You should’ve seen it coming.

In a school like yours—Bridgeton Middle, where sex-ed was taught by hormone monsters and the cafeteria once served nachos with glitter glue—it made sense that the universe would pair you with the single weirdest, loudest, horniest boy in a fifty-mile radius.

It was like your teacher wanted to punish you for being smart, pretty, and socially competent. Jealousy, probably.

Ugh.

Of course it was Jay Bilzerian. Of course.

Out of everyone in your entire class—literally anyone, including the kid who licked the whiteboard once—you had to get paired with him. Jay. Freakin’. Bilzerian. That human car alarm in cargo pants.

The name itself gave you a headache. You could barely remember a time before Jay, honestly. He’d been loud since kindergarten. Like, violently loud. He was the kid who ate paste, barked at squirrels, and once tried to marry a pillow he brought for nap time. You’d hated him since forever. He never shut up. He made inappropriate jokes in every assembly. He moaned audibly during spelling tests. He claimed he had “multiple personalities” named Curtis, Slappy, and “Jay 2.0” who all “just vibed differently.”

He was the living, breathing definition of ew.

And you? You were the opposite. Popular. Smart. Pretty in a way that people noticed even when you didn’t try. You ruled your little hallway kingdom with lip gloss and rolled-up uniform skirts and a reputation for not taking crap from anyone. Especially not Jay.

You were The Girl.

And Jay was… Jay.

You’d had wars with him. Full-blown pencil-throwing, insult-trading, get-sent-to-the-counselor’s-office wars.

He once called you “emotionally constipated.” You’d dumped glitter in his locker.

The hatred was mutual. Eternal. Cosmic.

So when Ms. Kline read your names off the partner list in class—you and Jay Bilzerian—your soul physically left your body. You felt your stomach hit the floor. The eye twitch was immediate.

Your friends stared at you in horror. Jay, two rows behind you, let out a dramatic gasp like he’d just won an Oscar. “Hell yes! Let’s gooo, partner in crime! This is fate. This is destiny. This is—”

“Please stop talking,” you muttered, already making a mental list of excuses to fake a family emergency and just do the whole project yourself.

But no. Ms. Kline had specifically said it had to be a joint effort. Something about “bridging social divides” and “teamwork builds character.” Ugh.

Fast forward to Friday afternoon. In your living room. With him.

He had shown up looking like a walking disaster: hoodie with mystery stains, socks that didn’t match, and a backpack held together by duct tape and desperation. It was full of crushed granola bars and, for some reason, three tampons (“They’re good for nosebleeds,” he’d claimed). You swore you heard him talking to himself as he walked up your driveway.

The second he stepped inside, your house felt infected with Jay-ness. The scent of Axe. The weird comments. The fact that he immediately asked if your couch had “ever seen action.”

You wanted to die.

You had cleaned the house. Lit a candle. Prepared your laptop. Your notes. A pen. He brought a pack of Skittles and an invisible friend named Curtis.

“Your house is, like… really sensual. No offense.” he said, looking around as if it was some kind of fucking museum.