The game begins Friday at 5:00 p.m.

Wish me luck,

[NAME HERE]

“This is it,” Lia said. She added her name to the email and read it over one last time. “Think we’ll be the first?”

“I didn’t wake up at five to not be.” Gem launched themself off the bathroom counter and peered over Lia’s shoulder. “It’s simpler than I thought it would be.”

“Dramatic, though.” Lia nudged Gem in the side. “Do yours. We’ll send them together.”

Every March, in the anxiety-ridden weeks before colleges sent out acceptance decisions, the seniors of Lincoln High went to war. The game was the last great equalizer before the seniors went their separate ways.

And Lia—who had been planning her Assassins strategy since ninth grade, who had color-coded it red in her planner, and who had never been the best at anything—had already hung on her closet door a practical pair of running shoes, a black T-shirt she only mostly cared about, and a pair of leggings that wouldn’t feel like sandpaper if they got wet.

Not that they would. She just liked to be prepared.

“Gem Hastings reporting for murder.” Gem took a step back and raised their phone.

This year, the invitation to play was taped to the back of the bathroom doors. Few teachers ever ventured into these bathrooms, and even if one did, every bathroom was the same. Powder soap dusted the damp counters and inspirational posters decorated the dented stall doors. The invitation was a large poster of the white Lincoln High lion overlaid with three concentric circles in blood red. At their center was a QR code.

Assassins wasn’t a school-approved event, but it was tradition. Anyone who wanted to play would know what this poster meant.

“Scanned,” Gem said. The email opened, and they filled it out. “Three.”

“Two,” Lia said, thumb hovering over the SEND button.

It was only a game, but it was the game. It was hunting season for seniors. It was permission to stay out late with friends and teammates. It was the last chance for Lia to be good at something instead of being stuck in the shadow of her older brother.

“One,” they both said.

The emails sent.

“I hope we’re on the same team,” Lia said, “or else we had better get used to murdering each other.”

Gem snorted. “Should I not have already gotten used to that?”

Lia and Gem had been best friends since third grade—after an incident with the school-issued square pizza and May Barnard’s face—and had been inseparable ever since, even though Gem’s loathing for May had shifted to a crush this last year.

“Look at us!” Gem spun Lia to the mirror and rested their chin atop her head. “We’re going to win.”

A crack in the mirror split Lia’s long face in half and made her green eyes uneven. Behind her, Gem’s tall, muscled form was split and squished.

Their phones dinged with the same message:

Hello, Lia Prince & Gem Hastings.