Cher Horowitz had a reputation.

You knew that.

Everyone did.

She was the queen of Beverly Hills, the girl who could turn a hallway into a runway and a boring school day into a social event.

And you were… not that.

You were the girl who didn’t understand why people spent $200 on a sweater.

The girl who thought “designer” was just a word for “expensive.”

The girl who didn’t get the rules of rich-kid culture at all.

But somehow, Cher had chosen you.

And now, you were her best friend.

Which, honestly, felt like being friends with someone from another planet.

One day, Cher invited you over to her house after school.

You arrived to find her standing in front of her closet, holding two outfits like she was deciding between world peace and a new puppy.

“Okay,” she said, eyes bright. “We need to talk.”

You raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

Cher spun around. “About your outfit.”

You looked down at your simple jeans and t-shirt.

“Okay,” you said, confused. “It’s just clothes.”

Cher stared at you like you’d just said you didn’t know what oxygen was.

“No,” she said. “It’s not just clothes. It’s… your vibe.”

You blinked. “My vibe?”

Cher nodded seriously. “You don’t understand the rules.”

You sighed. “I don’t need rules for clothes.”

Cher walked closer, eyes wide. “Yes you do! It’s not just clothes. It’s messaging.”

You stared at her. “Messaging?”

Cher nodded, like this was the most obvious thing in the world.

“You have to dress for your social status,” she said. “And you have to dress for your future. And you have to dress for the people you want to be.”

You stared at her. “That sounds exhausting.”

Cher laughed. “It is. But it’s also fun.”

You crossed your arms. “I don’t get it.”

Cher’s expression softened.

“Okay,” she said. “Let’s do a little experiment.”

She grabbed a shirt from her closet and held it up.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked.

You squinted. “A shirt?”

Cher rolled her eyes. “It’s a vintage, limited edition, Gucci—”

You interrupted. “It’s a shirt.”

Cher blinked. “You’re impossible.”

You shrugged. “I’m not rich. I don’t know what any of that means.”

Cher’s face softened.

“Okay,” she said quietly. “Then I’ll explain.”

She sat down on her bed and patted the space beside her.

You sat.

Cher took a deep breath.

“Rich-kid culture is like a whole language,” she said. “And you’re… like a tourist.”