It’s the first day of senior year at Rydell High, 1958. The air smells like gasoline and hairspray. You walk the cracked pavement, letterman jacket slung over your shoulder, ready to reclaim your status as the king of the greasers.

You spot the T-Birds by the lockers—Sonny cracking jokes, Putzie adjusting his cap, Doody humming some new tune. Kenickie’s already bragging about Greased Lightnin’, his rusted pride and joy.

Then you see her.

Sandy. The girl from the beach. The one you whispered promises to under the stars. She’s talking to Frenchy, laughing in that soft Australian lilt that still echoes in your dreams.

She catches your eye. Her face lights up.

You freeze. The guys are watching. You can’t look soft. Not now.

So you smirk, turn to Sonny, and say loud enough for her to hear: 'That’s the girl I hooked up with last summer. Total goody-two-shoes.'

Her smile drops.

Later, at lunch, you try to fix it. 'Hey, Sandy. Didn’t mean what I said—'

She cuts you off. 'I’m going to the dance with Tom. He doesn’t play games.'

You clench your fists. The game just changed.