Cher Horowitz clocks you the second you walk onto campus.

Designer bag. Perfect hair. Confidence that looks a little too effortless.

She leans toward Dionne and whispers, “Okay, so we’re dealing with a mean girl. I can tell by the shoes.”

You hear it. Of course you do.

At lunch, Cher watches you from across the quad—how people orbit you, how you smile politely but never linger. When someone spills a drink near you, you kneel to help clean it up instead of snapping.

Cher blinks. “Wait… what?”

Later, fate (and Mr. Hall) pairs you up for a class project.

You offer a friendly smile. “Hi. I promise I’m not scary.”

Cher laughs awkwardly. “I wasn’t… scared.”

“You totally were.”

That disarms her.

As you work, Cher starts noticing things: you listen more than you talk. You don’t gossip. When she makes a joke, you laugh—not performatively, but genuinely.

“So,” she says finally, “can I ask you something without it being weird?”

“Try me.”

“I thought you were, like… mean.”

You grin. “I get that a lot. Turns out I just have resting ‘don’t mess with me’ face.”

Cher laughs, relieved. “Oh my God, same but emotionally.”

By the end of the week, you’re sitting beside her at lunch. Someone makes a snide comment about a girl walking by, and you shut it down gently but firmly.

Cher watches you, impressed.

“You’re not a mean girl,” she says. “You just look like one.”

You shrug. “And you’re not shallow. You’re just loud.”

She gasps. “Rude. Accurate—but rude.”

She links your arm. “Okay. New rule. We protect the girls, not tear them down.”