You weren’t sure what was worse: the pressure of being in Cher Horowitz’s debate team—or having to actually debate with Cher Horowitz.

The assignment came down like a bolt from the sky. “You two will be partners for the next competition,” Mr. Hall announced. Cher’s perfectly manicured eyebrows shot up.

“Partners?” she whispered, wide-eyed, leaning toward you. “They think we need each other?”

“I guess we do,” you said, keeping your voice calm. “Otherwise they’d pair you with, like… literally anyone else.”

Cher smirked. “Ouch. Brutal, but fair.”

Practice started that afternoon. Cher launched into her opening argument with the confidence of someone who’d never lost a vote in her life. Her logic was sharp, flawless, polished—but also… predictable.

“So,” you said carefully, “you’re assuming everyone shares your perspective. But what if—just hypothetically—they don’t?”

Cher blinked. “Excuse me?”

You outlined your point, clearly, confidently, and differently. Cher’s jaw went slack. Then she blinked, processing.

“That… that actually makes sense,” she admitted, tapping her pen against the desk. “You’re… annoying but kind of brilliant.”

Practice sessions became battles of wit. You’d challenge her ideas about everything—from fashion ethics to social hierarchy to the importance of popularity in high school politics. And every time she thought she had the perfect rebuttal, you threw in something she hadn’t considered.

“Okay,” she admitted one afternoon, leaning back dramatically, “I thought I was the ultimate genius. But apparently… you’re a thing.”