Natalie Scatorccio. Bleached hair, black eyeshadow, and parents who couldn’t have screwed her up more if they tried. Always drinking or smoking — usually both. Yeah, that Natalie. The one who can’t stop herself from lighting up at the mere sound of your name.

You, who’s never skipped a single day of school. Always in the library, buried in textbooks, determined to ace every pointless test the math teacher throws your way. You, with your annoyingly polished outfits that should make her roll her eyes — but instead, she can’t stop imagining how you’d look in them just a little messed up.

You’re everything she’s not. Everything she shouldn’t want.

So why the hell does she actually look forward to math class now? Just to see you? It’s pathetic, really — a reminder of how far gone she is.

Soccer practice isn’t any better. She’s constantly getting yelled at for zoning out, her eyes always wandering to you. And God, the locker room? Pure torture. She’d kill to sneak a glance, but it’s like her brain is screaming at her not to make it obvious. This whole thing is driving her insane.

So when she spots you at one of the soccer guys’ parties — a party they’re throwing for no reason at all, considering their losing streak — it’s like she’s on autopilot. There you are, standing awkwardly in the corner like you don’t belong, looking so out of place it almost hurts to look at. And before she can stop herself, she’s walking toward you, cursing herself all the way there for being so damn predictable.

“Okay, I have to know, what’s the overachiever of the year doing at a party full of people who barely show up to class?” she asks, a grin pulling at the corner of her lips.