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Author's Note: So I decided that this is technically the next week, seeing as I posted the last one on Saturday. I almost decided to wait until this Saturday but I felt the first chapter could good traction. Thanks to everyone for that by the way. This chapter progresses the story along, finally getting to the incident. I can also confirm that this is part 2 of 5. I spent some time yesterday breaking down the story into 5 parts. Some might be shorter or longer than the others but it works out in the end. I can also say that the second story I'm working on is going to be longer. Please don't forget to provide comments or feedback :D.
 

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2.

Shit, Jason was one of the fast ones then. It was all over the Internet. There were some like Jason who contracted the virus and changed quickly.

The silence between them stretched long enough that Tyler could hear the faint tremor in Callie's exhale—like she was holding herself together by sheer willpower. He pressed his palm flat against the bed, the comforter soft and relaxing. "Are you..." He swallowed hard, suddenly unsure what to ask. Are you scared? Are you safe?

"I'm good," she finally said. "Jason was in Seattle last weekend. Family reunion. I haven't seen him since Friday, the night before he left"

That was a relief at least.

His thoughts were interrupted by a text from Benny:

*Second Ridgewood victim is Tori Bishop*

The name "Tori Bishop" flashed on Tyler’s screen like a warning. His thumb hovered over Benny’s text, the letters blurring slightly as his pulse kicked up. Tori—varsity cheer captain, Kayla’s sometimes-friend, the girl who’d laughed when Jason shoulder-checked him last fall. Now she was Patient Zero at Ridgewood High.

Tyler’s fingers froze over his phone screen. Tori Bishop. The name ricocheted through his skull like a pinball. He'd seen her just yesterday in the hallway, tossing her ponytail over one shoulder as she whispered something that made Kayla snort-laugh into her locker. Now she was—what? Changing? Already changed? His stomach lurched at the mental image: Tori’s cheerleader-perfect frame molding into something harder, muscles, broad shoulders.

"Tori is the other one," he said softly to Callie.

The line went dead silent. Tyler could hear Callie’s shallow breaths—too controlled, like she was counting them. Then, barely audible: "Kayla was with Tori at lunch yesterday."

Tyler grunted. "She was in the hall with lots of us yesterday."

Was his sister ok? Was he ok? Was anyone ok?

"Cal, I'll call you later ok" he said and hung up before she could respond.

He spent a lot of time thinking about what any of this even meant. He sat in his room, alone with his thoughts for hours. If Tori was sick then half the school was by this point? His heart was pounding, everything was terrifying.

Before dinner, Benny called again.

"False alarm dude" he said, relieved. "Tori was just looking for clout. She was full of shit Got her expelled. Kicked off the squad. Her parents are pissed."

Tyler let out a shaky breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The tension seeped out of his shoulders like air from a punctured tire. "Are you fucking serious?" His voice came out sharper than intended—half-relief, half-exasperation.

Tyler stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, pressing his fingertips against the smooth skin beneath his jawline. No fever. No swelling. Nothing. The rational part of his brain knew Tori’s false alarm changed nothing—the Bug was still real, Jason was proof—but his lungs expanded easier now, as if someone had loosened the vice around his ribs. He splashed cold water on his face just to feel something besides the lingering static in his nerves.

Tyler's fingers left damp streaks on his phone screen as he tapped out a message to Callie—*False alarm on Tori*—then hesitated before adding, *Benny says she was lying for attention.* The words looked flimsy even as he sent them, like a Band-Aid on a bullet wound. The bathroom light buzzed overhead, too bright, making his reflection look pale and washed-out. He rubbed at his cheekbone absently, half-expecting the skin to feel different under his fingertips.

The clatter of silverware against plates echoed louder than usual in the too-quiet kitchen. Tyler pushed his mashed potatoes into a sad little crater, watching the gravy pool in the center like a microscopic lake. Across the table, his mom stabbed at her chicken with mechanical precision, her fork tines scraping against ceramic with each bite. The absence of Kayla's dramatic sighs and their dad's terrible puns made the room feel cavernous—like they were two survivors at the end of the world, chewing through their last meal before the apocalypse.

"You okay?" His mom's voice cut through the silence, softer than the fluorescent lights humming above them. She didn't look up from her plate when she said it, as if asking the question to her green beans instead of him.

Tyler shrugged, then realized she wasn't watching. "Yeah. Just tired." The lie tasted bland on his tongue, same as the overcooked broccoli. He could've told her about Callie's panic, Benny's hysterical texts, Jason's... transformation. Instead, he watched a single pea roll off his fork and onto the tablecloth, where it left a tiny damp spot.

"Jason was on the news," his mother added.

Tyler’s fork clattered onto his plate. The sound was deafening in the silent kitchen. "What?" His voice cracked like he was thirteen again. His mother finally looked up, her eyebrows knitting together at his reaction.

Tyler's mother set her fork down with deliberate slowness, her eyes never leaving his face. "They interviewed his parents," she said, her voice unnervingly calm. "On Channel 4. About an hour ago." A pea rolled off her plate as she spoke, joining Tyler's abandoned one on the tablecloth like some bizarre vegetable solidarity movement.

The pea stared up at Tyler like a tiny green eye. His mother’s words hung between them—Jason Whittaker, once untouchable, now reduced to a news segment sandwiched between weather updates and a car commercial. Tyler’s fingers twitched toward his phone in his pocket. "What did they say?" he asked, aiming for casual and missing by a mile.

His mother's fingers tapped a nervous rhythm against her water glass. "They didn’t show him. Just—his parents talking about how fast it was. Hours. Hours to turn their son...They kept saying ‘he’ but..." Her voice trailed off, eyes darting to the stairs where Kayla’s music still thumped faintly.

Tyler instinctively grabbed his mother's shaking hands.

Tyler's mother squeezed his fingers so tight the knuckles popped. "They showed his—her—hands," she whispered. "Just for a second. The camera zoomed in while she was holding her mother's." Her thumbnail dug into Tyler's palm. "The nails were painted lavender. It was a good shade on her..."

"I'm not very hungry" Tyler finally admitted, then excused himself.

Back in his room, he decided to do some research on The Bug.

Tyler's laptop screen cast a sickly blue glow across his face as he scrolled through forums with names like BugWatch and TransitionTruth. The official CDC site offered sterile bullet points—fever, muscle aches, rapid but painless physiological changes—but the comment sections beneath each post told darker stories. Users named SurvivorGirl17 and FormerDudeNowCutie described phantom limb syndrome for lost masculinity, of waking up screaming when their new bodies didn't match muscle memory.

What he really wanted to know about were the rumored mental changes.

The screen flickered as Tyler clicked on a thread titled Personality Changes: Myth or Reality? His pulse hammered against his ribs as he skimmed through firsthand accounts—people claiming The Bug rewired their preferences overnight, altered their laughter patterns, even shifted their handwriting. One user insisted they'd gone from hating strawberries to craving them daily.

He ignored those. He wanted to know about the real, "scary" shifts.

Tyler’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, the cursor blinking mockingly on a thread titled "The Bug Doesn’t Just Change Your Body—It Changes Your Head Too". He started at the top and scrolled down.

The first post was from someone called NeuroShiftConfirmed—all caps, typos littering the text like breadcrumbs of panic. IT CHANGES HOW YOU THINK, it screamed. I USED TO HATE ROMCOMS NOW I CRY AT THE TRAILERS. MY FRIENDS SAY MY LAUGH SOUNDS DIFFERENT. I DONT FEEL LIKE ME.

Tyler’s breath fogged the screen as he leaned closer, scrolling past NeuroShiftConfirmed’s frantic posts. The next reply was calmer, clinical almost—a user named MedStudentMaybe dissecting reported cognitive changes with bullet points. "No evidence of altered core personality," they wrote. "But subtle shifts in emotional processing and sensory preferences are common. Think puberty 2.0—just faster and weirder."

It was the third user that drew his interest the most, one called GirlyGirl.

The username GirlyGirl glowed ominously on the screen. Tyler’s throat tightened as he read her post:

GirlyGirl's post was timestamped three days ago—just before Jason vanished. "It’s like someone flipped a switch in my brain," she’d written. "One minute I’m arguing about football stats with my brother, the next I’m crying because the way sunlight hit my bedroom wall was ‘too pretty.’ My mom says I even walk different now—less slouch, more hips. And the weirdest part? It doesn’t feel wrong. It feels like I was always supposed to be this way."

She described more quirky things.

The screen blurred as Tyler scrolled further down GirlyGirl’s post history—each entry is a timestamped fracture in someone’s identity. A month ago, her profile pic---BassRat--- had been a blurry shot of a bass guitar propped against a skateboard. Now it was a close-up of glossy lips blowing a bubblegum bubble, filter-drenched and unapologetically pink.

Her earliest posts read like any other teenage boy—grumbling about gym class, bragging about beating Dark Souls without healing. Then, sandwiched between memes about The Bug and a rant about his—her?—mom’s cooking, the shift began.

Day 1 post-fever read the timestamp. "Woke up craving strawberry ice cream??? I hate sweet shit wtf." The next entry, six days later: "Why does my hoodie feel scratchy now. Everything feels wrong." 2 weeks later, GirlyGirl was posting selfies with the caption "Why do I kind of slay with my hair like this??"—the strands tousled in a way that looked accidental but Tyler suspected was painfully deliberate.

She was pretty, real pretty and she was wearing a pink top so tight her new boobs were practically spilling out of it.

Tyler's fingers hovered over the image, zooming in on the transformation—the softened jawline, the way her collarbones now dipped into delicate hollows where muscle used to bulge. The pink crop top clung to curves that definitely hadn’t been there in her profile’s older skate park pics. Her caption—"Guess who finally filled out her favorite new top "—had 4K likes and counting.

Her bio had changed too. Formerly a BassRat. Now I'm Bugged & Loving It , followed by a rainbow emoji and a link to her new TikTok. Tyler clicked without thinking. The first video loaded—GirlyGirl twirling in slow motion, her skirt flaring as she blew a kiss to the camera. "POV: You wake up hotter than your bully," the text overlay read. The comments were a minefield of thirst traps and horror—"Wife material" sandwiched between "This is dystopian".

Tyler felt sick to his stomach.

The room spun—or maybe that was just his head. He pressed his palms against his closed eyelids until neon shapes bloomed in the darkness, trying to erase the image of GirlyGirl’s smug wink.

The laptop screen dimmed to black as Tyler slammed it shut harder than intended. His breath came too fast, nostrils flaring against the stale air of his bedroom. Outside, Kayla’s music had finally stopped—replaced by the rhythmic thump of her doing god-knows-what against their shared wall. Probably some TikTok dance. The normalcy of it grated against his nerves like sandpaper.

He went to bed that night with too many jumbled thoughts.

Tyler woke with the taste of stale panic still clinging to his tongue. He kicked off the sweat-damp sheets, his bare feet hitting the carpet with a thud that felt too loud in the heavy silence. The house hummed with the kind of quiet that made his skin itch. He needed air. Now.

His Mom was in the kitchen, eyes glued to the screen.

The news report finally talked about the second *real* Ridgewood victim. It was some girl named Beth he didn't know. A freshman.

"Mom, I'm climbing the walls" he groaned, hoodie already on, sneakers in hand. "I need to take a walk"

"Your sister hasn't gotten out of bed yet" she muttered, still staring at the TV. A mug of untouched coffee sat in front of her, gone cold. Tyler hesitated—something about her posture, the rigid way her fingers gripped the counter’s edge—made him pause.

"Have you slept?" he asked, concerned.

She ignored the question. "Don't go too far and keep your phone on at all times"

Tyler hesitated, then pulled her into a quick, tight hug. She smelled like stale coffee and stress-sweat. When he pulled back, she didn't meet his eyes—just nodded toward the door.

This new normal was starting to terrify him.

The morning air hit Tyler like a slap—too crisp, too bright. He found himself walking in the direction toward Callie's house, he wasn't sure why.

Tyler’s sneakers scuffed against cracked pavement as he turned onto Maple Street, the rhythmic crunch of gravel the only sound in the unnatural quiet. Normally, this stretch buzzed with morning joggers and dog walkers—now it felt like a ghost town. He pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, suddenly hyperaware of the empty swings creaking in the playground to his left.

Was the virus really scaring everyone like this?

It was one thing for teenagers to run scared but everyone else?

He shook his head. It was kind of silly. After all, only teenagers were affected. Not only that, adults and children couldn't even carry the virus. So all this sheltering in place nonsense was unnecessary.

Tyler rounded the corner onto Callie’s street just as the first raindrops splattered against his forehead. The sky had been clear ten minutes ago—now it hung low and bruise-purple, like the weather couldn’t make up its mind either. He picked up his pace, passing identical ranch houses with drawn blinds, until Callie’s came into view—the one with the chipped blue mailbox and the sagging porch swing where they’d shared their first (and last) awkward kiss in seventh grade.

Callie Marshall, the Girl Who Got Away.

They were never an official couple but he was lying if he said he didn't want it. He was certain she wanted it too. But he was too much of a coward to act on his feelings and Jason swooped in before he knew it. Then all he could do was standby and watch as the Asshat controlled her life. It really pissed him off but the Whitakers were town "royalty". Jason's Mom was the Mayor, his Dad owned a real estate empire. Jason was raised with the belief that what he wanted, he got.

Tyler lost Callie even before the "fight" began.

Tyler's fist hovered an inch from Callie’s front door, knuckles tingling with indecision. The rain had escalated from a drizzle to torrential downpour in the time it took him to cross her yard. Water dripped from his hoodie strings as he inhaled sharply and gently knocked.

When the door finally opened, Callie's Mom was standing there.

"Tyler?" she asked, surprised. She was stunned for a moment until she took in his dripping wet form. "You're drenched. Get inside before you catch a cold"

He nodded as she stepped aside to let him in. "Hi Mrs. M" he said with a smile.

The familiar scent of cinnamon and laundry detergent hit Tyler as he stepped inside, his sneakers squeaking on the hardwood. Mrs. Marshall's eyes darted past him toward the empty street, her fingers tightening around the doorframe. "Callie's upstairs," she said, voice too bright. "She hasn't been sleeping well." The unspoken *since Jason* hung between them like a cobweb.

Tyler wiped his shoes extra carefully on the mat—a habit drilled into him after years of visiting the Marshalls' immaculate home. The embroidered tigers snarling up at him from the doormat were a gift from Callie’s halmeoni, according to Mrs. Marshall, who always pronounced the Korean word for grandmother with deliberate care, like she was balancing a precious heirloom on her tongue.

From the kitchen, the rhythmic chop-chop of a knife against wood echoed. Mr. Marshall stood at the counter, sleeves rolled up to reveal the faded ink of his old Marine tattoo as he julienned scallions with military precision. The air smelled like roasting garlic and the faintest hint of gochujang—a scent Tyler had come to associate with comfort until today, when it just reminded him how many meals Callie had shared with Jason while he lurked awkwardly at the periphery.

The creak of the stairs made Tyler look up just as Callie rounded the landing—barefoot, her toenails painted a chipped lavender that matched Jason's in the leaked photo. She wore an oversized Ridgewood High hoodie that Tyler recognized as Jason's, the sleeves swallowing her hands whole. Her hair—usually sleek and straight—tumbled in messy waves around her face, like she'd been running fingers through it for hours.

Mrs. Marshall pressed a mug into Tyler's hands—hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, his favorite since sixth grade—just as Callie froze mid-step. Her eyes locked onto Tyler with a rawness that made his pulse stutter. The hoodie's drawstrings swayed as she inhaled sharply, her knuckles whitening around the banister.

"You're here" she finally said.

He shrugged. "My feet brought me"

The silence stretched between them like a rubber band pulled too tight. Callie's fingers twitched against the banister, and Tyler found himself staring at the chipped lavender polish on her toes—same shade as Jason's now-delicate hands from the TV last night. The thought lodged in his throat like a fishbone.

"Why don't the two of you talk in the den" her mother suggested.

Callie's fingers twisted the hoodie drawstrings into tight spirals as she led Tyler into the den—the same room where they'd built pillow forts in elementary school and played spin-the-bottle in middle school. The familiarity of the space made the tension worse somehow, like seeing your childhood bedroom painted black. She perched on the edge of the sofa, knees pulled up under Jason's hoodie, while Tyler hovered near the bookshelf.

The den smelled like old paper and the vanilla-scented candle Callie always burned when she studied. Tyler traced the spine of a well-worn Harry Potter book—the one they'd read aloud to each other during the summer before eighth grade, voices cracking with laughter when they messed up the British accents.

"How are you holding up?" he asked after a long silence.

Callie’s fingers trembled as she pulled her phone from the pocket of Jason’s oversized hoodie. The screen flickered to life, casting a pale glow across her face. "I wasn’t going to show anyone," she whispered, voice cracking. "But it’s you. It’s always been you."

Tyler’s breath hitched as she turned the phone toward him. The image was crystal clear—no leaked Snapchat blur, no pixelated distortion. Just Jason Whittaker, transformed.

The girl he saw was drop dead gorgeous. She looked like she could be Jason's twin sister, if he had one.

Jason's face filled the screen—same sharp cheekbones but softened now, the angles rounded into something delicate. Her lips were glossy pink, slightly parted like she'd been caught mid-laugh, and her eyebrows—once thick and unruly—had been reshaped into perfect arches. The photo was casual, just a selfie taken in what looked like a bedroom, but everything about her screamed girl. Her hair fell in loose caramel waves over one shoulder, longer than Tyler remembered, with golden highlights that looked professionally done. A silver heart pendant rested in the hollow of her throat, drawing attention to collarbones that seemed more pronounced now, elegant.

She wore a cropped white tank top that showed off smooth, toned shoulders and—Tyler's stomach lurched—the unmistakable swell of breasts pressing against the fabric. The school mascot was tattooed there, the same one Jason had on his pec.. Her hands rested under her chin, fingers tipped with pearly nails that matched the lavender polish from the TV. The pose was effortlessly feminine, one knee drawn up to her chest, the curve of her thigh visible beneath denim shorts that looked painted on.

This was only after a few days. Tyler shuddered, thinking about GirlyGirl's posts from last night.

Shit.

Callie stuffed the phone back into the hoodie. "She calls herself Jasmine now. She called last night. We talked. Then she..." Callie was tearing up now.

Tyler instinctively pulled her into a hug. She cried with her head on his shoulder. It felt like old times but it didn't make things any easier.

When she finally stopped a few minutes later, she pulled away slightly, wiping her eyes. "Ty, I don't know if I can do this" She sniffled. "When I talked to hi–her, it was like a whole new person. She was bubbly and chatty and so damn nice I wanted to scream. Even when she broke up with me because 'duh, not a lesbo', I wasn't angry, I mourned the loss of my boyfriend."

‘Let's be honest,’ he thought but didn't dare say it, ‘it sounds like an improvement.’

"Shit, that's..." he started, but wasn't sure how to finish.

"Shitty," she finished for him. "This Bug is disgusting and scary and..." She sighed. "Messed up."

"Messed up?" he asked, confused.

"She's hot," Callie finally admitted. "I mean you..."

He did know. He was one of only a few people who did. Callie had confessed to him in 6th grade that she liked girls too. Not even her parents knew. It was also one of the key reasons he never asked her to be his girlfriend. It didn't weird him out but she was one of his best friends and he wanted her to find her own path. He just never thought it would lead her to Jason.

Callie laughed. "It’s also ironically stupid," She ran her fingers through her hair.

"What do you mean?"

Callie bit her lip. "Jason was gay. I was his beard."

Tyler blinked. The words hung between them like a bad punchline—Jason was gay. I was his beard. Rain lashed against the den windows as Tyler’s brain stuttered through the implications. Callie’s fingers twisted Jason’s—no, Jasmine’s—hoodie strings into knots.

"He came out to me over the summer before we dated," she whispered. "His parents would’ve lost their shit. Mayor Whittaker’s kid? In Ridgewood?" Her laugh was hollow. "So we faked it. And then the Bug made him into a girl who likes boys. The universe has a fucked up sense of humor."

Tyler stared at Callie, his mouth slightly open like a fish gulping air. The rain outside hammered against the windows in erratic bursts, matching the staccato rhythm of his thoughts. "So you two were never..." He gestured vaguely between them, unable to finish the sentence.

She shook her head. "I liked him a lot. Not at first, but he grew on me." She twisted the pull strings. "He's not an ass. That was all a tough guy macho act. He was actually really sweet. Even though we weren't real, he treated me like we were." She sighed again. "I fooled myself into thinking—"

Her train of thought stopped mid-sentence. She let out a puff of air and lowered her head. He rubbed her shoulder in an attempt to comfort her. Inside, his mind was a mess. Jason was gay and it wasn't a real relationship. All this time he could have...

"If it was fake, why was he so possessive?" he finally asked.

She shrugged. "Maybe some small part of him liked being a dick. I won't even pretend to understand some of his reasons."

Fair enough.

A moment after that, Mrs. Marshall came into the room. "Tyler, your mother called. Figured you might be here. She's worried. I think she wants you back home"

He left Callie's after that, but not before giving her a hug and promising to call later. The rain had stopped, thankfully, but the walk home still felt cold. He couldn't help but think of all the time he wasted not being more open with Callie. He felt robbed–not by her but by Jason. He knew it was selfish and stupid but a small part of him hated Jason even more now.

When he finally got back home, his mother hugged him tightly.

Back in his room, he texted Benny:

Went to Callie's. She showed me a pic of the new Jason.

Benny: And?

Tyler: Its some scary shit, dude

Benny: I don't care about that man. I wanna know if she's really hot. Last image was too blurry to tell for sure?

He groaned and didn't reply.

Things stayed pretty quiet on Friday. He spent most of his free time in his room gaming. Kayla spent most of her time sulking. Outside of gaming, the only other socializing was with Benny and Callie. Mostly through texts. It was nice to reconnect with Callie again, it sucked that something as horrible as The Bug had brought them back together, though. Talking to her was like old times.

By the time Saturday came around, he was practically crawling up the walls again.

He finally ventured out of his room to find Kayla in the living room, on the couch in sweats. When not trying to impress people, she was kind of a slob.

"Look who lives," he joked as he dropped onto the other end of the couch.

"Bite me," she snapped, without taking her eyes off some trashy reality show she was watching.

"Not sure I want to take the risk," he snarked back.

She gave him the finger. That was their relationship in a nutshell.

"So Jason was streaming last night," Kayla finally said, still not looking away from the TV. "Well, Jasmine, I suppose."

Since when did Jason Whittaker have any interest in streaming?

"You're serious?" he asked, she nodded. "That's crazy"

"It was kind of surreal, you know?" Kayla laughed. "Jason was an ass and Jasmine is...well, let's say she won't be winning a Nobel Prize.”

That scared the hell out of him. Jason might have been an ass but he was smart. One of the smarter guys in their year, actually.

Tyler pulled out his phone and googled it. It didn't take him long to find her stream.

The screen loaded with a burst of pastel pink and twinkling fairy lights. Jasmine—formerly Jason—sat cross-legged on what looked like a frilly bedspread, her caramel waves pinned back by those butterfly hairpins. She was mid-laugh at something off-camera, her glossy lips parting to reveal perfectly-aligned teeth. Her new larger assets bounced up and down as she laughed, barely concealed in a pink tank top.

Tyler was speechless. This was Jason Whittaker, former terror.

"OMG, you guyssss," Jasmine squealed, her voice several octaves higher than Tyler remembered. "I totes love the support. You're the best!" She clapped her hands together, her pearly pink nails glinting under the ring light. The chat scrolled furiously to her right, a blur of heart emojis and thirsty comments.

He read a lot of them. Most of it was trash, but some of it was from classmates who all seemed shocked at the transformation.

Jasmine pouted at the screen, tilting her head. "Nooo, I'm not taking requests for outfit changes. Perverts." She giggled, batting her eyelashes. "Unless you're cute. Then maybe." She winked.

Tyler shut off his phone, feeling queasy.

"Twilight Zone, am I right?" asked Kayla, who had been watching over his shoulder. "He asked me out once but I passed. I'm no one's beard.”

Tyler was shocked. "You knew?"

Kayla laughed. "Everyone knew. That boy was too put together".

Tyler wasn't sure what to say. When he finally spoke, his voice was low. "This virus is terrifying".

Kayla said nothing.

Tyler went back to his room and gamed until lunch, trying to distract himself again.

An hour later, Benny texted: Sierra Clark is throwing a big party tonight.

Tyler texted back: You're kidding?

Benny: She's calling it The Bug Bash.

Tyler groaned. Only Sierra would do something this stupid and reckless.

Benny: I'm thinking of going.

Tyler responded quickly: I'm thinking of having you committed.

Benny responded with an emoji giving him the finger.

Tyler sighed and tossed his phone on the bed. This was getting way out of hand.

The doorknob rattled at 10:47 PM—not the tentative twist of someone checking in, but the jerky panic of a mother who'd just found an empty bed where her daughter should be. Tyler barely had time to yank his earbuds out before his door burst open, revealing his mother silhouetted in the hallway light. One hand clutched her phone like it might dissolve. "Kayla's gone," she said, her voice stripped raw.

Shit.

Tyler scrambled upright as she thrust her phone at him. The screen displayed Kayla's hastily typed text: Gone to Sierra's. Don't wait up. Below it, a grainy Snapchat screenshot: Kayla grinning in Sierra's vanity mirror, her reflection haloed by neon party lights, and a red plastic cup dangling from her fingers. The timestamp read 9:22 PM.

Fucking Kayla.

"I need you to go and drag her back," his mother demanded.

Crap. Kayla so owed him.

Tyler’s sneakers hit the pavement hard as he jogged toward Sierra’s neighborhood, his hoodie flapping against his ribs in the humid night air. Ridgewood’s streets were unnervingly empty for a Saturday—no groups of kids loitering near the 7-Eleven and no cars cruising with windows down. There was only the occasional flicker of a TV through half-drawn blinds and blue light catching on the Bug-awareness flyers plastered to every telephone pole.

Sierra Clark’s house loomed like a wedding cake left out in the rain—three tiers of beige stucco and faux-stone accents, crowned with gaudy wrought-iron balconies that no one ever used. Tyler slowed to a walk as he turned onto her street, his lungs burning from the jog. Every driveway here was a mini car show—gleaming SUVs with dealer plates still on, one stupidly oversized pickup with tires taller than Kayla. The Whittakers might’ve been Ridgewood royalty, but the Clarks had bought their way into court.

He approached the front door, not expecting to get in. As soon as he rang the doorbell, the door was opened. Some girl he barely knew invited him in.

The bass hit Tyler like a physical shove as he stepped inside, the air thick with the cloying sweetness of cheap vodka and body spray. Sierra’s marble foyer had been transformed into a makeshift coat graveyard—puffer jackets and letterman’s sleeves tangled together in a heap, one stray Converse dangling from the chandelier. Someone had taped a laminated CDC warning about The Bug to the mirror, but it was already defaced with Sharpie mustaches and crude doodles of bugs with boobs.

He squeezed past a grinding couple in the hallway, their laughter drowned by the remix blasting from the living room. The kitchen was worse: a sweating jungle of red cups and sticky countertops, where a shirtless sophomore Tyler vaguely recognized from gym class was doing a keg stand to raucous cheers. A cluster of girls by the fridge squealed as he sprayed foam everywhere, their manicured hands clutching their phones like talismans. One of them—Lindsay Cho, maybe?—had glittery butterfly clips in her hair. The kind Jasmine wore in her stream.

He couldn’t find his sister though. There were too many people, too many bodies.

Finally, he grabbed the shoulder of some kid who shared Math with both him. "You seen my sister?" he asked loudly, trying to get him to hear him over the music.

"Basement," the kid shouted back and pointed toward a door.

The basement stairs groaned under Tyler’s weight, each step swallowing him deeper into a pulsing cave of neon and bass. Strobe lights sliced through the haze of vape smoke, catching the sweat-slick faces of dancers in freeze-frame glimpses—a girl tossing her hair, a guy wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and someone’s abandoned phone glowing on the carpet. The air smelled like spilled Mike’s Hard and that cheap vanilla body spray Kayla used to douse herself in before dates.

He squinted, trying to find his sister in the mass of bodies, but there was no such luck.

Annoyed, he pushed his way in. There were so many people bouncing and undulating to the music, it was like an orgy.

Tyler caught a flash of Kayla’s neon pink headband near the makeshift DJ booth and lunged forward—only for fingers to clamp around his wrist like a handcuff. The girl yanked him backward, his sneakers skidding on sticky basement tiles, and before he could process the whirl of glitter and perfume, her mouth crashed into his.

It was shocking, confusing, and–most of all–dangerous. He thought he saw a face, but couldn't be sure. He thought he saw butterflies, but it could have been a trick of a light. He definitely heard her whisper in his ear after the kiss, though.

"You're going to be so beautiful," she said seductively then she was done.

Wait, what?!

He quickly wiped his mouth, horrified.

Tyler stumbled back, his lips tingling from the stranger's kiss—no, not just tingling. Burning. He wiped his mouth again with the back of his hand, heart hammering against his ribs. The basement lights strobed, catching glimpses of grinning faces that didn’t seem to notice what had just happened. His wrist still pulsed where she’d grabbed him. "Who the hell—" he started, but the crowd had already swallowed her whole.

Tyler's fingers flew to his lips, rubbing them raw as if he could scrub away the phantom pressure of that kiss. His skin prickled with something worse than panic—an invasive warmth spreading from his mouth down his throat, like swallowing sunlight. The music throbbed around him, suddenly distorted, the bass notes punching his eardrums in slow motion.

*****

She saw him in the crowd. Her brother. For a moment, she thought she was seeing things. There was no way a dweeb like him would be here. Then she saw him stagger. She saw some girl disappear into the mosh, leaving Tyler alone. She was pissed. Mom sent him. The little nark. She was going to kick his ass so hard.

A moment later, Kayla was at his side.

"Ty, what the fuck?!" she said, grabbing his shoulder. "Did Mom send–?" As soon as she touched him, she knew something was wrong.

"She kissed me," he gasped, touching his lips.

"What?" asked Kayla, looking around. "Who kissed you?"

"Some girl… she… shit, Kay," he stammered.

Kayla stared at her brother. She was about to make some comment, some remark until she saw it. The look. There was pure terror in his eyes. Whatever animosity she had for him was gone in an instant. She snapped around, angry. Her heart was hammering in her chest. She looked around, frantic. Tyler was next to her, shaking. She snapped back around, he looked at her in a dazed stupor.

‘No, no, no.’

She took him by the arm and dragged him toward the stairs.

‘Shit. Double shit. Triple Shit.’

She dragged him up the stairs. Someone shouted her name, but she ignored them.

‘Mom is going to kill me.’

Author’s note: As I’m sure all of you know, comments are life blood to an author. I’m not begging or demanding, but I certainly would appreciate anything you have to say (or ask). It doesn’t have to be long and involved, just give me your reaction to the story. Thanks in advance...EOF