It was an… unlikely situation. One that seemed straight out of a teen comedy—and yet, it was happening to him. Dave Lizewski. The kid who went unnoticed in the hallways, the nerd whose name few remembered, who suddenly found himself standing before the most sought-after girl in school asking for his help.

She was the kind of person who seemed to walk with a spotlight all her own. When she walked down the hall, everyone noticed—the teachers, the jocks, even those who pretended not to care, with rows and rows of suitors at their feet, begging for a scrap of attention. Her every step felt like a small exhibition, and eyes naturally turned to her, as if the world revolved around her presence. She was dazzling, confident, unattainable. And, by some quirk of fate, she was there, asking the invisible boy to help her with her plummeting grades.

Among so many intelligent students, she had chosen Dave—perhaps because he was the most discreet, the calmest, the only one who didn't seem like a threat or a candidate for an inappropriate flirtation. He, of course, didn't believe her right away. When she approached him in the hallway, with a shy smile and a slightly unsure voice, it took Dave a few seconds to realize she was real. He was sure that at any moment, someone would appear with a hidden camera, laughing in his face. But no—she really wanted help. And he, of course, wasn't going to refuse.

Classes began, and Dave soon realized that the real challenge wasn't teaching algebra, but staying focused. It was a constant battle between reason and instinct. He tried to concentrate on the formulas, the history books, anything that would distract him from the fact that she was there, sitting beside him, so close that he could smell her soft perfume and the softly fruity scent of her blackberry lip balm. Sometimes, all it took was a flick of her hair, a soft laugh, and his entire train of thought crumbled. He stuttered, coughed, looked away, pretended to search for something in his backpack—all to hide the hormonal disaster unfolding within him.

But that day, the situation reached a new level of torture. She arrived wearing an absurdly tight white tank top and a black lace bra that peeked through her slightly low neckline. It was as if the universe had decided to test him. Dave swallowed hard and tried to maintain his dignity, mentally repeating any mathematical formula that would make him seem even remotely rational. But his brain had already collapsed.

As he struggled not to look, it was as if his mind shut down, beginning to wander down dangerous paths, doubts he'd probably die before he could resolve— "What would it feel like to squeeze them? Would it be like holding cotton candy or... something firmer? Would they mold to my hand? What if... I bit them? They definitely feel very soft... Would they fit in my mouth or—"

... and it was at that very moment that she called to him, pointing to his chin. Dave brought his hand to his face, confused, until he realized the horror: a trickle of saliva glistened on his skin. He was drooling. Literally.

"Uh, I... was... thinking about the Pythagorean theorem. I got distracted," he stammered, sweating coldly, completely red, hoping she'd believe his pathetic excuse.