1 The night of high school graduation was supposed to be a beginning. Instead, for me, it was a haunting encore. The notification pinged on our class GroupMe at 7:00 PM. Madison Prescott, our resident "it-girl," had posted a neon-drenched flyer. "We’re finally eighteen. Who’s still playing the good little student?" she’d typed, followed by a string of cocktail and devil emojis. "Tonight, we have a real rite of passage. Drinks, mystery boxes, a taste of the real adult world. No parents, no rules." In my first life, I had been the martyr. I was the Class President, the girl who cared too much. I had spent that night frantically calling teachers, messaging parents, and finally physically blocking the entrance to the club. I thought I was saving them. The fallout was catastrophic. Madison lost her promoter’s commission, became a social pariah, and a month later, she jumped from the roof of the library. They blamed me. All of them. They dragged me to that same rooftop, forced me to my knees in front of her memorial, and poured vodka down my throat until I choked. Jackson Reed, her boyfriend, had looked at me with bloodshot eyes and asked, "Audrey, why couldn't you just let her be happy once?" Then, he pushed me. Now, as the blue light of my iPhone screen bled into the dimness of my bedroom, I was back. Back to the exact moment the flyer hit the chat. Madison tagged me: @AudreyMiller, you’re not going to be a buzzkill again, are you? I looked at the details: the Venmo link, the address of a penthouse lounge called The Apex, the teaser for a "private livestream," and the guest list that included two juniors who wouldn't turn eighteen until next month. I didn't argue. I didn't warn. I didn't care about being their savior anymore. I smiled, my fingers steady as I took screenshots and screen-recorded the chat. I left the group without a word. Then, I dialed the non-emergency line for the local precinct. "Hi, I’d like to report an illegal gathering involving minors, unlicensed alcohol service, and potential solicitation at The Apex Lounge." The frenzy in the group chat had reached a fever pitch before I left. Madison’s messages were a tactical masterclass in peer pressure. "OMG, a real adult party? Finally!" "This is how you celebrate graduation. Who wants to go to some lame pizza party?" "Madison, you’re a legend for pulling this off." The flyer was slick—black background, crimson font. Eighteen: Don’t waste your first night of freedom. Below the text were photos of VIP booths, bottle service towers, and blurred stills from a "members-only" stream. My skin crawled. I knew that flyer. In my previous life, that "adult world" Madison promised was a predatory trap. She was selling us out for a kickback from the club promoters. Back then, I had fought her. I had been the wall she crashed into. And for my "heroism," I had been rewarded with a grave. Madison’s voice notes were playing in my head, even though I’d muted them. That honey-sweet, manipulative tone: "Guys, don't be cowards. We worked so hard for four years. This isn't about being bad; it's about making a memory." The echoes of the others followed: "Madison’s right." "If you’re eighteen and still asking for permission, you’re pathetic." "If you don’t show up, don't bother coming to the alumni meetups." I felt a strange, cold peace. This time, I wasn't going to stand in their way. But I wasn't going to let them anchor me to their sinking ship, either. Before I left the chat, I typed: I’m out. Take my name off the list. The chat froze for two seconds. Then, Madison tagged me. Audrey, don't be like that. It’s the last time we’ll all be together. It’ll be so awkward if you’re the only one missing. Jackson Reed jumped in immediately. Audrey, quit the act. Madison worked her ass off to get us into this place. What do you mean 'you're out'? I stared at the screen, my expression flat. It means I’m not going. And I don’t authorize anyone to use my name for registration, promotion, or fee collection. The chat exploded. "She really thinks she’s someone special, doesn't she?" "Who even wants her there?" "Better if the narc doesn't show up. She’d probably call the cops anyway." Madison replied with a crying emoji. Guys, don't be mean to Audrey. She’s just... traditional. But the list is already sent to the venue, and the deposit is paid. Changing it now is going to be a nightmare. I laughed. That was the hook. In my last life, that was how they dragged me under. The list is sent. The deposit is paid. Your face is on the promo. They tied me to the mast and then screamed at me for not wanting to drown with them. I typed back: Make it happen. Or I’ll be forced to contact my family’s attorney regarding the unauthorized use of my likeness. Madison stopped posting in the main chat. My phone buzzed with a DM. Audrey, do you have to be so dramatic? Everyone just wants to blow off some steam. You’re ruining the vibe. I didn't reply. I just kept filing the evidence: the flyer, the Venmo, the guest list. I wasn't going to talk them out of it. I was going to let their own choices be the hand that slapped them awake. 2 Madison’s talent wasn't just being pretty; it was her ability to package her own greed as a communal struggle for "freedom." She posted a long paragraph in the group chat after I left. One of my few friends, a girl named Sophie, sent me the screenshot. "I know some people think this party is 'shady,'" Madison wrote. "But we’ve graduated. We’re adults. Are we really going to live our lives based on what other people think? This isn't for me. It’s for all of us. I want us to remember this summer forever." She had successfully cast herself as the revolutionary, and me as the oppressive regime. "Ignore her, Madi," someone replied. "She’s been a control freak since freshman year." "Audrey, if you’re not coming, fine. Just don't ruin it for the rest of us." Then, Jackson called. I hit speaker and started a voice recording on my laptop. "Audrey, what the hell is wrong with you?" his voice boomed. "You used to be cool." "What was I, exactly?" I asked calmly. "You cared about the class! You looked out for people." "I am looking out for someone," I said. "Myself." Jackson went quiet for a moment, caught off guard. Then he lowered his voice, trying a different tactic. "Madison is under a lot of pressure, okay? Her parents are strict, and she just wanted one night to go wild before college. Why do you have to target her?" "How am I targeting her?" I asked. "By saying no?" "By making her look bad! It’s disrespectful." "Her ego isn't my responsibility, Jackson." He let out a frustrated growl. "Audrey, stop being so stuck-up. Everyone is going. You’re going to be the only one left out. Do you really want that?" "Did you know there are two seventeen-year-olds on that list?" I asked. Silence. Then, dismissively: "So? It’s a few months. It's not like we're doing anything illegal." "Then why is it called an 'Adults-Only' party? Why are there mystery boxes? Why is there a private livestream link?" Jackson’s voice turned sharp. "Stop making it sound so dirty. It’s just a game. Madison said there’s a 'hype crew' and some big donors who want to support the stream. It’s just a party." Because I wasn't fighting him, he kept talking. He was digging his own grave and Madison’s right along with it. "Why would 'big donors' give money to a bunch of high school grads?" I asked softly. "They like the energy! People with money spend it on weirder things. It’s just a way to fund the booze and the venue." "And after they spend the money? What do they get?" "Why do you care so much?" he snapped. I looked at the sound waves on my laptop. "Jackson, are you sure tonight is safe?" "I’m sure," he said. "If anything happens, I’ll take the heat. I promise." "Good," I whispered. "I’ll remember that." I hung up and backed up the recording. Madison posted a final update in the chat: 8:00 PM. The Apex Lounge, Penthouse A. $100 per person. Covers drinks, 'party favors,' and the stream access code. Bring your IDs. We have to verify everyone is 'adult' at the door. I stared at the word verify. Someone asked: What if I’m not eighteen yet? Madison’s reply was instant: Don’t ask that here. I’ll handle it at the door. She added a wink emoji. I screenshotted it. Seconds later, she deleted the message. Too late. I sent her a DM: Remove my name from the list. And tell the underage kids to stay home. She replied within seconds: Audrey, did you screen-record the chat? Why are you nervous, Madison? The 'typing' bubble appeared and disappeared for a full minute. Finally: I just want everyone to be happy. I didn't bother responding. People who want others to be happy don't sell their classmates to a livestream of 'big donors.' They don't use a girl’s graduation photo to promote a "Quiet Class President" reveal. I checked her Instagram. She’d posted a story: Entering the adult world with the whole class. In the corner of the collage was my school ID photo. Below it, the text: The Ice Queen is coming out to play tonight. The comments were already turning toxic. "I always knew the quiet ones were the wildest." "Can't wait for the stream." "How much for the private room access?" My hands shook, but not with fear. With rage. In my last life, I died thinking I was the problem. Now I saw the truth. They didn't want me there as a friend. They wanted me as a commodity. I saved everything—the story, the comments, the QR code for the stream. Then, I sent the final email to the precinct and the school board’s ethics committee. "I am reporting an organized event involving minors, non-consensual use of likeness for adult entertainment purposes, and illegal gambling/livestreaming. I have attached all records." I hit send.
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