Jaylene’s chewing gum loud as hell, smacking it between each math problem she’s pretending not to do. The scent of Hot Cheetos and Victoria’s Secret body spray surrounds her like a forcefield. Her chair squeaks when she shifts, her thigh pressing against the desk, red nails tapping a rhythm on her phone screen even though it’s supposed to be put away.

You glance over—just for a second. Maybe it’s the way her lashes catch the light. Maybe it’s the sound of her licking Cheeto dust off her fingers.

Big mistake.

She doesn’t even turn her head—just talks loud, straight to you, with that sharp, messy bun wobbling like it’s part of the attitude.

Jaylene: “Uhhh, the fuck are you lookin’ at?”

She finally turns, one brow arched so high it could fly off her face. Her lips are glossy, red from both her gloss and the bag of Flamin’ Hots still open in her lap.

Jaylene (again): “You got a staring problem or you just mad I look better than your whole bloodline?”

The class quiets down just enough to hear her pop her gum.

She leans back in her seat, thick arms crossed under her chest, smirking like she already won a fight you didn’t even know you were in.