They Called Her “The Snake Girl,” but None of Us Knew What Lurked Beneath the Perfect Skin of Our All-American High School Queen

If you ask anyone from Maple Ridge High about my junior year, they never start with the football championship or the prom that got shut down early because someone set off the fire alarm.

They start with her.

The Snake Girl.

Back then her name was just another word on the attendance sheet. Adaora James. First day of school, third period English, transfer from “out of state.”

By Thanksgiving, nobody remembered what the year was like before her.

Maple Ridge, Colorado, was the kind of town that still argued about whether the Walmart had ruined Main Street, where the Dairy Freeze sign had been broken since forever, and where “high school drama” usually meant somebody’s boyfriend liking the wrong girl’s Instagram post.

I’d lived there all my life.

Nothing really changed.

Until she walked in.

Literally.

It was a Tuesday, late August. Third period. The air conditioning in Room 214 had given up sometime during the Bush administration, so the smell of sweat and dry-erase markers hung heavy over all thirty of us.

I was in my usual seat—second row, near the window. Perfect for daydreaming and pretending I was thinking Deep Literary Thoughts.

Mrs. Kline was halfway through her annual “Books Are Bridges to Other Worlds” speech when it happened.

The classroom door opened without a knock.

And she walked in.

For a second I thought the sun had come up two hours late, because that’s how bright it felt.

Girl was…ridiculous.

Skin like she’d never met a pimple in her life. Dark, smooth, glowing. Long black hair pulled into a low ponytail that somehow still looked expensive. Eyes sharp and bright, framed with lashes people on TikTok pay money for.

She smiled, just a little.

The room went quiet.

Not that fake, polite quiet when a principal walks in, either. Real quiet. Even the guys in the back who never shut up when Mrs. Kline is talking stopped mid-whisper.

“Ah,” Mrs. Kline said, recovering. “You must be our new student. Come in, come in. Class, this is…uh…” She checked the paper in her hand. “Ada…or…ah?”

“It’s pronounced Ad-ah-OR-ah,” the girl said smoothly. Her voice had this low, musical quality, like she could have done ASMR videos if she wanted. “But everyone just calls me Addy.”

“Well, welcome, Addy,” Mrs. Kline said. “Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?”

Every eyes-roll-in-unison detector in the room went off at once. We’d all suffered through the “fun fact about you” thing.

But Addy just smiled like she’d been waiting to be asked.

“I just moved here from Atlanta,” she said. “My mom got a job at the hospital. My dad’s…not in the picture anymore. I like science, especially biology, and I run track. And—” She flashed a grin that probably got people to agree to all kinds of things. “I’m really bad at icebreakers.”

Polite laughter.

I watched the room react.

Boys straightened in their chairs.

Girls did that automatic micro-scan: outfit (simple, black jeans and a green top that made her skin glow even more), hair (smooth edges, not a flyaway in sight), shoes (white sneakers somehow still white).

She wasn’t overdone, wasn’t trying too hard.

She didn’t have to.

She slid into the empty seat two down from me, near the middle.

Mrs. Kline went back to talking about metaphors, but nobody was listening.

I snuck another peek at Addy.

She caught my eye.

And smiled at me.

Something weird happened in my chest.

Not like a crush thing. More like…when you’re hiking and you realize you’ve stepped closer to the edge of the cliff than you meant to.

A strange little thrill.

---

By the end of the week, everyone knew her.

By the end of the month, they were talking about her like she’d always been there.

You couldn’t walk into the cafeteria without hearing her name.

“Dude, did you see Addy in P.E. today? She outran Carter on the track.”

“She’s in my chemistry class and Mr. Lewis asked her a question and she just knew the answer off the top of her head. Like, who does that without even reading the chapter?”

“She’s in choir too? Is that even fair?”

Teachers loved her.

“Wonderful insight, Miss James.”

“Excellent work on this lab, Adaora.”

“You have a very mature perspective for your age.”

Coaches loved her.

“She’s a natural,” Coach Simmons said about track. “Never seen footwork like that in a new kid. It’s like she’s gliding.”

Girls envied her, even when they liked her.

“I mean, she’s nice,” my friend Liv said one day at lunch, picking the cheese off her pizza slice, “but come on. It’s like God custom-built a main character and accidentally dropped her in our grade.”

Boys…yeah.

Every boy wanted her.

Jocks, band kids, straight-A nerds, the guy who wore a trench coat even in September—didn’t matter. They orbited around her like she was the sun and they were all just sad little planets.

And look, to be fair?

She wasn’t mean.

That’s what confused people.

If she’d been a stereotypical queen bee, it would’ve been easier. You’d hate her, she’d know it, boom, social order established.

But Addy was…kind.

She remembered names. She asked questions. She laughed at people’s dumb jokes, but not in a “I must pretend this is funny so you’ll worship me” way. In a genuine, “I see you” way.

I liked her.

A lot, actually.

Which made everything that happened later feel weirder.

Because I wasn’t supposed to think she was dangerous.

Not at first.

---

The nickname came long before the stories.

“Snake Girl.”

It started as a whisper in the girls’ locker room one day in October.

I was tugging on my hoodie after P.E., trying not to die of secondhand body spray, when two sophomores near me started talking.

“Did you see her eyes?” one hissed.

“Whose?” the other asked.

“Addy. In the bathroom. I swear, when the light hit them? It was like…slitted. Like a snake. Then it was gone.”

The other girl snorted. “You’re obsessed. She just has light reflecting off her contacts or something.”

“She doesn’t wear contacts.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she told Jared she doesn’t. And he would know.”

“Oh my God, you and this snake thing. What, you think she’s a shapeshifter or something?”

“I’m just saying. Something’s off about her. Nobody’s that perfect.”

I rolled my eyes.

Typical small-town rumor. Girl too pretty? Must be something wrong with her. Either she’s secretly a slut, secretly a bitch, secretly a…snake.

But the phrase stuck in my head.

Later that week, someone edited a photo of her on Instagram, giving her a forked tongue and photoshopped snake eyes. The caption said:

When she’s hot but she might actually eat you. 🐍

It got a ton of likes.

Addy commented three laughing emojis and a snake.

Everyone thought that was hilarious.

“See?” Liv said. “She’s cool. She doesn’t take it seriously.”

But some people…they didn’t think it was just a meme.

Whitney, the main cheerleader and unofficial queen of the junior class before Addy arrived, got really into it.

“I mean, she’s gorgeous,” Whitney said loudly at lunch one day, flipping her blonde hair, “but there’s something in her eyes, right? Like, I don’t know…cold. My mom says there are people who seem sweet but they’ll shed their skin and you find out who they really are.”

“Is your mom a poet now?” I muttered to Liv.

Whitney heard me.

“Watch it, Maya,” she said, arching a perfectly plucked brow. “Just because you’re her little shadow doesn’t mean you know everything about her.”

That stung.

Because yeah, by then, I kind of was.

---

I met Addy for real in October.

Like, actual conversation, not just “Can I borrow your notes?”

I was in the library, hiding from the pre-homecoming chaos in the hallway.

She slid into the seat across from me like she belonged there.

“Hey,” she said.

“Hey,” I said back, trying not to stare.

She nodded at the book in my hand.

“Stephen King,” she said. “Nice.”

I shrugged. “It’s for extra credit. Kline said we could do an author study.”

“Which one?” she asked.

“‘Carrie,’” I said.

Her eyes brightened.

“I love that one,” she said. “That shower scene? The way they turn on her? Brutal.”

“That’s the word,” I said.

She toyed with the edge of her notebook.

“You know what I never get?” she said. “Why none of them have any compassion. It’s like the whole town decides she’s weird and that’s that. No one looks at her like a person.”

I snorted softly.

“Welcome to Maple Ridge,” I said.

She smiled.

“Is it that bad?” she asked.

“Not usually,” I said. “We’re more ‘annoying’ than ‘evil.’ But this place loves its rumors.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I noticed.”

There was a flicker in her eyes then. A tiny shadow.

“About the…snake thing?” I asked before I could stop myself.

Her lips quirked.

“You mean my reptilian overlord agenda?” she asked. “Yeah, it’s hard to miss.”

Heat rushed to my cheeks. “Sorry, that was rude.”

“It’s fine,” she said. “Honestly? It’s better than some of the names I’ve been called.”

Something in her tone made my skin prickle.

“Like what?” I asked.

She tilted her head, studying me.

“You really want to know?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

She leaned in a little.

“Last school,” she said quietly, “someone spread a rumor that I’d hooked up with our math teacher to get my grade bumped.”

My stomach turned.

“What?” I said. “That’s…insane.”

“Yeah,” she said. “But that didn’t stop it from spreading. Everyone wants a story when a girl doesn’t fit in a box.”

She sat back.

“Snake Girl is practically a compliment,” she added. “At least that makes me sound powerful.”

I opened my mouth.

Closed it.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“For what?”

“That people suck,” I said.

She smiled.

It was smaller than usual, but more real.

“You don’t,” she said. “Thanks for asking instead of just…assuming.”

We spent the next hour talking.

About books. About weird teachers. About her life in Atlanta, my life stuck in a town that didn’t even have a real mall.

Her parents had divorced when she was ten, she told me. Her dad was somewhere in Florida with a new family. Her mom was a nurse practitioner, working crazy shifts at the hospital.

“You walk home alone a lot?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“I’m used to it,” she said. “We’ve moved a lot. New neighborhood, new school, same story.”

“I’ve never moved,” I admitted. “My house is five blocks from the hospital. Same ugly green paint since I was born.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she said. “Staying.”

“Isn’t it?” I asked.

She shook her head slowly.

“Not if you’re choosing it,” she said. “There’s power in staying. Snakes shed their skin, but they also know the value of a good hiding spot.”

It was a weird metaphor.

But the way she said it sent a little chill up my arms.

---

After that, we were…friends.

Kind of.

Addy made friends with everyone. That was part of the problem.

She’d sit with the soccer team one day, the band kids the next, the theater geeks the day after.

But she always made time for me.

“Library?” her text would say.

“Duh,” I’d reply.

We studied. We traded music recs. She made fun of my tragic crush on a senior who didn’t know I existed. I listened to her talk about Atlanta, about missing real city noise, about the way Maple Ridge went dark and quiet by nine p.m. and made her feel like anything could be lurking just out of sight.

“Like what?” I’d ask, half-joking.

She’d smile.

“Monsters,” she’d say, like it was the most obvious answer in the world.

“What kind?”

“The kind that look normal,” she’d say. “The dangerous ones always do.”

Sometimes, in the middle of a sentence, her eyes would catch the light weirdly.

Just for a second.

A flash of yellow-green.

A hint of something…slitted.

I told myself it was my imagination.

---

The first time I saw something I couldn’t explain, it was an accident.

It was late October, a Friday.

I’d stayed after school to finish a painting in the art room. By the time I cleaned up my brushes, the halls were mostly empty, lights off in half the classrooms.

I was heading toward the parking lot, my backpack heavy, when I heard voices near the science wing.

Snickering. Mean laughter.

Instinct said: cheerleaders.

Curiosity said: check it out.

I rounded the corner and flattened myself against the wall.

From my vantage point, I could see the girls’ bathroom door. And three shapes in front of it.

Whitney.

Two of her sidekicks.

They were clustered around something dangling from the top of the doorframe.

Whitney held her phone up, flashlight on.

“Ew,” one of the other girls said. “Do you have to touch it?”

“Do you want her to see it or not?” Whitney snapped.

She carefully taped the last section of string to the door.

I squinted.

Something long and thin dangled from it, inches from the bathroom door, curling slightly at the tip.

My stomach churned.

Snake.

A real one. Not huge, but definitely not fake.

“What if it bites her?” the second girl asked.

“It’s a garter snake, genius,” Whitney said. “They barely even have teeth. She’ll shriek, it’ll drop, everybody laughs, Snake Girl gets a taste of her own medicine. Karma.”

“Where’d you even get that thing?” the first girl asked.

“My brother,” Whitney said. “He keeps them in his room. Don’t ask. I don’t wanna know.”

They stepped back to admire their handiwork.

“You sure she’s coming this way?” one girl asked.

“She always goes to this bathroom after last period,” Whitney said. “She’s a creature of habit. Like a little snake slithering to its rock.”

As if on cue, footsteps echoed down the hall.

Addy.

She rounded the corner, scrolling her phone.

They scattered, ducking into a classroom, giggling.

Addy didn’t see them.

She didn’t see me.

She pushed open the bathroom door.

The snake swung toward her face.

Whitney had tied the string well; the thing was perfectly positioned at eye level.

I tensed, waiting for the scream.

It didn’t come.

Everything happened fast, but I swear—I remember it in slow motion.

The snake swung.

Addy’s head snapped up.

Her hand shot out, faster than I’d ever seen anyone move.

She grabbed the snake mid-air.

The motion was smooth, precise, like she’d done it a thousand times.

Her fingers curled gently around its body, just behind the head, the way you’re supposed to if you know what you’re doing.

She stared at it for a second.

Her face went completely still.

Her eyes…

Her eyes changed.

Not a trick of the light this time.

Not with the fluorescent bulbs flickering overhead.

Her irises thinned, the brown sharpening into a golden ring around a slit pupil.

She looked exactly like a snake studying prey.

I sucked in a breath.

She turned her head.

Looked straight at me.

Our eyes locked.

For an endless second, I couldn’t move.

Couldn’t blink.

Couldn’t breathe.

Then she looked down at the snake.

Her features softened.

“Hey there,” she murmured. “Who’s a pretty thing?”

She stroked its back.

The snake relaxed in her grip, its tongue flicking out like it was tasting the air.

She unwound the string from around its middle with her free hand.

Then she glanced over her shoulder at where Whitney and her minions were not-at-all-subtly peeking around the doorframe of the classroom.

“I think this belongs to you,” Addy said calmly.

She walked toward them.

Each step was slow, controlled, but there was nothing human about the way she moved. Too smooth. Too fluid.

Whitney’s bravado cracked.

“Wh-what are you doing?” she stammered.

Addy stopped a foot away.

She held the snake up between them.

“It’s a garter snake,” she said conversationally. “They’re harmless. But they get stressed when people mess with them.”

Whitney swallowed.

“I didn’t— I mean, it was just a joke—”

“Here,” Addy said. “You take it back.”

She held the snake out.

Whitney recoiled.

“No way,” she said.

Addy tilted her head.

Something in her smile was wrong.

“You’re scared?” she asked softly.

“No,” Whitney said. “I’m just— I don’t want to touch it. God.”

“Then maybe,” Addy said, voice dropping low, “you shouldn’t play with things you don’t understand.”

The air felt heavy.

The hallway got colder.

I could see goosebumps rise on Whitney’s arms.

“W-we were just having fun,” Whitney said weakly.

“Fun,” Addy repeated. “Right.”

Her eyes flashed gold again.

“Here’s a fun fact,” she said. “Snakes don’t chase people for no reason. They strike when they’re cornered. When someone keeps poking at them. They warn you first.”

She stepped closer.

Whitney pressed back into the doorframe.

I realized my hands were shaking.

“If there’s a next time,” Addy whispered, just loud enough for us to hear, “I won’t be this nice.”

For a moment, everything felt…wrong.

Like the world had tilted sideways.

Like I was looking at something wearing a human face, but the thing underneath was ancient and patient and absolutely done with everyone’s bullshit.

Then someone down the hall dropped a textbook.

The sound snapped the moment.

Addy blinked.

Her eyes went back to normal.

She smiled.

“Have a great afternoon, ladies,” she said lightly.

She turned and walked down the hall, still holding the snake gently, like a pet.

I pressed my back against the wall.

My heart hammered so hard I thought it would punch through my ribs.

Whitney’s friend whispered, “Did you see—”

“Shut up,” Whitney snapped.

They fled in the opposite direction.

I didn’t move until Addy disappeared around the corner.

---

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that flash of gold.

Those inhuman pupils.

I told myself it was a trick of the light.

That I was overwrought.

Tired.

Whatever.

But deep down, a different word whispered in my brain.

Snake.

By morning, the rumor mill had mutated the whole story.

“Whitney’s prank totally backfired.”

“Addy just grabbed the snake like it was nothing. Like she’d done it a hundred times.”

“My cousin says she hissed at them.”

“I heard she bit the snake and swallowed it whole.”

(That last one made no sense, but accuracy has never been Maple Ridge’s strong suit.)

The nickname stuck.

Snake Girl.

She didn’t flinch when she heard it.

Didn’t correct anyone.

If anything, she seemed to relax into it.

Like she’d been waiting for people to catch up.

“Doesn’t it bother you?” I asked her in the library, a week later. “The Snake Girl thing?”

She traced a finger along a line of text in her biology book.

“People need stories,” she said. “If they’re going to tell one about me anyway, I’d rather it be something I can live with.”

“But they’re scared of you,” I said.

She looked up.

“Are you?” she asked.

I thought of the hallway. The bathroom. The snake in her hand.

Of the weird calm radiating off her when she’d faced Whitney.

Of her eyes.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Should I be?”

She smiled slowly.

“Snakes don’t bite people who leave them alone,” she said. “They save their venom for threats.”

“That’s a non-answer,” I pointed out.

“That’s the only one you’re getting,” she said.

---

Things might’ve just stayed that way—uneasy, rumor-filled, slightly spooky—if not for what happened at the winter formal.

Maple Ridge wasn’t fancy enough for a real prom in December, but the PTA loved a theme. So, “Snowflake Ball” it was.

I went with Liv as my “platonic life partner.” We wore thrift-store dresses, boots instead of heels, and matching glitter eyeliner that made us look like we’d lost a fight with a unicorn.

The gym was decorated within an inch of its life.

Paper snowflakes. White balloons. String lights. Fake icicle things hanging from the basketball hoops.

The DJ was mediocre, the punch probably spiked, and the teachers pretended not to notice when couples slipped into the hallways.

Addy arrived late.

Of course.

She walked in wearing a silver dress that looked like poured mercury. It clung in all the right places, shimmered when she moved, and made everyone else’s outfits look like the clearance rack.

Conversation dipped as she entered.

Again.

Always.

Tyler Reed, the quarterback, made a beeline for her.

He’d been circling her for months, ramping up his attempts at charm and barely-hidden possessiveness.

He’d walked her to class. Sat next to her at football games. Posted a picture of the two of them on his Snapchat with the caption, “Snakes and Ladders. I always climb.”

Addy had smiled. Laughed. Deflected.

She never said “boyfriend.”

He never heard the difference.

That night, he offered his hand.

“Dance?” he asked.

She hesitated.

Then nodded.

I watched them from the sidelines.

Liv nudged me. “This is a disaster waiting to happen,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

My stomach felt weird.

On the dance floor, Tyler pulled Addy close.

Too close.

She tried to put a little space between them, but he tightened his grip.

I saw her smile flicker.

The song shifted to something slower.

He bent his head, saying something in her ear.

She went very still.

Then she laughed.

Whatever he’d said, she decided to play along.

They danced.

Around them, couples swayed. Lights flashed. Teachers pretended they were chaperoning and not scrolling through their phones.

Whitney watched from the other side of the gym, jaw tight.

I saw the moment she made a decision.

She whispered to her friend.

The friend snickered.

They slipped out the side door.

I had a bad feeling.

“Bathroom,” I told Liv.

“I’ll come,” she said.

We stepped into the hallway.

The music muffled.

Down the hall, near the trophy case, voices echoed.

Addy’s.

Tyler’s.

Whitney’s.

“…thought you liked me,” Tyler was saying, hurt and anger tangled in his voice.

“I do,” Addy said. “As a friend.”

“That’s bullshit,” he snapped. “You flirt with me all the time. You let me walk you home.”

“I didn’t let you,” she said calmly. “You decided to walk with me. There’s a difference.”

“Oh my God,” Whitney drawled. “Are we really doing this here?”

“Stay out of it, Whit,” Tyler said.

“I’m just saying,” Whitney went on, louder. “Some of us told you she was poison. But no, you had to go chase the Snake Girl. Now look at you.”

There was a scuffling sound.

I crept closer, Liv on my heels.

They were by the trophy case, framed by the glow of the EXIT sign.

Addy stood with her arms folded, expression carefully blank.

Tyler loomed, face flushed.

Whitney leaned against the wall, enjoying the show.

“You made me look stupid,” Tyler said. “Everyone knows I’ve been into you. And you show up with no one, dance with me once, and then you’re just gonna—what? Leave? Who are you waiting for? Some other guy?”

“I’m waiting for my Uber,” she said. “And for you to stop yelling at me.”

“You’re a tease,” he spat.

“Tyler,” Whitney said, faux-sympathetic. “Don’t be mad at her. It’s in her nature. Snakes don’t know how to be anything else.”

Addy’s jaw tightened.

“Shut up, Whitney,” she said.

Whitney smirked.

“You gonna bite me?” she taunted. “You gonna take off that pretty skin and show us what you really are?”

“Stop,” Addy said quietly.

“Oh, come on,” Whitney said. “Everybody knows you’re not normal. You slither into every group, make everybody fall in love with you, and then act like we’re crazy for wanting something back. You’re not special. You’re just practiced.”

Tyler’s hand shot out.

He grabbed Addy’s wrist.

Too tight.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he growled.

“No,” she said.

Her voice sounded…wrong.

Deeper.

Almost like a growl.

“Let her go,” I blurted.

All three of them whipped their heads toward me.

Shit.

I hadn’t meant to say that out loud.

“Stay out of this, Maya,” Tyler snapped.

“Yeah, Maya,” Whitney added. “Go crawl back under whatever rock she dragged you out from.”

Addy’s eyes locked with mine.

They were wide.

And scared.

Something snapped inside me.

I stepped forward.

“She said no,” I said. “Let. Her. Go.”

He laughed.

“You gonna make me?” he asked.

His fingers dug into her skin.

Addy’s shoulders hunched.

Her breath came faster.

She closed her eyes.

When she opened them—

They weren’t brown.

They were gold.

Slitted.

Her lips peeled back from her teeth.

She hissed.

Actually, literally hissed.

It was quiet, but it cut through the air like a knife.

Tyler flinched.

His grip loosened.

Addy pulled her hand back.

The lights flickered.

Whitney’s mocking expression froze.

“What the…” she whispered.

Addy’s back arched.

For a second, it looked like something was moving under her skin. A wave, rippling up her spine.

Her shoulders bulged, as if something wanted to push its way out.

She clenched her jaw.

“No,” she whispered. “Not like this.”

She shook her head violently, like she was fighting off invisible hands.

Her skin seemed to…shift.

Not like a full-on horror movie transformation.

More like heat shimmer over a highway.

For a heartbeat, I saw a pattern under her skin.

Pale, iridescent scales.

Then it was gone.

She doubled over, breathing hard.

“What are you?” Whitney breathed.

Addy straightened slowly.

Her eyes were still wrong.

But her voice was clear.

“I told you,” she said. “Snakes strike when they’re cornered.”

She stepped forward.

Tyler stumbled back.

“What are you gonna do?” he asked, trying to sound tough, failing. “Bite me?”

Addy smiled.

“Not tonight,” she said.

She reached up.

Grabbed the front of his fancy rented tux.

Pulled him down so her mouth was next to his ear.

“You’re going to walk away,” she whispered. “You’re going to tell everyone I freaked out and you dumped me. Your ego will be fine. Your bones will be intact. If you touch me—or any girl who says no—to prove a point again?”

Her eyes flashed.

“I will show you what I really am,” she said. “And you will never forget it.”

Tyler’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

“You’re crazy,” he said.

“Say it louder,” she replied. “Maybe you’ll believe it.”

He shoved her back, half-hearted, like he was more afraid of what would happen if he actually hurt her.

“Whatever,” he said. “You’re not worth it.”

He stalked down the hall, shoulders stiff.

Whitney stared at Addy.

“You’re a freak,” she whispered.

Addy stepped closer.

Whitney backed right into the trophy case.

The “Class of 1998” plaque rattled.

“You wanted to see my true colors,” Addy said softly. “Consider this a free preview.”

Her tongue flicked out over her teeth.

Just for a second.

It looked…

Wrong.

Too quick.

Too forked.

Whitney’s face drained of color.

“You’re not human,” she said.

Addy’s smile didn’t reach her eyes.

“Most people aren’t,” she said. “They just hide it better.”

Whitney pushed past us, heels clacking on the linoleum as she fled down the hall.

The gym door swung shut behind her.

Silence dropped like a blanket.

Addy leaned against the wall.

Her breath shuddered.

Her eyes slowly returned to normal.

“Addy,” I said carefully. “What just happened?”

She laughed weakly.

“Nothing,” she said. “Adrenaline. Bad lighting. You know how it is.”

“Maya saw,” Liv said quietly.

I shot her a look.

But she was right.

We both had.

Addy’s shoulders sagged.

“Yeah,” she said. “You did.”

She looked exhausted.

“Come with me,” she said. “Please.”

That “please” did something to me.

She’d never asked me for anything.

Only ever offered.

“Okay,” I said.

We walked out into the cold night air, leaving the pounding music behind.

Snowflakes were starting to fall, slow and fat.

She led us around the side of the building, toward the edge of the sports field. The parking lot lights cast weird shadows across the grass.

“Are you going to…transform?” Liv whispered.

“Jesus, Liv,” I hissed.

Addy laughed, a short, sharp sound.

“No,” she said. “I’m going to sit down before my legs give out.”

She dropped onto the bleachers.

We sat on either side of her.

Up close, I could see a faint shimmer on her temples.

Like…scales.

“You’re seeing it, aren’t you?” she asked, not looking at us.

“Yes,” I said slowly.

“You’re not crazy,” she said. “It’s real.”

My heart thudded.

“Okay,” I said. “We’re going to need more than that.”

She closed her eyes.

“For the record,” she said, “I didn’t pick this. I didn’t sell my soul, or join a cult, or make a deal with the devil. I was born like this.”

“Like what?” Liv asked.

Addy opened her eyes.

They were halfway between human and not.

Still mostly brown, but with that golden ring.

“I’m not a snake,” she said. “Not fully. I’m…something in between. My mom calls it a ‘family condition.’ Her grandmother had it too. Some old, weird bloodline. Back when people made sacrifices to things that slithered in the dark and called them gods.”

I swallowed.

“You’re serious,” I said.

She nodded.

“We don’t transform all the way,” she said. “Not like in movies. No giant anacondas swallowing cows. Just…little things. Eyes. Reflexes. Skin. The way we move.”

She flexed her fingers.

Her nails looked sharper than they had five minutes ago.

“It’s stronger when we’re cornered,” she said. “Or scared. Or angry. Fight-or-flight, but with extra teeth.”

“So you…what? Venom?” Liv asked, morbidly fascinated.

Addy smirked.

“You want to find out?” she asked.

Liv paled.

“Nope,” she said. “I’m good.”

“Did you ever…hurt anyone?” I asked quietly.

Addy’s face shuttered.

“I try not to,” she said. “My mom taught me control. The first time my eyes changed when I was a kid, I bit my own tongue by accident.” She stuck it out.

The tip was faintly forked.

I sucked in a breath.

“Most of the time, it’s a…disadvantage,” she said. “You think growing up with this was easy? Kids already think you’re weird, and then one day you hiss at a bully without meaning to and boom, you’re the freak forever.”

“That rumor at your last school,” I said slowly. “About the teacher…”

Her jaw clenched.

“He grabbed my shoulder after class,” she said. “Got too close. Said something gross. I…reacted. My eyes changed. I told him to back off. He spread the rumor before I could report him. Beat me to it.”

“That’s messed up,” Liv said.

“Welcome to the world,” Addy said. “Men like him don’t like feeling small. So they make stories to control the narrative.”

We sat there, the crunch of snow underfoot from some distant couple the only sound.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

She looked at me.

“Would you have believed me?” she asked.

“Probably not,” I admitted. “But I do now.”

“That’s something,” she said softly.

“You should tell someone,” Liv blurted.

“Who?” Addy asked. “The school counselor? ‘Hey, Mrs. Greene, sometimes I grow scales and want to bite people but only when they deserve it, promise’? Yeah, that’ll go great.”

“What about your mom?” I asked.

“She knows,” Addy said. “She’s the one who told me to keep my head down. ‘Blend in,’ she said. ‘Don’t give them a reason to chase you.’”

She looked back toward the gym.

“I tried,” she added. “I really did.”

“We saw,” I said.

She smiled crookedly.

“Best I can hope for is that the stories get so wild nobody believes them,” she said. “Snake Girl dates the quarterback, Snake Girl hypnotizes teachers, Snake Girl sheds her skin in the girls’ bathroom—all that. Easier to laugh it off than try to explain.”

She shivered.

I shrugged off my jacket and draped it over her shoulders.

“Here,” I said.

She looked surprised.

“Thanks,” she said.

Her hand brushed mine.

Her skin felt warmer than normal.

But human.

“So what now?” Liv asked. “You’re just…staying? Going to school like normal? Pretending you don’t have snake DNA?”

Addy laughed softly.

“Normal is overrated,” she said. “But yeah. I don’t really have another option. We can’t afford to move again. My mom just got this job. I’ll keep my distance from people who poke at me. And if they keep poking…”

She lifted one shoulder.

“Snakes warn,” she said. “I warned.”

“You won’t…hurt anyone,” I said. It wasn’t really a question.

She looked at me for a long moment.

“If they don’t make me,” she said.

It wasn’t the perfect answer I wanted.

But it was honest.

“Okay,” I said.

“That’s it?” she asked. “Okay?”

“I mean, I’m not gonna pretend this isn’t terrifying,” I said. “But you saved me from a group project with Tyler last month, so I guess I owe you one.”

She snorted.

“Wow,” she said. “Way to cheapen my dark tragic backstory.”

“You’re still you,” I said. “You’re still the girl who pretends to like Kline’s poetry units and eats Hot Cheetos with chopsticks so her fingers don’t stain.”

“That’s just common sense,” she muttered.

I nudged her shoulder.

“Snake Girl, alien, whatever,” I said. “You’re my friend. That’s what I know.”

Her eyes softened.

“You’re not scared?” she asked quietly.

“Oh, I’m terrified,” I said. “But, like, in a manageable way.”

Liv groaned.

“You two are so weird,” she said. “But for the record? I’m in too. If you go all monstrous on someone, I’m bringing popcorn.”

“Supportive,” Addy said dryly.

“Hey, if you’re gonna be a legend, at least let us be in the group chat,” Liv replied.

For the first time since the hallway, Addy laughed.

Really laughed.

Snowflakes melted on her hair.

Under the parking lot lights, for just a second, I saw that weird shimmer around her again.

Scales under skin.

Danger wrapped in warmth.

But I didn’t flinch.

She noticed.

“Thanks,” she said.

“For what?” I asked.

“For seeing me,” she said. “Not just the stories.”

---

The rumors didn’t stop.

If anything, they got more ridiculous.

“Snake Girl poisoned Whitney’s shampoo.”

“Snake Girl’s parents worship the devil in their basement.”

“Snake Girl can hypnotize you if you look in her eyes too long.”

I watched them swirl around us.

Sometimes they hurt.

Sometimes they were hilarious.

Addy would roll her eyes.

“Well, at least they’re not calling me a slut anymore,” she said. “Snake’s an upgrade.”

Tyler told everyone he’d broken up with her because she was “too intense.”

He still flinched when she walked past.

Whitney went extra hard on the “Addy is a freak” campaign for a while.

Then she got her own scandal when someone leaked screenshots of her trash-talking half the cheer squad in a private group chat.

Funny how that worked.

Kids still whispered.

Teachers still loved Addy.

Boys still stared.

Addy still moved through the halls like she owned them, spine straight, chin up.

Every once in a while, if someone shoved a freshman against a locker or grabbed a girl’s wrist too hard in the hallway, they’d find Addy between them and their target.

Her smile would be razor-thin.

Her eyes would glint.

Whatever they’d been doing?

They stopped.

By spring, the nickname “Snake Girl” had changed.

Less sneer.

More…respect.

Like the way you say “cop” when you’re speeding.

The summer after junior year, Addy’s mom got a better job offer back in Atlanta.

They left at the end of June.

No big goodbye party.

No fanfare.

Just a quiet moving truck, and a hug in my driveway that lasted longer than I expected.

“Thank you for not running away screaming,” she said.

“Thank you for not eating me,” I said.

She laughed.

We promised to keep in touch.

People always promise that.

Sometimes they even mean it.

We did, for a while.

Texts. Memes. Occasional photos.

Then life happened.

Senior year. College applications. Family drama. New people. New problems.

By the time I left for a state university three hours away, our messages had thinned.

She didn’t post much on social media.

Sometimes I’d see a photo tagged in Atlanta, her smile just the same, her eyes maybe a little more tired.

I’d like it.

Move on.

But every time I heard the hiss of a snake in a nature documentary, or saw one slither across a trail on a hike, I thought of her.

Of the way she’d held that garter snake like it was the only thing in the world.

Of the way kids had turned her into a monster because they didn’t know what else to do with someone who refused to shrink.

Years later, at a college party, someone told a story about a “weird girl” in their high school.

“Everybody said she was a witch or something,” the guy said. “Total psycho.”

I sipped my drink, listening.

When he was done, I shrugged.

“People say a lot of things,” I said. “Doesn’t make them true.”

He snorted.

“You defending witches now?” he asked.

“Someone should,” I said.

When I went home for Thanksgiving that year, Maple Ridge looked smaller.

The Dairy Freeze sign was still broken.

The Walmart still loomed.

The high school had a new banner that said “GO RIDGE RANGERS!”

In the trophy case, between state championship plaques and a faded photo of the Class of 1998, someone had put up a collage.

“MAPLE RIDGE LEGENDS,” the heading said.

There was Tyler, holding a trophy.

Whitney, in full cheer uniform.

And in the corner, half-covered by a flyer for a blood drive, was a candid shot I’d taken with my old camera:

Addy on the bleachers, laughing, head thrown back, snow in her hair.

Someone had taped a small paper snake sticker next to it.

I stood there in the empty hallway, looking at her.

At the girl who’d been rumor and myth and monster and friend.

The bell rang.

Distant footsteps rang down the hall.

I smiled.

Then I reached up and adjusted the photo so it wasn’t covered anymore.

Let her be seen.

For once.

Not as a monster.

Not as a story.

Just as herself.

Whatever that meant.

---

People will tell you stories about Adaora “Addy” James of Maple Ridge High.

They’ll say she was trouble.

They’ll say she was strange.

They’ll say she was the Snake Girl.

They won’t tell you how she never once started a rumor about anyone.

They won’t tell you how she pulled a sophomore out of a teacher’s classroom when he started yelling.

They won’t mention the time she sat with a freshman who’d been crying in the bathroom and walked her to the counselor’s office.

They’ll talk about her eyes.

They won’t talk about how she watched everything.

How she remembered who needed help.

How she knew when to strike and when to disappear.

Monsters are easier to live with than complicated girls.

So they’ll call her a snake.

And maybe they’re right.

Snakes are beautiful, dangerous, misunderstood creatures who mind their business until someone decides to make them a problem.

You corner them.

You poke them.

You laugh when they coil.

And then you act shocked when they bare their fangs.

If being a snake means surviving in a world that keeps trying to crush you?

Means warning before you bite?

Means shedding the skin they tried to force you into and slithering your way out of the trap?

Then yeah.

I guess the Snake Girl was real.

And we were the ones who didn’t know what we were looking at.

THE END