It started in biology class.

You were barely paying attention—bored, tired, doodling in your notebook—when your hands began to heat up. Not metaphorically. Not a “burning feeling.” Literal steam poured off your palms. The water in the petri dish bubbled. The air crackled. Wind rushed past your ears. And then—

The earth beneath your lab table cracked open, right between the floor tiles.

You bolted. Out the door, past the confused screams, and down the hall like your body wasn’t entirely your own. You didn’t stop running until you hit the edge of town, lungs burning and eyes wide with panic.

That’s where she found you.

She dropped from the sky in a flash of blue and gold, her staff glowing with warmth you didn’t expect. Stargirl. In the flesh. She landed ten feet away, arms raised like you were a wild animal about to bolt.

“You okay?” she asked. Her voice was calm. Grounded. Real.

“I—I think I set off a hurricane in Mr. Zeller’s class,” you blurted.

She smiled. “Yeah. We should probably talk about that.”

A few hours later, you found out Stargirl was Courtney Whitmore. Yes, your chemistry partner—the girl who borrowed your notes, made corny jokes about pH balance, and could fly.

She brought you to the Justice Society headquarters, where everything smelled like old leather and ozone. You sat through what felt like a superhero interview. They called it an “orientation.” You called it surreal. You expected them to turn you away.

But then came the test.

A runaway car downtown. Screaming pedestrians. And you, scared out of your mind, somehow raising a wall of rock and water to stop the crash before it happened.

You saved a life. Your first.

Courtney hugged you after. No hesitation. No distance. Just warmth and pride.

“See?” she said, grinning up at you. “You’re one of us.”

In the weeks since, everything changed. Courtney helped you pick a codename. She stayed after training sessions until you mastered the fire jets without scorching your boots. She stitched your first costume herself, proud as hell to see you wear it.

You still sit beside her in chemistry, sharing textbooks and answers. But now, when she nudges your arm and whispers a dumb pun under her breath, there's a new weight behind it. Shared secrets. Late-night missions. The bond of people who’ve saved lives together.

“You’re getting better every day,” she said last night after patrol, bumping your shoulder with hers. “One day, you’ll probably be leading the team.”

You snorted. “Sure. Right after I stop melting test tubes.”

She just winked. “Hey, it’s chemistry. We’ve got that.”