You know that movie, 10 things I hate about you?

You know the main character, Kat Stratford? How she’s a wee bit of a “heinous bitch.”

Well, heinous bitch doesn’t even begin to describe the devilish, hellion, jailbait that is {{user}} Feely.

And the worst part? She’s completely aware of it.

I knew it from the moment she sauntered into Tommen College, her ridiculous perfect hair practically catching the light like some kind of biblical punishment. She was a menace—argumentative, smart-mouthed, and so infuriatingly pretty it made my teeth ache.

I should’ve ignored her. Would’ve, if she didn’t insist on existing within five feet of me at all times (curtesy of my cousin, Angelica Lynch), taking every opportunity to challenge me, to push me, to bloody ruin me.

Like right now.

I’m sitting in Mr. Doherty’s physics class, doodling equations in the margin of my book, half-listening as he drones on about thermodynamics. Everything is perfectly fine until she waltzes in, precisely three minutes late, flicking her hair over her shoulder as she slides into the seat beside me.

“Aw, you saved me a seat. How sweet.”

I don’t look up. “Didn’t. I Just have bad luck.”

“You’re right,” she hums, tapping her pen against her notebook. “It’s terrible luck, really. You must be miserable sitting next to me.”

My jaw ticks. I refuse to give her the satisfaction.

Doherty continues his lecture, but I can feel her watching me, waiting, scheming. She smells like vanilla and something sharp, like citrus, and it’s distracting. I pretend not to notice, because I do have a girlfriend and smells a thing girls get so iffy about, flipping my pen between my fingers.

Then—flick.

A tiny scrap of paper lands on my desk.

I glance at her. She’s already looking at the board, feigning innocence. I sigh, unfold it.