PART 3: THE PURPLE REIGN

The Catalyst

The locker room was silent, save for the hum of the ventilation system and the ragged sound of my own breathing. I sat on the bench, the “official” study guide lying open next to me like a corpse. The little stick figure Ivy had drawn—mocking my intellect, mocking my existence—stared up at me.

I just helped you out, sis. That’s what she had said. As if destroying me was a favor.

I looked at the chemistry kit I had shoved into the bottom of my gym bag weeks ago. I was supposed to return it to Mr. Henderson, but I had forgotten. Now, it felt like fate. I pulled out the small vial of Potassium Permanganate (KMnO4​).

It’s a beautiful chemical, really. In its solid state, it looks like tiny, glistening dark needles. But when it touches water—or sweat, or the oils of a face cream—it dissolves into a brilliant, shocking magenta-purple. And it stains. God, does it stain. It oxidizes on organic material, leaving a mark that takes days, sometimes weeks, to fade.

My hands were covered in the orange sludge Ivy had tricked me into wearing. I looked at my orange palms, then at the purple crystals.

“Newton’s Third Law,” I whispered, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears. “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”

I wasn’t just Eve anymore. I wasn’t just the girl who cried when her sister was mean. I was a chemical reaction waiting to happen.

The Infiltration

I moved like a phantom. The hallway was empty; everyone was still in the auditorium, laughing at the memory of me shouting “Jupiter.” I knew I had about ten minutes before the Spring Fling speeches began.

I walked to Ivy’s locker. Number 402. Right next to the water fountain where she used to hold court, flipping her hair and ignoring me.

I reached for the dial. Right to 12. Left to 15. Right to 05.

Our birthday. December 15th, 2005. The combination hadn’t changed since freshman year. It was one of the few things we still shared, a numerical tether to a time when we weren’t enemies.

The lock clicked. The metal door swung open.

A wave of her scent hit me—vanilla, expensive perfume, and hairspray. It was the smell of popularity. Her locker was a shrine to herself. Photos of her and her friends taped to the door. A mirror. And there, sitting on the top shelf, was her emergency glam kit.

I grabbed her favorite loose shimmering bronzer. It was a high-end brand, the kind that cost more than my entire wardrobe. She applied it religiously before every major event to get that “sun-kissed” look.

I unscrewed the lid. The beige powder shimmered innocently.

With a steady hand, I opened my vial of Potassium Permanganate. I didn’t dump the whole thing—that would be too obvious. I sprinkled a generous layer of the dark crystals into the beige powder. I took a pen and gently stirred it. The crystals vanished into the bronzer, hiding like landmines in the sand.

To the naked eye, it looked exactly the same. But chemically? It was a time bomb.

I screwed the lid back on, placed it exactly where I found it, and closed the locker.

Click.

I leaned my forehead against the cool metal of the locker. My heart wasn’t racing anymore. It had slowed to a cold, heavy thud. I felt a strange sensation in my chest—not happiness, not relief. It was power. Toxic, heavy power.

The Return to the Arena

I went to the nearest bathroom and scrubbed my face with abrasive paper towels until my skin was raw. The orange foundation was stubborn, but I managed to get most of the thick layer off, leaving my face blotchy, red, and faintly stained orange. I looked like I had a terrible sunburn.

I pulled my hoodie up, shadowing my face. I wasn’t hiding this time. I was observing.

I walked back into the auditorium. The heavy double doors muffled the sound of the crowd inside. I slipped in through the back, standing in the shadows behind the last row of seats.

The atmosphere had shifted. The Academic Bowl was forgotten. Now, the air was electric with social hierarchy. This was the main event.

“And now,” the Principal announced, trying to regain control of the room, “we will proceed with the nominations for the Spring Fling Court. Please welcome our first nominee, Ivy Barrera!”

The applause was deafening. It was a physical wave of sound. Girls screamed her name. Guys whistled.

Ivy walked onto the stage. She had changed into a white dress that caught the stage lights, making her look angelic. She walked with that same hip-swaying confidence, basking in the adoration. She didn’t look like a girl who had just destroyed her sister. She looked like a queen accepting her due.

She took the microphone. “Hi, everyone!” she chirped, her voice bubbling with fake humility. “Oh my gosh, I’m so nervous!”

Liar, I thought. You haven’t been nervous a day in your life.

“I just want to say,” she continued, batting her eyelashes, “that beauty isn’t just about what’s on the outside. It’s about kindness. It’s about lifting each other up.”

I felt bile rise in my throat. The audacity. The absolute hypocrisy. She was preaching about kindness while my humiliation was still fresh in the air.

“Before I finish,” Ivy giggled, “I just need a quick second! These lights are so hot, I’m melting!”

The crowd laughed adoringly. It was her signature move—being “relatable” while being perfect.

She reached into a small clutch she had brought on stage. My breath hitched.

She pulled out the bronzer.

The Reaction

“Just a little touch-up!” she announced playfully into the mic.

She opened the compact. She took the large, fluffy brush, swirled it into the powder—my mixture—and tapped off the excess.

I watched, paralyzed. Time seemed to stretch like taffy.

She brought the brush to her face. She swept it across her forehead, down her nose, and across both cheeks in broad, aggressive strokes. She was sweating slightly from the stage lights—the perfect catalyst.

“There,” she smiled, closing the compact. “Much better.”

For three seconds, nothing happened.

Then, she frowned. She reached up and touched her cheek. “Is it… is it humid in here?” she asked the microphone.

A murmur started in the front row. I saw Kayla, her best friend, lean forward, her eyes widening.

“Ivy?” Kayla whispered loud enough for the mic to catch. “Your face.”

“What?” Ivy laughed nervously. “Is there something on it?”

She touched her cheek again. When she pulled her hand away, her fingers were purple.

She stared at her hand. Then, she looked at the audience.

The reaction was instantaneous. The moisture on her skin had dissolved the crystals. Deep, violet streaks were blooming across her face like a fast-forward video of a bruising fruit. The white dress magnified the contrast. Streaks of purple ran down her forehead, settling into the lines of her nose.

“Oh my god!” someone shouted from the back. “She’s turning purple!”

Ivy looked at the reflection in the piano, just as I had done twenty minutes ago.

Her scream wasn’t a cute, “caught by surprise” squeal. It was a guttural shriek of vanity shattering.

“MY FACE! WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY FACE?!”

She scrubbed at it frantically with her hands, which only made it worse. The friction and the sweat accelerated the reaction. The purple smeared, covering her entire T-zone, turning her into a violet nightmare.

The laughter didn’t start immediately. First, there was shock. Then, confusion.

But then, the screen behind her—which was projecting a live feed of the stage—zoomed in.

And the auditorium exploded.

It was worse than what happened to me. My orange makeup looked like a bad tan. This? This looked like a plague.

“It burns!” Ivy screamed, dropping the mic. (It didn’t burn—Potassium Permanganate in low doses just stains—but she was panicking). “Help me! Somebody help me!”

She looked out into the crowd, desperate, her eyes wild. She locked eyes with Chris.

Chris, the boy she wanted to impress. The boy she had destroyed me for.

Chris was covering his mouth, his shoulders shaking. He wasn’t crying. He was laughing.

The Moral Event Horizon

I stood in the shadows at the back of the room, watching the chaos unfold. Teachers were rushing the stage. The Principal was shouting for order. Ivy was sobbing, her tears cutting white tracks through the purple sludge, creating a terrifying tie-dye effect on her face.

I should have felt triumphant. This was justice. An eye for an eye. A face for a face.

But as I watched her collapse to her knees, clutching her ruined dress, I didn’t feel the rush of victory I expected. I felt… cold.

“Eve?”

I turned. Greg was standing behind me. He had come in from the hallway. He looked at the stage, then at me. He looked at my red, scrubbed-raw face, and then back at the purple disaster on stage.

He put the pieces together instantly. He was the artsy kid; he knew about colors and chemicals.

“Did you…” he started, his voice a whisper.

I looked him in the eye. “She wanted to be the center of attention. Now she is.”

Greg took a step back. The goofy grin was gone. In its place was something that looked a lot like fear. “Eve, that’s… that’s brutal. That’s not you.”

“Maybe it is now,” I said. “Maybe I’m done being the punching bag.”

“There’s standing up for yourself,” Greg said quietly, “and then there’s becoming exactly like her.”

His words hit me harder than Ivy’s insults. I wanted him to high-five me. I wanted him to say, ‘Good job, she deserved it.’ But he didn’t. He looked at me like I was a stranger.

The Long Ride Home

The school nurse couldn’t get the purple off. Obviously.

Mom and Dad had to come pick us up. Both of us.

The car ride home was a study in acoustics. Ivy was in the backseat, sobbing hysterically. Her face was a deep, violently purple shade. She looked like she had lost a fight with a squid.

I sat in the front seat this time. I stared out the window, watching the suburban houses blur by.

“I’m suing!” Ivy shrieked between sobs. “I’m suing the school! I’m suing the makeup company! My life is over! The Spring Fling is tomorrow!”

“Calm down, honey,” Mom said, her voice trembling. She looked terrified. “We’ll… we’ll take you to a dermatologist. We’ll fix it.”

“You can’t fix this!” Ivy screamed. “I look like a monster!”

Dad gripped the steering wheel so hard the leather creaked. “Who did this?” he demanded, his eyes on the road. “Makeup doesn’t just do that. Someone tampered with it.”

Silence filled the car.

“It was her,” Ivy whispered.

The sobbing stopped. The air left the car.

“What?” Mom asked.

“It was Eve,” Ivy said, her voice gaining strength, shifting from victim to accuser. “She’s the only one who knows the combination to my locker. She’s the only one who knows chemistry. And I saw her! I saw her watching me from the back!”

She lunged forward, grabbing my shoulder with a purple-stained hand. “ADMIT IT! YOU DID THIS!”

I slapped her hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

“Eve?” Dad’s voice was stern. He pulled the car over to the side of the road and put it in park. He turned around to look at me. “Did you do this to your sister?”

I looked at my parents. They looked at Ivy with heartbreak. They looked at me with suspicion.

“Did she do this to me?” I pointed to my own face, which was still patchy orange and red. “Did you ask her that when I came home crying? Or did you just tell us to ‘figure it out’?”

“Eve, answer the question,” Dad barked.

“Yes,” I said calmly. “I did it.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

“You… you monster,” Ivy breathed. “I was just playing a prank. You permanently ruined my face!”

“It’s not permanent, Ivy,” I said tiredly. “It’ll fade in a week. Just in time for you to remember how it feels to be laughed at.”

“You’re grounded,” Mom said, tears in her eyes. “Both of you. But Eve… I expected better from you. You’re the responsible one.”

“I’m done being the responsible one,” I snapped. “I’m done being the one who takes the high road while she runs me over. You wanted us to ‘work it out’? We’re working it out. This is what war looks like.”

The Empty Victory

That night, our house was divided into two armed camps. Ivy locked herself in her room. I could hear her screaming into her pillow.

I sat in my room, staring at the ceiling. I had won. Ivy was humiliated. She wouldn’t be going to the Spring Fling. The Queen had been dethroned.

I opened my laptop. My social media feed was exploding.

#PurpleIvy was trending locally. There were memes. There were videos of her screaming. There were close-ups of her purple face with the caption “Barnie’s evil sister.”

I scrolled through the comments. “She deserved it. She’s so stuck up.” “Karma is real.” “Who did this? Legend.”

I should have felt validated. I should have been laughing.

But then I saw a post from Greg. It was just a black screen with text: “Watching good people turn bad is the saddest thing about high school.”

I closed the laptop.

I walked to the bathroom. I looked at myself. The orange was mostly gone, but my eyes looked tired. Hard.

I heard a knock on my door.

“Go away, Mom,” I said.

The door creaked open. It wasn’t Mom.

It was Ivy.

She stood in the doorway, wearing her silk pajamas. Her face was a horrific, deep violet. She looked ridiculous. But she wasn’t screaming anymore.

She held a white flag—literally. It was a tissue.

“Can we call a truce?” she asked, her voice small.

I looked at her. The “perfect” twin. The bully. The girl who made me hate myself. Now, she was just a purple girl in pajamas, looking scared.

“Why?” I asked. “Because you lost?”

“No,” she said, stepping into the room. She closed the door behind her. “Because… because Chris texted me.”

“And?”

“He asked if you were okay.”

I froze. “What?”

“He didn’t ask about me,” Ivy said, tears welling up in her purple eyes. “He saw the video. He saw me screaming. And he texted me: ‘Hey, is Eve okay? She looked really upset earlier. You guys are intense.’“

Ivy sat on the edge of my bed. “He doesn’t like me, Eve. He never did. He was always asking about you. I just… I didn’t want to see it.”

I stared at her. “So you destroyed my Academic Bowl because you were jealous?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “And you destroyed my face because you were angry.”

“Yes.”

We sat there in silence. The orange twin and the purple twin. Two disasters made of the same DNA.

“We’re terrible people,” Ivy said finally.

“We really are,” I agreed.

“Does it come off?” she pointed to her face. “Please tell me the truth. Does it come off?”

“Lemon juice and hydrogen peroxide,” I said. “It’ll take a few hours of scrubbing, and it’ll sting, but it breaks down the oxidation.”

Ivy nodded. She looked at me, really looked at me.

“I’m sorry I swapped your guide,” she said. “I’m sorry I called you a corpse. You… you look okay without the orange stuff.”

“I’m sorry I turned you into a grape,” I said. “You look… distinctive.”

She actually laughed. A wet, sniffling laugh.

“Help me fix it?” she asked. “I can’t go to school like this. And… I don’t think I can fix this alone.”

I looked at my hands. I could say no. I could let her suffer. That would be the villain move. That would be the “revenge” ending.

But then I remembered the car ride. I remembered Greg’s post. I remembered that despite everything, she was the only person on earth who knew what it was like to be us.

“Fine,” I stood up. “But you owe me.”

“Anything,” she said.

“I want the truth,” I said. “Tomorrow. At school. You tell everyone what you did. You tell them you swapped the guide. You clear my name.”

Ivy hesitated. It would be social suicide. It would admit she wasn’t perfect.

“Okay,” she said softly. “Deal.”

The Twist

We spent three hours in the bathroom. It stung, it smelled like chemicals, and we both cried a little. But by 2 AM, Ivy was mostly pink instead of purple.

We fell asleep in my bed, exhausted, like we used to when we were five.

The next morning, we walked into school together. No makeup. Hoodies. Heads held high.

We walked to the Principal’s office. Ivy took a deep breath. She was about to confess. She was about to redeem herself.

But as we walked past the main bulletin board, we stopped.

A new flyer was up.

SPRING FLING COURT DISQUALIFICATION NOTICE Due to unsportsmanlike conduct and vandalism, both Ivy Barrera and Eve Barrera are disqualified from all school activities for the remainder of the semester.

And underneath it, a new list of nominees.

Top of the list? Kayla.

Ivy’s best friend.

“Wait,” Ivy said, squinting at the flyer. “Kayla?”

“She was the one who pointed out your face on stage,” I remembered. “She was the one who made sure the mic caught it.”

Ivy pulled out her phone. “And look. She blocked me.”

We looked at each other. The war between us was over, but it seemed we had both been played by a third player we never saw coming.

“You know,” Ivy said, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her pink, raw face. “I have a lot of leftover potassium permanganate.”

“And I,” I said, zipping up my hoodie, “have a comprehensive knowledge of the school’s ventilation system.”

“Sisters stick together?” Ivy held out her hand.

I looked at it. The rivalry was dead. The alliance was born.

“Sisters stick together,” I shook it.

God help Kayla.

(End of Part 3)

PART 4: THE TWIN TRAP

The War Room

The walk home from school after seeing the disqualification flyer was different. There were no tears, no screaming matches in the car. There was just a quiet, vibrating intensity between us. We were two soldiers who had been fighting a civil war, only to realize there was a sniper on the hill taking shots at both of us.

When we got home, Mom and Dad were waiting in the living room. They looked exhausted. They had the “we are so disappointed” posture—arms crossed, lips thinned.

“Disqualified,” Dad said, tossing the flyer onto the coffee table. “Banned from the dance. Banned from extracurriculars. And you’re both grounded until you’re thirty.”

“We know,” Ivy said. She didn’t whine. She didn’t stomp her foot. She just stood there, her face still faintly stained a raw pink from our scrubbing session the night before. “We accept the punishment.”

Mom blinked. She looked at me, then at Ivy. “You… you do?”

“Yes,” I said, stepping next to Ivy. “We messed up. We let things get out of control. We deserve it.”

“But,” Ivy added, her voice dropping a register, “we have one thing we need to finish before the sentence begins.”

“No,” Dad said immediately. “No more schemes. No more chemicals. You are going to your rooms.”

“We will,” I said. “And we’ll stay there. We promise.”

We went upstairs. We made a show of slamming our doors. We waited until we heard the TV turn on downstairs—Dad’s nightly news program. Then, I opened my door. Ivy opened hers. We crawled into the hallway on our hands and knees and army-crawled into my bedroom, locking the door behind us.

“Okay,” Ivy whispered, sitting cross-legged on my rug. “Operation ‘Bye-Bye Birdie’ is a go. What do we have?”

I pulled out my laptop and the blueprints of the school I had downloaded for a physics project last semester. “I can access the school’s AV system remotely if I can get within range of the local Wi-Fi. But the firewall blocks external connections. I need to be inside the building.”

“And I,” Ivy said, pulling her phone out of her pocket, “have the ammunition.”

She opened her cloud drive. It was a treasure trove of toxicity. Kayla was, to put it mildly, a snake. There were voice notes of her mocking the very people she asked for votes. There were screenshots of her bragging about how she played Ivy and me against each other.

“Look at this one,” Ivy said, playing a voice memo.

“God, Ivy is so pathetic. She actually thinks I’m helping her? I’m just winding her up so she takes out her nerd sister. Once they both self-destruct, the crown is mine. Easy money.”

My blood boiled. “She said that?”

“Two days ago,” Ivy said, her eyes hard. “While she was helping me pick out my dress.”

“Okay,” I said, cracking my knuckles. “We don’t need potassium permanganate this time. We don’t need orange foundation. We just need the truth.”

“And a way to get into the gym without being seen by Mr. Lincoln,” Ivy added.

I pointed to the blueprints on my screen. “The gym has a maintenance hatch on the roof. It leads directly to the catwalks above the stage lighting. The ventilation shafts are too small for people, but the catwalks? They’re perfect.”

“We’re going to break into the school?” Ivy asked. A week ago, the idea would have made her faint. Now, she looked thrilled.

“Technically,” I corrected, “we’re just… crashing the party.”

The Infiltration

Saturday night. The night of the Spring Fling. The theme was “Starry Night,” which meant the gym would be dark, filled with twinkling lights and clueless students.

Mom and Dad thought we were sulking in our rooms. We had stuffed pillows under our duvets to create decoy bodies—a trick we learned from watching movies, though I doubted it would hold up to a close inspection. We climbed out of my window, down the trellis (which groaned alarmingly under our weight), and sprinted into the night.

We weren’t wearing gowns. We were wearing black hoodies, black leggings, and sneakers. Ivy had tied her hair back in a tight braid. I had my laptop in a backpack.

“I feel like a spy,” Ivy whispered as we cut through the neighbor’s hedge.

“Less talking, more running,” I hissed.

We reached the school perimeter. The parking lot was full. We could hear the thumping bass of the DJ from the football field. We circled around to the back of the gym, where the maintenance ladder was bolted to the brick wall.

“Ladies first,” I gestured to the ladder.

Ivy looked up. It was a twenty-foot climb. “If I break a nail, I’m suing you.”

“If you fall, aim for the bushes.”

We climbed. The wind was cold, biting at our cheeks. When we reached the flat roof, the vibration of the music was stronger. I located the maintenance hatch. It was padlocked.

“Dang it,” I muttered. “I forgot about the lock.”

Ivy reached into her pocket and pulled out a bobby pin. “Move over, genius.”

I watched in awe as she wiggled the pin in the lock. “Since when do you know how to pick locks?”

“Since I lost my house key three times in freshman year and didn’t want Dad to kill me,” she grinned. “There are some things they don’t teach in AP Physics.”

Click. The lock popped open.

“Remind me never to make you mad again,” I said.

The View from Above

The catwalk was narrow, dusty, and terrified me. It was a metal grid suspended thirty feet above the gym floor. Below us, the dance was in full swing. It was a sea of pastel dresses, awkward dancing, and flashing lights.

We crawled on our stomachs until we were positioned directly above the stage. The heat rising from the crowd was intense.

“There she is,” Ivy whispered, pointing through the grate.

Kayla was center stage. She was wearing a gold dress that looked suspiciously similar to the one Ivy had wanted to buy. She was laughing, holding court, surrounded by the “friends” she secretly despised.

“She looks so happy,” Ivy murmured. “It’s disgusting.”

I opened my laptop. The signal was strong up here. “I’m in the network. I have control of the projector and the soundboard.”

“Wait,” Ivy said. She grabbed my arm. “Look over there.”

She pointed to the punch bowl table. Standing there, looking absolutely miserable, were Greg and Chris. They were wearing tuxedos, but they looked like they were at a funeral. They weren’t talking to anyone. They were just watching the door.

“They’re waiting for us,” I realized, a lump forming in my throat.

“Chris really likes you,” Ivy said softly. “He looks like a lost puppy.”

“Greg looks bummed too,” I said. “He probably thinks I’m a sociopath after the purple incident.”

“We’ll fix it,” Ivy said firmly. “But first, we take out the trash.”

The Coronation

The music faded. The Principal walked onto the stage. The crowd cheered.

“Alright, Northwood High!” he boomed into the microphone. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for! It’s time to announce your Spring Fling Queen!”

I hovered my finger over the ‘Enter’ key. Ivy had her phone ready to sync the audio file.

“This year has been… eventful,” the Principal said nervously, probably referencing the chemical warfare of the past week. “But the votes are in. Your Queen is… Kayla Miller!”

The crowd erupted. Kayla squealed, feigning shock. She bounded to the microphone, accepting the plastic tiara.

“Oh my gosh!” she gushed, clutching the mic. “I am so honored! I just want to say, this crown isn’t just for me. It’s for all the girls who support each other! It’s for friendship!”

“Now,” I whispered.

I hit ‘Enter’.

The Reveal

The cheerful pop music that was supposed to play cut out abruptly. A screech of audio feedback pierced the room. Everyone covered their ears.

Then, the lights went black. Total darkness.

“What’s going on?” Kayla’s voice echoed in the dark.

Suddenly, the giant projector screen behind the stage flickered to life. But it wasn’t the school logo. It was a massive, high-definition screenshot of a group chat named “Kayla’s minions.”

A hush fell over the crowd.

Then, the audio started. It wasn’t music. It was Kayla’s voice, loud and clear, booming through the massive gym speakers.

Audio: “I honestly can’t believe they voted for me. I mean, look at them. They’re sheep. I just have to smile and pretend I care about their stupid problems.”

On stage, in the dim light of the screen, we saw Kayla freeze.

Audio: “And Ivy? Please. She’s so insecure it’s pathetic. I just wind her up and watch her go. And her sister? The nerd? I switched her study guide just to see what would happen. I didn’t think she’d actually cry on stage. It was hilarious.”

The gasp from the audience sucked the air out of the room.

The screen changed. It was a video Ivy had taken secretly weeks ago. It showed Kayla tearing down posters of other candidates and laughing.

Audio: “I don’t care who I have to step on. I want that crown. If I have to destroy the Wonder Twins to get it, so be it. They’re too stupid to figure it out anyway.”

The audio cut. The lights slammed back on.

Kayla stood center stage, the crown tilting slightly on her head. She looked small. The golden dress didn’t look regal anymore; it looked tacky.

She looked at the crowd. No one was clapping. No one was cheering. The students were staring at her with a mix of shock and disgust.

“It… that’s fake!” Kayla stammered into the mic. “That’s deepfake! AI! Someone hacked the system!”

“It’s not AI, Kayla,” a voice rang out from above.

Everyone looked up. Ivy and I were peering through the grate of the catwalk, illuminated by the stage lights. We probably looked like gargoyles in hoodies.

“It’s just the receipts,” Ivy shouted down.

“And by the way,” I added, my voice echoing, “You didn’t swap my study guide. Ivy did. But you were the one who told her to do it.”

Kayla turned red. “You freaks! You ruined my moment!”

“You ruined it yourself,” Ivy called out. “Enjoy the crown. It matches your personality. Fake.”

Kayla threw the microphone down. She looked at the silent, judging crowd. Then she burst into tears—real ones this time—and ran off the stage, pushing past the confused Principal.

For a second, there was silence.

Then, someone started slow clapping. It was Greg. Then Chris joined in. Then the whole gym.

They weren’t clapping for Kayla. They were clapping for the takedown.

The Descent

“We should probably go,” I said, closing my laptop. “Mr. Lincoln looks like he’s about to have an aneurysm.”

We scrambled back to the hatch. We climbed down the ladder faster than we went up. We hit the ground running, adrenaline pumping through our veins.

We made it to the edge of the parking lot before we heard footsteps behind us.

“Hey! Wait up!”

We turned. It was Greg and Chris. They had run out the side exit.

I pulled my hood down. My hair was a mess, and I had dust on my nose. Ivy didn’t look much better.

“That,” Greg panted, bending over to catch his breath, “was the most legendary thing I have ever seen.”

Chris walked straight up to me. He didn’t look at Ivy. He looked at me.

“You hacked the school sound system?” he asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“I… I might have,” I stammered.

“Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Chris said. Then, he did something that made my brain short-circuit. He reached out and brushed a smudge of dust off my cheek. “You missed the dance.”

“We were a little busy,” I whispered.

“Well,” Chris said, offering me his hand. “There’s music playing from the cars. May I have this dance? In the parking lot?”

I looked at Ivy. She was watching us, and for the first time in forever, there was zero jealousy in her eyes. She gave me a tiny nod and a thumbs up.

“I’d love to,” I said.

I took Chris’s hand.

Meanwhile, Greg turned to Ivy. “So, you picked a lock?”

“I have many hidden talents,” Ivy smirked. “And I’m sorry about the purple face thing. I know it freaked everyone out.”

“It was memorable,” Greg laughed. “You looked like a comic book villain. It was kind of cool. In a terrifying way.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Ivy said.

The Final Confrontation

We didn’t get away with it, of course.

When we got home, the police car in the driveway was a dead giveaway. The Principal had called our parents. We hadn’t been arrested, but we were definitely “escorted” inside.

We sat at the kitchen table. Mom was crying (again). Dad looked like he was trying to calculate the cost of therapy.

“Breaking and entering?” Dad asked, his voice dangerously quiet. “Hacking school property? Public humiliation?”

“She deserved it,” Ivy said. “She was bullying everyone.”

“That doesn’t make you vigilantes!” Mom cried. “You could have fallen from that catwalk! You could have been hurt!”

“We were careful,” I said. “And we did it together.”

Dad looked at us. He looked at the two of us sitting side by side, shoulders touching, united in our crime. He sighed, a long, weary sigh.

“I don’t know what to do with you two,” he said. “You’re grounded for the rest of the year. No electronics. No outings. You are going to paint the house. You are going to weed the garden. You are going to do community service.”

“Okay,” we said in unison.

“But,” Dad said, a small twitch appearing in his cheek, suppressing a smile? No, surely not. “I heard Kayla Miller transferred schools.”

“Really?” Ivy asked, perking up.

“It seems the ‘deepfake’ defense didn’t hold up when half the student body corroborated the stories,” Dad said. He stood up. “Go to bed. I don’t want to see your faces until noon.”

We ran upstairs.

The Aftermath

The next few months were… quiet. We were grounded, after all. But they were also the best months we’d had in years.

We painted the house together. We weeded the garden (and used my chemistry knowledge to make a super-effective weed killer). We studied together.

I helped Ivy with her history essays. She helped me with my skincare routine (no orange foundation this time).

We realized something important. We aren’t the same. We never will be.

Ivy is charming, bold, and socially brilliant. She sees things about people that I miss. I am analytical, cautious, and book-smart. I see patterns that she misses.

Separately, we were a mess. She was a bully; I was a victim. Together? We were dangerous.

Epilogue: One Year Later

Senior year. We were walking down the hallway. The crowd parted, but not because of fear. Because of respect.

“Hey, Eve! Hey, Ivy!”

We waved.

I adjusted my backpack. I was wearing a hoodie, but it was a nice one. My hair was styled (thanks, Ivy). Ivy was wearing a leather jacket and jeans. She looked fierce, but accessible.

“So,” Ivy said, checking her phone. “Greg says the art club is hosting a gallery night. Want to go?”

“Only if Chris can come,” I said. “He wants to show me his new coding project.”

“Deal,” Ivy said.

We stopped at our lockers. Number 402 and 403.

Ivy opened hers. The picture of her “squad” was gone. Instead, there was a picture of the two of us, taken in the parking lot that night, wearing black hoodies and looking like criminals.

“You know,” Ivy said, looking at the photo. “Mom was right.”

“About what?” I asked, organizing my books.

“People figure things out on their own,” she quoted our mom’s useless advice. “But sometimes, they need a little push.”

“Or a chemical reaction,” I smirked.

“Or a catwalk infiltration,” she countered.

She bumped my shoulder with hers. “Sisters stick together?”

“Always,” I said.

We closed our lockers and walked to class. The “Perfect Twin” and the “Smart Twin” were gone.

Now, there were just the Barrera Sisters. And trust me, you don’t want to mess with us.

(THE END)