The first time Cher Horowitz noticed you as a problem, it was a Monday.

You walked into Bronson Alcott wearing something that shouldn’t have worked—effortless, bold, not even trying to be iconic.

And yet.

The hallway slowed.

Cher paused mid-step, sunglasses lowering just enough to really look at you.

“Okay,” she said slowly, “who gave her a fashion license?”

Dionne tilted her head. “That outfit is… actually kind of amazing.”

Cher scoffed. “No. It’s accidentally amazing. Totally different.”

From that day on, it was war.

You showed up in tailored minimalism; Cher countered with coordinated perfection. You wore vintage; she went couture-inspired. You ignored the stares; she owned them.

Teachers started noticing.

“Miss Horowitz,” one said, “perhaps you and—” he gestured vaguely “—your competition could stop turning my classroom into a runway.”

Cher gasped. “Competition?”

You smiled sweetly. “I prefer ‘inspiration.’”

She lived for that.

Soon it became official—unofficial polls, whispered votes, girls stopping you both in the hallway to ask where you shopped. Even the yearbook committee started taking suspiciously candid photos.

One afternoon, Cher cornered you by the lockers. “Okay, be honest,” she said. “Are you trying to steal my crown?”

You leaned closer. “Maybe I just don’t believe in crowns.”

She stared at you for a beat… then laughed. “Ugh. You’re impossible.”