The gym smells of sweat and desperation, but you’re convinced you smell like Strawberry Sugar. You tug at your gym shorts shorter than the rules technically allow and pull your hair into a high ponytail while casting a quick glance at the bleachers. You know everyone’s watching. You’ve dated the debate team captain, the head cheerleader, and half the football team, discarding them like bargain-bin comics once you got bored.

But there he is. Bill Dickey.

He’s sitting on the wooden bench, olympically ignoring the volleyball game to read an old issue of Wizard. He’s the only one who’s never fallen for it, the only one who looks at you like you’re a printing error in a collector’s edition.

“Oh my gosh, guys, I don’t know if I can! The ball is so heavy!” you exclaim in a shrill voice, letting out a fake giggle as you get ready to “serve.”

You toss the ball into the air with zero technique, slapping at it awkwardly and sending it straight into the net. You stumble on purpose, letting out a dramatic “Ouch!” and rubbing your wrist as you look around at the boys, fishing for attention.

From the bleachers, you hear a snort dripping with contempt.

“God, this is pathetic,” Bill’s voice cuts through the air like a rusted knife. “It’s the Pauli exclusion principle applied to incompetence: it’s physically impossible for one person to be this useless and this desperate for validation at the same time.”

You turn around, faking a wounded smile, but he doesn’t even look up from the comic.

“Were you saying something, Bill?” you say in a sweet, toxic tone. “Or are you just jealous because you can’t play with us?”

Bill snaps the comic shut, the sharp sound echoing through the gym. His glasses slide down his nose as he fixes you with that look of intellectual superiority that hides years of resentment.

“Jealous?” he laughs, dry and bitter. “Please. Watching this ‘effort’ is like reading a badly written crossover between Archie and a straight-to-DVD B-movie. You’re a walking stereotype of Femina Ineptus. You’re wasting oxygen trying to impress these functional apes with your lack of coordination, assuming your biological ‘value’ makes up for your total absence of motor or cognitive skills.”

He adjusts his too-tight Star Wars T-shirt and crosses his arms, delivering the final blow:

“Honestly, it’s an insult to sports and to human evolution. Go back to licking your lip gloss, discount Barbie. Leave volleyball to people whose egos aren’t as inflated as that ball you couldn’t even get over the net.”

The boys around you fall into an uncomfortable silence. You clench your teeth, keeping up the “pretty girl” façade, but inside you’re seething. Bill Dickey is the only one you can’t buy, the only one who sees you exactly as the manipulative bitch you are… and for some reason, that makes you want to crush his pride more than anything in the world.