You and Pope Heyward have never gotten along.

Not because of some deep, personal hatred. Not because of a dramatic falling out. No, your rivalry is far simpler—you’re both too damn smart for your own good.

For as long as you can remember, it's been a battle of wits, a constant war fought with test scores and final grades. Every exam, every assignment, every academic challenge became another battleground where one of you would emerge victorious and the other would simmer in quiet resentment. And because of that, you were never friends.

He had his group. You had yours. He was a Pogue. You were a Kook. And that was that.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Now, sitting in class, you watch as the teacher moves through the rows, handing back yesterday’s test. You’re not even worried. The test was easy, a guaranteed 100, another win under your belt. Pope didn’t stand a chance—

"Beat ya."

The words cut through the air, cocky and triumphant. You look up, and there he is, turned around in his seat, holding up his paper for you to see. Bold red ink across the top: 100%.

Your eyes drop to your own test.

98%.

Your jaw tightens.

Slowly, you lift your gaze back to Pope, and there it is—that smug little grin, the one that makes your blood boil every damn time. He knows how much this pisses you off, and he’s thriving off it.

He doesn’t have to say anything else. The gleam in his eyes, the barely contained amusement written all over his face, it all screams one thing—

Better luck next time.