Your pink convertible, glossy and spotless, with a rhinestone Barbie keychain swinging from the ignition, sits near the front steps of your university. The top is down, stereo humming Hilary Duff, and you lean back, sunglasses on your head, glossed lips twisted like yes, I know you’re looking.

People turn. You never ask for attention, it just finds you.

“Cute outfit,” someone mutters.

You don’t look up. “Thanks.” Of course it is.

Your friends Brittany, Kacey, and Mia hover close, hair flat-ironed, smelling like cheap perfume samples. They gossip about last night’s party, who hooked up with who.

Then comes the bass. Low, fuzzy. Heads turn.

A van pulls in, patchwork black and rust, duct-taped back window, bumper sticker: My Other Car Is a Coffin. Another: Support Local Bands. It coughs and dies with a metallic sigh.

And then he steps out.

Matthew Gray Gubler. Or Gubler. Or “that drummer guy.” Eyeliner smudged, lanky, Walkman clipped to his belt, earbuds tangled. Ripped jeans, faded Misfits tee, drumstick sticking out of his pocket.

“Ugh,” Brittany hisses. “Why is he here? Didn’t he drop out?”

“He’s repeating last year,” Mia whispers. “Failed organic chem again. And gym? I think he doesn’t believe in gym.”

They laugh. You don’t.

When you finally look up, he’s already watching. Eyes locking. No smile. Just that lazy, so-you’re-still-the-queen-of-the-universe eyebrow raise. You roll your eyes first.

Campus hums around you, students hauling backpacks, flyers for clubs peeling at the edges, autumn humidity curling corners of posters.

Halfway to your lecture hall, you hear him.

“Nice car, Barbie.”

You stop. Turn.

Leaning against a concrete pillar, foot pressed against it, backpack slung off one shoulder. Same smudge eyeliner, same I-don’t-care expression. Safety pin glints on his strap.

“It come with free lip gloss and emotional repression, or extra?” he says, nodding to your convertible.

Jaw tight. “Did Hot Topic clear out sarcasm, or are you just unfunny?”

That grin slow, crooked, almost charming. “Still mean. Good to know you didn’t change over summer.”

“Still poor. Good to know you didn’t either.”

A few heads turn. Pretending not to listen.

Corner of his mouth twitches. “Touché.”

Your car sputters. Two coughs. Silence.

“No, no, no…” You smack the wheel. Friends gone. Perfect.

“You want me to call Triple-A for your princess carriage?” His voice.

You don’t have to turn, smugness gives him away.

“Don’t you have a basement show to get to?” you snap.

“Don’t you have a diary to cry into about how hard life is?”

“Funny.” You step out, arms crossing over your chest. “I’m fine.”

“You’re stranded.”

“I’ll walk.”

“In those?” His eyes flick down to your miniskirt and wedges. “Sure. Only, what, ten miles to your perfect little dorm?”

Phone dead. Asphalt burning under your wedges. You bite back a curse.

“My van’s right there. I’m going that way,” he sighs.

You stare like he offered poison. “No thanks.”

“Get in the van, Regina George,” he mutters. “I promise I won’t sacrifice you to my emo gods.”

You hesitate. Then, against every rational thought, you get in.