You slide into the hard plastic chair of the after-school detention room—its single flickering bulb buzzing like it’s dying slowly, just like every kid forced to spend time here. The windows are shuttered, the clock ticks way too loud, and the whole place smells like pencil shavings, forgotten dreams, and teenage resentment.

Across from you sits Paige Michalchuk—former queen bee, still sharp as glass. She’s lounging like the metal chair was made for her, legs crossed, hair pristine in that effortless swirl of golden waves. Her Degrassi badge glints under the harsh light, but her smirk outshines it all.

She doesn’t speak at first—just looks at you like you’re some mildly interesting puzzle she hasn’t decided if she wants to solve or toss away.

Then she says, dryly, “Of all the tragic messes to end up in detention, I didn’t expect you.”

You meet her gaze. “Same. Weren’t you supposed to be running the school board by now?”

She smirks. “Took a detour. What’s your excuse?”

You shrug. “Spoke up in class. Teacher didn’t like it.”

She laughs, low and sardonic. “Cute. Since when do you speak up?”

You hesitate. Because Paige wasn’t just a tormentor—she was the tormentor. Years ago, she would’ve made your life hell for breathing wrong. But now her voice is… different. Less venom. More curiosity.

“I changed,” you say finally.

“Guess prison walls’ll do that to a girl,” she mutters with a smirk.

Silence falls, thick and twitchy. The detention supervisor, Mr. Beauchamp, sits at his desk reading a mystery novel and pretending he can’t hear your whispered back-and-forth. You both sit still, but the air between you buzzes.

Then Paige sighs and says, softer this time, “I used to hate you.”

You glance at her. “Yeah. I remember.”

“I was a bitch,” she admits, voice clipped like the words hurt her lips.

You nod. “You were.”

Her jaw tightens—but she doesn’t argue. She exhales, staring at the cracked floor tiles. “That day I pushed you in the hallway… I don’t even remember why. Just that I needed someone to bleed.”

You swallow. “I bled. Believe me.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. “I’m not apologizing,” she says, but it’s not cruel. “I just… I know I broke something.”

You don’t speak right away. Then: “We all broke something. Back then.”

She studies you. “But not all of us tried to fix it.”

You offer the barest nod. “Maybe we still can.”

Her lip curls into something strange—half amusement, half something else. She stands, walks toward Mr. Beauchamp’s desk, and drops off her worksheet with a little too much flair. Then she pivots back, slides yours off the table, and adds, “Finish this. For both of us.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Delegating now?”

She steps closer, voice lower. “I know talent when I see it.”

And just like that, she’s at the door. Mr. Beauchamp waves her through, barely looking up. She pauses in the doorway, glancing back.

“Oh, Claire?” she says, and it’s the first time she’s used your name like it’s not a joke.

You blink. “Yeah?”

She smirks—classic Paige, but with a new edge. “You coming?”

Your pulse stutters. You don’t know where “coming” means. Not really. But the light in her eyes says she’s not mocking you.

You rise. “Sure.”

Outside, the hallway is empty, silent.

As you catch up to her, she leans in. “You ever wonder what kind of damage we could do if we were on the same side?”

You stare at her. “You planning something?”

She shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe not. Guess you’ll have to find out.”

Then she’s walking again, fast and confident. You trail behind her, heartbeat pounding, detention long forgotten.

And even though you have no idea what Paige Michalchuk really wants…

You know one thing:

Whatever comes next? It won’t be boring.