girl’s got jokes. Let me give you some advice, sweetie–”
“I didn’t ask for advice,” Emily interrupted, slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder. “But since we’re offering unsolicited opinions, here’s mine: the mean girl routine is tired. You’re not in a teen movie, and nobody is impressed.”
She stepped forward, and the three girls moved instinctively back. Emily walked past them without another glance, feeling their stares burn into her back.
“What a freak,” she heard Sarah mutter.
And then, quieter, another voice. JJ’s.
A laugh. Light, careless, cruel.
Emily’s jaw tightened, but she didn’t turn around. She’d learned a long time ago that caring what people like that thought was a waste of emotional energy. Jennifer Jareau could laugh all she wanted. Emily had survived boarding schools full of entitled rich kids. She’d survived her mother’s political circles and embassy parties where every smile hid a knife. She’d survive Rosewood High School and its petty hierarchy.
Still, something about the laughter stuck with her as she walked into AP Literature.
-
The classroom smelled like old paper and dry erase markers. Emily chose a seat in the back corner – best vantage point, easiest exit, a habit learned from too many international schools where being the new kid made you a target. She pulled out her copy of The Scarlet Letter, already annotated from a previous read, and waited for class to start.
Students filtered in slowly. Emily recognized a few faces from her earlier classes. Garcia bounced in with a wave before taking a seat in the middle. A lanky kid with hair that defied gravity and an expression of permanent confusion sat near the front, already reading what looked like a quantum physics textbook.
And then JJ walked in.
Of course. Because Emily’s life was apparently a cosmic joke.
JJ swept the room with her eyes, that same calculated assessment Emily had seen in the hallway. When her gaze landed on Emily, something flickered across her face – recognition, maybe annoyance – before she deliberately chose a seat on the opposite side of the room.
Fine by Emily.
The teacher, Ms. Shepherd, was a woman in her forties with greying hair pulled into a messy bun and the kind of face that suggested she’d seen everything and was no longer impressed. She wore a cardigan despite the September warmth and had the ink-stained fingers of someone who actually read for pleasure.
Emily liked her immediately.
“Alright, settle down,” Ms. Shepherd said, her voice carrying easily over the chatter. “We have a new student today. Emily Prentiss, welcome to AP Literature. We’re currently suffering through Hawthorne, as I’m sure you’ve gathered from the syllabus.”
A few sympathetic chuckles from the class.
“Thank you,” Emily said simply.
“You’ve read The Scarlet Letter before?” Ms. Shepherd asked.
“Twice. Once for a class in London, once for fun.”
“For fun?” someone muttered. “Who reads Hawthorne for fun?”
“Someone who appreciates complex moral allegory and the examination of public shame versus private guilt in a Puritan society,” Emily replied without looking to see who’d spoken. “Also, I like depressing books. Sue me.”
Ms. Shepherd’s lips twitched into what might have been a smile. “Excellent. We’re discussing chapters thirteen through seventeen today. Who wants to start off with the symbolism of the forest scene?”
Silence. The awkward kind where everyone suddenly found their desks fascinating.
Emily waited exactly three seconds before raising her hand. “The Forest represents liberation from societal constraints. It’s where Hester and Dimmesdale can be honest about their relationship without the weight of Puritan judgement. The sunlight that follows Pearl is Hawthorne’s way of showing innocence exists outside of the moral framework the town imposes.”
Ms. Shepherd looked delighted. “Excellent. And what about the contrast between Pearl in the forest versus Pearl in town?”
They fell into discussion, and Emily found herself relax slightly. This, at least, was familiar territory. Books didn’t judge you for wearing too much eyeliner or smoking cigarettes. Literature didn’t care if you fit in.
She was mid-sentence, explaining the significance of Hester refusing to name Pearl’s father, when she caught JJ staring at her.
Not the dismissive look from in the hallway. Something else. Something almost like… interest? Curiosity?
JJ’s eyes were narrowed slightly, her head tilted just a fraction, like she was trying to solve a puzzle. When she realized Emily had noticed, she looked away quickly, suddenly very interested in her own copy of the book.
Weird.
Emily finished her point and let someone else take over the discussion. She spent the rest of the class half-listening to various students stumble through analysis while surreptitiously observing JJ.
The soccer captain wasn’t participating very much. She took notes occasionally, but her pen seemed to hover over the page more than it wrote. Every few minutes, she’d glance at the clock like she was counting down to freedom. Her ponytail was slightly less perfect than this morning, a few blonde strands escaping to frame her face.
She looked tired, Emily realized. Not physically tired – she had the kind of athletic energy that meant she could probably run for miles – but tired in some deeper way. The kind of tired that Emily recognized from her own mirror.
Then JJ looked up and caught Emily staring this time.
For a heartbeat, neither of them looked away. JJ’s expression was unreadable, somewhere between defensive and curious. Emily raised one eyebrow, a silent challenge: What?
JJ’s jaw tightened and she looked back down at her book, a slight flush creeping up her neck.
Interesting.
The bell rang before Emily could analyze that interaction further. Students began packing up immediately, the shuffle of papers and the zip of backpacks filling the room.
“Ms. Jareau, Ms. Prentiss, stay behind for a moment,” Ms. Shepherd called out.
Emily’s stomach sank. She glanced at JJ, who looked equally as confused and significantly more annoyed.
They approached Ms. Shepherd’s desk from opposite sides, maintaining careful distance like opposing magnets.
“Jennifer,” Ms. Shepherd began, and Emily caught that slight wince that crossed JJ’s face at the use of her full name. “Your grade in this class is currently sitting at a C-minus. Your essays show promise, but they’re rushed, and you’re not participating in class discussions.”
JJ’s expression went carefully neutral. “I have soccer practice almost every day, and we have a tournament coming up–”
“I’m aware of your extracirriculars,” Ms. Shepherd interrupted gently but firmly. “However, this is an AP class. The colleges you’re applying to will care about your grades, not just your athletic achievements.”
Emily watched JJ’s hands clench around the straps of her backpack.
“Which is why,” Ms. Shepherd continued, “I’m assigning you a tutor. Emily, you clearly have a strong grasp of the material. Would you be willing to help Jennifer outside of class? Just an hour or two a week.”
Oh hell no.
Emily opened her mouth to politely decline, but Ms. Shepherd was already looking at her with those sharp eyes that suggested this wasn’t really a question.
“I…” Emily glanced at JJ, who looked like she’d rather eat glass. “Sure. I guess.”
“I don’t need a tutor,” JJ said, her voice tight.
“Your grade suggests otherwise,” Ms. Shepherd replied matter-of-factly. “You’re both smart girls. I expect you can figure out a schedule that works. Emily, see me after class tomorrow and we’ll discuss tutoring compensation – the school has a small budget for peer tutoring programs.”
She smiled like this was settled and turned back to organizing the papers on her desk. Dismissed.
Emily and JJ stood there for a moment in awkward silence before both turning toward the door. They ended up walking out together, though neither seemed happy about it.
“Look,” JJ said once they were in the hallway, her voice low. “I know Ms. Shepherd thinks this is a great idea, but you don’t have to actually tutor me. I’ll figure it out on my own.”
“Your C-minus suggests otherwise,” Emily echoed Ms. Shepherd’s words, unable to resist.
JJ’s eyes flashed. “I don’t need help from–” She stopped herself, but Emily could fill in the blank.
From someone like you.
“From someone who actually reads the books?” Emily replied sweetly. “Yeah, I can see how that would be threatening.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” JJ said, her voice sharp.
“No,” Emily agreed. “And I don’t particularly want to. But I also don’t feel like dealing with Ms. Shepherd’s disappointment if I refuse to help. So here’s the deal: we meet once a week, you pretend to pay attention for an hour, I collect my tutoring money, and we both go on pretending the other doesn’t exist. Got it?”
JJ stared at her for a long moment, trying to figure Emily out. Finally, she sighed. “Fine. Library. Tomorrow after school. Four o’clock.”
“Can’t wait,” Emily deadpanned.
Emily headed outside immediately for a quick cigarette before her next class. She found a spot behind the east building where the security cameras didn’t quite reach.
She lit up and leaned against the brick wall, letting the nicotine calm her nerves. Through a window on the second floor, she could see into what looked like a gym. The girls’ soccer team was warming up, running drills with the kind of synchronized precision that spoke to hours of practice.
And there was JJ, right in the center, leading stretches. Even from this distance, Emily could see the transformation. Gone was the tense, defensive girl from the hallway. This JJ moved with confidence and grace, calling out encouragement to her teammates, laughing at something one of them said.
She looked happy. Free.
Emily took a long drag and looked away. It wasn’t her business. Jennifer Jareau’s multitudes weren’t her damn problem.
Tomorrow at four o’clock would be painful and awkward, and then it would be over. One hour a week of forced proximity to a girl who’d literally laughed at her that morning. Easy. Emily had dealt with worse.
She finished her cigarette, ground it out carefully, and headed back inside.
Just another day at a new school. Nothing special. Nothing that would matter.(She was, of course, completely wrong about that).