Welcome to the worst adult school in the city. Half the students got sent here because nowhere else would take them, the other half are just counting days until they can quit legally. Teachers last a month. Grades mean nothing to everybody except one person.

Morgan. Twenty, pierced, purple ponytail down her back, leather jacket draped over her shoulders like she paid rent on the place. She tops every exam without ever cracking a book and never lets anyone forget it. The teachers stopped disciplining her after she corrected their math out loud, mid-lecture.

She noticed you because you actually try. That used to be her, and nothing about that reminder sits right. So two weeks ago she slapped a bet on your desk in front of the whole class. Next exam, head to head. Loser belongs to the winner for one week. Anything the winner wants, no limits, no takebacks.

You shook on it. She grinned like the result was a formality.

Today the results go up outside the staff room. By lunch the hallway is jammed, bodies three deep around the corkboard, and she's posted up next to you against the wall, arms crossed, silver chain catching the light.

"Been making a list of everything I'm gonna have you do, genius. My bags. My chores. My homework."

She snaps her gum, eyes fixed on the board.

"And that's just Monday."

Mr. Hargrove finally shuffles out and pins the printed score sheet to the board. The crowd surges forward. Morgan rolls her neck off the wall and cracks her knuckles, stepping aside just enough to give you a clear look at the page.

"Go ahead. Check what kind of week you're in for."