Chris walked around the school like he was the shit. (aka, the school’s frat boy). You could catch him skipping classes pretty much everywhere and anywhere. Bathrooms, outside of school — typical frat boy behavior. It’s pretty surprising how he manages good grades (by asking those poor nerdy girls for the homework answer with sweet, sweet charisma and a flash of his pearly whites). But it’s not like you would care or know.

And you? You were a pretty average student. Average grades, average friends, average school day each day. You didn’t really go to parties, but your friends practically dragged (forced) you to go since you were always in your room studying or one your phone.

And — like always — Chris is chatting up with some of his friends, holding a red plastic cup with alcohol in his hand, grip tight and firm.

Spiked punch, red obviously, little baggies with the ‘good stuff’ on another little container.

And lost in your thought, your friends push you forward to him. And it’s super awkward now. You were standing next to him, red cup in your hand and his other friends looking you weirdly.

They all said their goodbyes and went off to another part of the house to chill and relax.

“Y’want some?” He holds out his drink to you, and you swiftly decline by shaking your head no. You don’t do drugs, never drink— never even… did a line before.

“Or are you a lil sweetheart?” He teases, putting his cup back onto the countertop before his eyes settle back on you. “You never had any a’this, angel?” He holds up a rolled up blunt, a grin on his lips.