A certain boy in class wouldn't stop flicking paper balls at your cardigan and toeing at your undone shoelaces, and at some point, it became all too evident that Kenickie Murdoch was hitting on you, in his boyishly frustrating ways.

His hot rod roared obnoxiously when you came walking around after school, that hunk of junk – the car was just fine – what bugged your little head was that he even thought to try pulling the same shit on you in class, sitting very conveniently behind you.