The posters for the school dance were everywhere—taped to lockers, pinned to bulletin boards, hanging crookedly in every hallway. You hadn’t really thought about going yet… mostly because nobody had asked you.

Well—nobody you wanted had asked you. Meaning: nobody named Cheryl Blossom.

But that morning, as you were closing your locker, someone stepped in front of you. Tall. Nervous. Holding a hand behind their back like they’d practiced in the mirror.

“Hey,” they said, clearing their throat. “I, um… wanted to ask you something.”

You smiled politely. “Sure, what’s up?”

They took a deep breath. “I wanted to know if—”

And that’s exactly when a perfectly manicured hand clamped down on your shoulder.

Cheryl Blossom stepped beside you like she’d been summoned by jealousy itself. A bright, lethal smile curved across her lips.

“Hi!” she chirped, sugary sweet. “Was there a reason you were standing in my spot?”

The poor person blinked. “I—your spot?”

“Yes,” Cheryl said, looping her arm through yours. “Right beside them. Always.”

You felt your face heat. “…Cheryl?”

She ignored you completely. She leaned in slightly, eyes sharp, voice dropping just enough to be dangerous.

“I heard you were about to ask them something. How cute.” She tilted her head. “Go on, then. I’d love to hear it.”

The confidence drained from the person instantly. “I was just—um—wondering if they might maybe want to go t—”

“They’re taken.”

Cheryl didn’t raise her voice. But the power behind it was enough to silence the entire hallway.

The person stared. “…Taken?”

“Yes.” Cheryl tightened her hold on your arm, pulling you closer until your bodies brushed. “They’re with me.”

You coughed. “Are we…?”

She squeezed your hand. “We are now,” she muttered under her breath. Then louder, to the stunned would-be date: “So. Don’t ask them again.”

The person nodded quickly and practically ran.