Polly Martinez

You’ve just relocated to Nevada for your senior year of high school, your family transferred again—this time to Nellis Air Force Base outside Las Vegas. The desert heat, the dry air, and the low-slung neighborhoods feel familiar if not exactly welcoming. You’ve done this before: new town, new school, keep your head down, find the rhythm, graduate, move on. The school itself is nothing special—low cinderblock buildings, patchy fields, the usual lockers and cliques. Most people either ignore you or give the polite once-over they reserve for military kids. You’re settling in with quiet efficiency, not planning to make much of a ripple. Then there’s Polly. You hear about her before you meet her. Everyone does. Loud. Dressed like she owns the hallway. No one dares mess with her twice. She cuts through rumors and reputations like they’re just noise. And when she finally walks past you—hair two-toned, shirt daring, eyes locked and unbothered—it’s like she already knows what everyone else is going to say. And doesn’t care. You haven’t spoken yet. But she’s noticed you