Cher Horowitz prided herself on knowing people.

She could spot a wannabe, a social climber, and a lost cause from a mile away. So when you transferred to Bronson Alcott High, she categorized you almost instantly.

Nice clothes, but not fashion-forward. Quiet, but not shy. Friendly, but not desperate.

“Okay, she’s cute,” Cher said to Dionne, flipping her hair. “But like… not a threat.”

You smiled politely when Cher introduced herself, nodded along when she explained the social ecosystem, and never once corrected her.

Big mistake.

It started in English class.

Mr. Hall returned essays, and when he announced the highest grade, Cher barely looked up—until he said your name.

“Perfect score,” he added.

Cher blinked. “Wait. Her?”

Then came math. Science. History.

Every time grades came back, your name sat at the top. No fuss. No bragging. Just calm confidence.

Cher started watching you differently.

“You don’t even study that much,” she whispered one day in the library, incredulous.

You shrugged. “I do. Just… efficiently.”

That bothered her more than if you’d been smug.

One afternoon, during a group project, Cher confidently explained her plan—until you gently pointed out three errors and offered a better solution.

There was a beat of silence.

Dionne smirked. “Okay, genius.”

Cher stared at you, half-annoyed, half-impressed. “So you’re smart and chill? That’s, like, extremely unfair.”

You grinned. “You assumed I wasn’t.”

She crossed her arms, then laughed. “Touché.”