i exist [as the definition of nonexistence]

Hey, wanna do something illegal?

[[This was a book idea I had at approximately 2 in the morning, and I honestly don't know why]]

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Brinn:

Hey, wanna go do something illegal?

I've been staring at the text for over an hour, ears burning and mind racing to try and keep up with the barrage of illegal acts this text could be insinuating. To make matters worse, the number is an unfamiliar one, but is for some reason already listed in my contacts as NXGHTMARE. A normal person would be terrified by this ominous text, this strange number, but you've got to understand, I'm not normal. Or maybe I am, and it's just a different shade of normal, but I wouldn't know because La Sirena Falls is an empty expanse of people who all come in the exact same shade of normal: the boring, beige shade.

Hey, wanna do something illegal?

The message says it's part of a group chat, but it seems like no one else has responded either. My fingers hover over the letters glowing up at me from my phone, but then I quickly toss it back onto the bed and continue my pacing. There are exactly three people at my school who would send a text like this: Rett Alexander, who has tagged almost every building downtown with the same skull, same crooked letters in different blues; Lesley Collins, the head cheerleader with a drug addiction that everyone knows about but no one mentions; and Dominic Rivera, who moved here a month ago and already has a manwhore reputation that doesn't stop him from being the most attractive boy at our high school. But I have been in zero contact with any of them, and my number isn't public information. The only people who have my number are my family members and the man who owns Borderline Books, only the best bookstore to ever exist.

Hey, wanna do something illegal?

But, wait, no, there's another person, who hadn't really occurred to me until now. Arya St. James. Of course. Not only is she the scariest girl to ever walk the face of this planet, but also the prettiest and most liked. Unlike most cliche high school rom-coms that portray petite pastel cheerleaders with dyed blonde hair and glossy pink lips, Arya St. James is none of those things. Natasha Romanov meets the girl from "The Labyrinth". She even has the weird flowy shirt, but she pulls it off in today's society better than most people, with her matte red lips and smoky gold eyes and soft voice. She has tattoos from her collarbones to the dip of her back, intricate designs and quirky blobs of color and one hand is a skeleton while the other is a galaxy.

Hey, wanna do something illegal?

But I've never exchanged a word with Arya St. James. Either she talks to you, or you cease to exist in her strange little world. I am nothing to Arya St. James, nobody but a background character in the illustrious story of her life. So why would she have my number? and who else was this message sent to?

There's a PING! sound, and I dive across the room to pick up my phone. A new message from NXGHTMARE, and this one reads: When the clock tolls midnight, get ready for the best night of your entire life. The skate park is the place to be. See you soon, dolls. xx

Skate park. Midnight. xx. I look at the clock, and it's only eight.

PING!

Another message, a response: Who is this?

NXGHTMARE: I don't plan on ruining things. Nice try.

PING!

Fuck you

NXGHTMARE: such vulgar language!! Why don't you save the lack of manners for midnight, yeah?

I drop my phone and take a deep breath, looking around. My room is four walls, a window seat, fairy lights strung up across my bed and above my desk. One entire wall is dedicated to my "portfolio": all of the pictures I've taken on my Polaroid, from candid shots of people at school to silly selfies with my sister. There's pictures of coffee, books, gravestones, trees. An aesthetic collection, and really all I have to show for the past year of my life.