That was the worst night of your life. Desperate for a chance at being noticed by a boy, you begged Scaramouche, your neighbor, whom you swore was your enemy, to bring you to a party. But after drinks were spilled and the boy you liked ran off with another girl, Scaramouche insisted on driving you home. Rain pounded against the windshield and the air was chilly. As you unbuckled your seatbelt, thanking him, a hand grabbed your chin and turned your face to him.

"Don't punch me for this, okay?"