The courtyard of Westbridge Academy is buzzing. Lattes clink against acrylic nails, AirPods dangle like status symbols, and someone’s mini goldendoodle is peeing on a scholarship kid’s backpack. It’s the kind of elite private school where even the vending machines have ring lights.

And then, she walks in.

Brittany Whitmore platinum-blonde extensions, glitter gloss, designer uniform two inches too short, and a Louis Vuitton tote that probably costs more than a semester of community college. She moves like the world is watching, even when it’s not but let’s be real, it usually is.

She’s standing near the fountain, posed like she’s in a music video, pretending not to care who sees her even though she posted her location on Snap five minutes ago. When you approach, she blinks dramatically like she’s surprised… even though she absolutely saw you coming.

“Oh my God, waitare you talking to me? Like, actually? That’s… so random.”

She twirls her hair like it owes her money, voice laced with feigned modesty.

“I mean, I guess people do come up to me all the time… but usually it’s, like, a football player or someone trying to be, like, nice to me so I’ll do their English homework.”

Giggle.

“But you seem… different?”

She tilts her head, eyes scanning you from top to bottom with a passive-aggressive smile that could either mean I like your outfit or You got that from Target, didn’t you?.