Chapter Text
The Wiskayok High School girls’ locker room was a swirling cesspool of BO, hair gel, and a spiritual aura that could only be described as “unholy estrogen.” It was 3:42 PM on a Tuesday, and the Yellowjackets had just finished practice. Nationals was on the horizon, and Coach Martinez had screamed so hard his hairline receded by a mile.
“Nationals, bitches!” Jackie Taylor, team captain and high ponytail tyrant, shouted as she strutted into the locker room with a confidence as if she was being filmed for a Clueless spin-off. “We’re going to Nationals and none of you better fuck it up.”
Jackie slammed her locker shut with the power of a girl who peaked at sixteen but didn’t know it yet. Her smile was dazzling. Her tone was terrifying.
“God, Jackie, do you rehearse these speeches in the mirror, or do they just naturally sound like fascist propaganda?” Shauna asked, peeling off her sweaty jersey and glaring at nothing in particular.
“I wing it,” Jackie replied with a toss of her hair. “It’s called charisma, Shauna. Maybe you’d have some if you weren’t so busy scowling and dry humping my boyfriend behind the gym.”
Shauna froze. “I-what the fuck, Jackie?”
“Oh please,” Natalie said, snorting from the bench where she sat cross-legged, a cigarette dangling out the corner of her mouth. “Everyone knows. Even Misty knows, and she’s been surgically removed from human emotion.”
Misty popped up from behind a row of lockers like an unwanted jack-in-the-box.
“I don’t need emotions. I have surveillance,” she said cheerily. “Also, Jeff parks in the north lot at exactly 3:58 every day, and Shauna’s lip gloss matches his belt buckle. Coincidence? I think not.”
“Jesus Christ, Misty,” Van barked, clutching her towel around her and cackling. “Do you sleep here? Are you even a student?”
“I’m the equipment manager,” Misty said proudly, as though that explained anything. “I have every single player’s blood type on file.”
“Coolcoolcool,” Van muttered, eyes wide. “Time to change my identity and flee the country.”
“God sees everything,” Laura Lee chimed in from her locker, where she was neatly folding her jersey and humming a hymn. “Especially premarital sex and smoking.”
“Does he also see you illegally parking in the staff lot every morning?” Mari called, already halfway out of her uniform and into a crop top that read “Your Mom’s Favorite.” She lit a cigarette directly under the “NO SMOKING” sign. “Hypocritical much, Jesus Barbie?”
Laura Lee gasped. “I park there to be closer to the Lord.”
“Sounds like something a narc would say,” Mari muttered, flicking ash into her sock.
Lottie strolled in wearing oversized sunglasses, sipping from a can of Diet Coke like it was champagne. “Can someone tell Coach that if he makes us do suicides again, I will file a formal complaint with the Geneva Convention.”
“You say that every practice,” Natalie said.
“Yeah, and I’m building a case, Natalie,” Lottie replied. “Also, my legs are too toned for that much cardio. I’m not risking my thigh gap for Nationals. That’s where I store my self-worth.”
Everyone paused.
“I respect it, but holy shit let's have some body positivity up in here,” Van nodded solemnly.
Tai snorted, then quickly masked it with a cough. Van gave her a wink so exaggerated it was visible from space. Tai turned bright red.
“Subtle,” Shauna deadpanned.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Van said loudly, wrapping her towel tighter and suddenly pretending to be very into lacing her sneakers. “I’m totally into dudes. I love balls. And testicles. They call me the dick lord.”
“Gay,” Mari and Natalie whispered in unison.
“I am literally dating a man named…uh…Steve,” Van announced, eyes darting around. “He goes to another school. You don’t know him. He’s in…Canada.”
“Oh my god, Van, just make out with Tai already and spare us this heterosexual theatre,” Natalie groaned under her breath.
“Steve is real!” Van insisted.
“Sure he is, sweetie,” Lottie said, blowing on her nails. “He and my Canadian boyfriend Greg should totally hang out sometime.”
Akilah, who had been quietly feeding what might just possibly be a squirrel from her duffel bag, finally looked up. “Did anyone else see the raccoon in the parking lot wearing someone’s underwear?”
“That was mine,” Misty said without missing a beat. “We have an understanding.”
“Jesus fuck,” Mari muttered, sliding her sunglasses on despite the lack of sun.
Coach Martinez suddenly yelled from outside the door, “Let's gooooo, Yellowjackets! The bus leaves in five minutes!”
“Nationals, baby!” Jackie shouted again, rallying the girls like the commander of a chaotic, underfunded army.
They scrambled out of the locker room like a horde of hormonal gremlins: yelling, laughing, swearing, half-dressed and somehow invincible. If this was the team that would represent Wiskayok High School at Nationals… God help the rest of the country, or don’t. Honestly, God might just want to sit this one out.
✩✩✩
There are few things more cursed than a group of hormonally-charged high school girls being stuffed into a luxury jet together, supervised by two overworked adults, two random children, and zero emotional maturity. But hey, at least the snacks were fancy.
Lottie Matthews’ dad (CEO of something something finance) had decided to pull out all the stops and charter a private-flipping-plane to fly the Yellowjackets to Nationals in Seattle. Because, in Lottie’s words: “Commercial flying is for peasants and Kid Rock fans.”
The plane was absurd. Plush leather seats,a full snack bar, complimentary magazines that weren’t even sticky, and a flight attendant who looked like she wanted to die, but in a classy way.
“Holy shit,” Mari muttered as she boarded, shoving aside Laura Lee to get to the snack bar. “Do these pretzels have truffle salt? I didn’t even know truffle was real.”
“It’s like rich people MSG,” Natalie said, already pocketing three mini-bottles of vodka. “Don’t ask me how I know that.”
“Because you drink like your liver’s in fucking witness protection,” Shauna muttered, dropping into a seat next to the emergency exit and glaring out the window, possibly considering jumping.
Meanwhile, standing awkwardly near the front of the cabin were two boys the Yellowjackets knew very well. Mostly because their father dragged them to every single one of their games.
“Heyyy Javi!” Van waved, doing finger guns at the younger of the two, a twelve-year-old bundle of nerves in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles hoodie who seemed to curl into it as if he were a turtle.
“Hi,” Javi mumbled, gripping his Game Boy like it was a stress ball.
“Aw, he’s like our mascot,” Akilah cooed, already sitting next to him and asking if he liked raccoons.
“She’s gonna show him her spider collection,” Mari whispered to Natalie.
“Not a euphemism,” Natalie replied, shaking her head. “Probably.”
The other boy, tall, grumpy, and wrapped in a flannel (his emotional armour), grunted and dropped into a seat across the aisle, throwing his backpack down with the force of a thousand daddy issues.
“Hi Flex ,” Lottie sing-songed sweetly as she passed by, flopping into a seat like she was boarding a party bus.
Travis’s head snapped up. “Don’t fucking call me that.”
“Ooooh, touchy!” Van grinned. “What does it mean again? Is it like, ironic? Because you’re always hunched over like a sad little lumberjack?”
“I will set this fucking plane on fire,” Travis muttered, sinking lower in his seat and putting his headphones on.
At the front of the plane stood Coach Martinez, the head coach-slash-human megaphone, who was currently yelling into a clipboard.
“Seats! assigned seating! This isn't Aagoddamn party bus!” he bellowed. “And no mixing vodka with juice boxes, Natalie!”
“Then why’d you bring the vodka ones?” Natalie deadpanned.
“They’re not– oh for Christ’s sake,” he muttered.
Next to him stood Coach Benjamin Scott, assistant coach and local heartthrob, looking like a cross between a Banana Republic ad and a gay panic. The girls adored him. The boys were terrified of him, and the parents weren’t quite sure what to make of him, but they knew he smelled expensive.
Ben was adjusting his perfectly rolled sleeves and smiling nervously in the way a man who had been asked to supervise a zoo with no cages would.
“Alright, ladies,” Ben said gently, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Let’s keep the chaos to a dull roar today, yeah? We’re representing the school, and the state. And, you know, the general idea of human decency.”
Van grinned. “Coach, sweetie, the only thing we represent is some form barely-contained psychological warfare.”
“I’m choosing not to process that,” Ben replied with a tight smile. “Also, if you see any of my protein bars, do not eat them. That means you, Misty.”
Misty, who had somehow already found the cockpit, yelled from the front, “They were unmarked and poorly secured!”
“I have a lockbox for that reason!” Ben called back, eyes twitching.
Coach Martinez sighed and dropped into a seat next to Javi, who looked like he was trying to disappear into his hoodie. “This is what I get for dragging my kids on a cross-country trip with teenage girls.”
“You brought them because your wife doesn't deserve to handle them for the week,” Ben muttered under his breath.
“Shut up.” Martinez snapped.
Ben smirked, fluffing a travel pillow with delicate frustration. Travis didn’t say a word, just tightened his flannel like a straightjacket and glared out the window.
“Hey, Flex,” Mari called across the aisle. “You cold? Or are you just emotionally repressed?”
Travis flipped her off.
“Still got it,” Mari smirked, high-fiving Van.
As the plane taxied down the runway, Jackie stood up (against FAA regulations) and shouted, “Yellowjackets, this is it! Nationals or death!”
“Pretty sure those aren’t mutually exclusive,” Shauna muttered.
“Hell yeah!” Natalie yelled, holding up a stolen vodka bottle like it was a trophy.
“I’m praying for all of you,” Laura Lee announced, holding a tiny travel Bible with a false hope that it could deflect whatever fresh hell was coming. As the plane took off and the girls cackled in chaos, Coach Ben Scott quietly put in his headphones, leaned back, and softly whispered to himself:
“One week. Just one week.”
He looked out the window, then back at the shrieking disaster zone behind him, and added under his breath,
“...I miss musicals.”
✩✩✩
The luxury cabin Lottie’s dad rented looked less like a “cabin” and more like a house that would get featured on MTV Cribs. It was enormous. Three stories, probably, all-wood interior, a hot tub the size of a small pond, and a moose head mounted above the fireplace that looked like it had seen some shit.
“I swear to God,” Mari said, dropping her duffel bag onto a leather armchair like she owned the place, “if this cabin doesn’t have cable, I’m going back to New Jersey and suing Lottie’s dad for emotional distress.”
“It has satellite,” Lottie said, already twirling in the foyer. “And it picks up Italian MTV. You're welcome.”
“Italian MTV?” Shauna asked, eyeing the chandelier like it might fall on her and end her suffering. “Does that mean we’ll finally get to see Nirvana in a pasta commercial?”
“Grazie, Lithium,” Natalie added in her best fake accent, flicking a cigarette ash into a vase that was probably worth more than Coach Martinez’s car. Speaking of Martinez, he was already screaming from the back hallway.
“No shoes on the cedar floors! Whose Monster Munch is all over the entryway?!”
Javi tried to hide a trail of cheesy footprints with his sock. Travis just shoved past everyone, flannel flapping in the wind like an angry cape. “This place smells like shit.”
“So, like you but more successful,” Van muttered.
“Fuuuuuuuuuck off, Van,” Travis growled, disappearing upstairs.
Van grinned and flopped onto the enormous couch, legs splayed, chewing gum with the enthusiasm of someone who knew she was going to start shit before breakfast.
Ben Scott, meanwhile, stood in the middle of the living room holding a decorative throw pillow and looking deeply confused.
“Why is this filled with...lavender?” he muttered, squinting at the tiny tag.
“Because it’s for aesthetics, Coach,” Lottie said, already raiding the fully-stocked kitchen. “Also, this place has a fondue fountain. I don’t even like fondue, but I respect the luxury.”
“Is this the fridge or a gateway to Narnia?” Misty asked, peering into the Sub-Zero unit like it might offer her immortality.
Ben carefully began rearranging the throw pillows by colour. Then by shape, and then by emotional resonance, apparently. Van stared, then slowly turned her head to Tai.
“Dude,” she whispered, eyes narrowing, “Coach Ben is so gay.”
Tai raised an eyebrow. “What, because he’s fluffing pillows?”
“No. Because he’s fluffing pillows with intention. Plus did you see the way he was looking at Danny Tanner on the TV?”
Tai snorted. “You have a sixth sense for this, don’t you?”
Van nodded solemnly. “The Gaydar is strong.”
“Okay, but what if he’s just metro?”
“Tai. This man just asked if the light fixtures were original Craftsman style .”
“...Shit,” Tai admitted. “You might be onto something.”
Van smirked. “Wanna make it interesting?”
“Oh God.”
“I bet you twenty bucks he’s gay.”
Tai crossed her arms. “And if he’s not?”
“You tell everyone about our relationship.” Van grinned, already knowing she had this in the bag.
Tai froze. “...You play dirty.”
“I am dirty,” Van whispered, winking. “And possibly going to hell.”
“That’s Laura Lee’s line,” Tai muttered.
Meanwhile, Ben had moved on to adjusting a floor vase. He paused, looked around to make sure no one was watching, then literally pirouetted to the other side of the room to grab a matching one for balance.
Van pointed with both hands like she was landing a plane. “Boom.”
Back in the kitchen, Natalie had discovered a wine rack and was halfway into a bottle of something labeled in Italian.
“What’s this taste like?” she asked Lottie.
“Like a rich man’s midlife crisis.”
“Mmm. Fruity.”
Laura Lee clutched her Bible tighter. “We haven’t even been here an hour and someone already said ‘fondue fountain’ in a sexual tone.”
“That was me,” Van called from the couch. “And I meant it.”
Coach Martinez stormed in, holding Javi under one arm and a soggy granola bar in the other.
“I’m gonna go lie down,” Martinez mumbled, releasing Javi and disappearing like a war ghost.
Ben, now lighting a scented candle labeled “Autumn Fog,” sighed happily. “This is going to be such a lovely bonding experience.”
Van stared.
“I swear to God, Tai. If this man isn’t gay, I’ll eat some of Travis’s flannel.”
“Deal,” Tai said, trying not to laugh.
The Yellowjackets were already plotting who got the biggest room, who was sleeping with whom, and whether or not they could turn the fondue fountain into a vodka dispenser. Nationals hadn’t even started, and they were already a threat to national security.