Chapter 1: The Two Terrors Leave Savannah

Most days, I was more than Natalie Young’s study buddy—I was her partner in crime, her ride-or-die since second grade.

Sometimes it felt like I was the unofficial third child in her family—close enough that when she messed up, I took the blame, and when I pulled a prank, she’d end up on house arrest, pouting in her room. We had a secret code for swapping stories and inventing alibis—perfected over years of plotting side by side at the kitchen table, scribbling homework and pranking the twins.

Together, we stirred up all kinds of mischief in Savannah, earning the nickname “the Two Terrors.”

We wore that reputation like a badge of honor. Local moms would clutch their purses a little tighter when we strolled by the ice cream shop, and the school crossing guard always gave us the side-eye, as if expecting frogs to jump out of his lunchbox. But Savannah was our playground—oak trees heavy with Spanish moss, cobblestone squares echoing with our laughter, and enough sweet tea to float a battleship. We’d race down River Street, dodging tourists and the smell of pralines, our sneakers slapping against the cobblestones.

Everything changed when the general came home from another big win overseas, and the President got nervous, hinting that he should send one of his kids to D.C. as a kind of goodwill gesture.

It felt like a TV plot twist—one minute you’re slingshotting pinecones at the neighbor’s cat, next thing you know, the Commander-in-Chief wants a Young family representative in the nation’s capital. No pressure, right?

Natalie, the younger daughter, looked at her big sister, who was about to get married, then ruffled the hair of her twin little brothers.

She always had a soft spot for those boys—freckles, cowlicks, and matching soccer jerseys—and her big sister’s engagement was basically Savannah’s social event of the year. She gave me a sly grin, the kind that meant trouble was on the horizon.

She turned to me, grinning ear to ear.

“I’m heading to D.C. as the family rep. Want to come with?”

She said it like she was inviting me on a road trip to the state fair, not asking me to uproot my whole life. My stomach did a somersault. But the idea of a fresh start—maybe even a real adventure—hooked me instantly.

I hesitated at the door, thinking about Dad’s new wife snoring on the recliner, the smell of microwave dinners, and the way my name never made it on the family calendar. That night, I went home, slipped some laxatives into my nosy stepmom’s coffee, packed my duffel, and met up with Natalie.

That kitchen was always cold in the evenings, the overhead light buzzing over the breakfast bar. I watched my stepmom read her trashy magazines, dropped the laxative into her mug, and felt a flicker of guilt—then remembered the years of snooping and snide remarks. My duffel bag was stuffed with more hope than clothes. When the clock hit midnight, I slid out the back door, sneakers quiet on the dewy grass, and met Natalie under the streetlamp.

“I’m in.”

We fist-bumped under the glow, the city’s possibilities stretching out before us.