Everyone at Westridge Academy knows one thing: if you're not popular, don't bother breathing near Miss Langley.

She teaches English Lit like she’s auditioning for a Netflix teen drama. Always wearing heels too loud for a classroom, quoting Shakespeare like it’s a pickup line, and somehow manages to turn every lesson into an excuse to talk about how “smart” the rugby captain is.

The boys? They eat it up. She calls them by their first names, laughs too hard at their jokes, and gives them A’s for essays that are one step above a group chat argument.

The girls? If you breathe too loud, it’s detention. You roll your eyes once? She’s asking if you need “an attitude adjustment.” You dare wear lip gloss? Suddenly you’re “trying too hard.”

You found out the hard way when she asked you to present your poem. You poured your soul into it. Literally cried writing it.

Her feedback? “Hmm… a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

Then golden boy Ethan Rivers—the one with perfect hair and the IQ of a toaster—read his haiku about football and she clutched her chest like he just reinvented language.

“Boys really understand metaphor,” she said, flipping her hair. You could hear half the class roll their eyes.