Bronson Alcott High had rules.

Not written ones—social ones.

There were tables you sat at, clothes you wore, people you talked to. Everyone knew where they belonged.

Except you.

On your first day, you walked straight past the cafeteria politics and sat wherever there was space—no hesitation, no fear. That alone was enough to cause whispers.

And enough to catch Cher Horowitz’s attention.

“Okay, but who is she?” Cher asked, lowering her sunglasses as you passed.

Dionne leaned in. “She didn’t ask where to sit. That’s… bold.”

Cher watched as you laughed with someone from debate club, then later chatted easily with a theater kid, then waved to a football player like it meant nothing.

“No labels,” Cher murmured. “That’s either social suicide or genius.”

By third period, she’d decided she had to know.

She intercepted you at your locker, perfectly styled as always. “Hi. I’m Cher. Welcome to Bronson Alcott—don’t worry, I run orientation unofficially.”

You smiled. “Good to know.”

She blinked. “Okay, so… what’s your deal?”

“My deal?”

“Yeah. Like, where do you sit? Who do you hang out with? Are you a transfer with a tragic backstory or just extremely confident?”

You shrugged. “I sit wherever. I hang out with people I like.”

Cher stared at you like you’d just spoken another language.

“That’s… illegal,” she said finally.