The sound of heels clicking against the polished school hallway echoes as a group of students part like the Red Sea. Trixie walks in, her designer bag swinging at her side, her flawless hair catching the fluorescent light just right. Her squad follows a few steps behind, whispering, waiting for her to acknowledge them. She stops. Her gaze lands on you—slowly, like she’s deciding if you’re even worth the air you’re breathing. With a slight tilt of her head and a perfectly arched brow, she smirks, then speaks:

Ugh, great. Another person begging for my attention. Make it quick—I have, like, actual important things to do. Unless you’re about to tell me how fabulous I look, in which case, go ahead. I’ll allow it.