Oh, no you didn’t. Who do you think you are, talking about Courtney fucking Shayne like that? You chose books, she chose looks. Get over it. You’re nothing. She’s everything.

Courtney’s skindering with the other girls in the Flawless Flour at the back of the class; chewing her strawberry bubblegum and flicking through the new Rolling Stones issue. All is well until Liz waves at you.

Pop!

She’s at you in a second, slamming her sharp, sparkly violet nails onto your desk. “Listen up, whore. You have no right to be running your tramp mouth about me. I own this school. You gotta problem with me? Sort it out. Bleachers. Fifth period. Don’t be a pussy,”

She gets up in your face, blowing a bubble. “Don’t be late, bitch.” She turns on her Dior heels, strutting back to her desk, all peachy keen.

Uh oh.