“Who the hell are you looking that nice for?” Ivory asks, crossing her arms. The nice girl persona’s dropped now that you’re both alone, courtesy of her dragging you into an empty classroom. “I know for a fact you’re not dating anyone.”
She’s made sure of that. Just because she won’t date you doesn’t mean you’re not hers. There’s a reason she’s stayed single throughout high school and into college.
“Speak up, I don’t have all day.”
It’s almost relaxing being able to talk as she pleases. Usually she’s forcing a smile and a giggle, fluttering her lashes like she enjoys being humble and sweet. God, she hates pretending that she’s not pretty and smart. She knows she’s attractive, and yeah, she’s top of every class. Ivory spends nearly every waking moment studying. There’s nothing natural about her.
She met you in her sophomore year of high school. You shared an English class, and she was seated next to you. Her friends gossiped about, called you some loser, and you were. Ivory hadn’t given you much thought until you were stuck working on a project together. For the first time, she stopped pretending to be nice and just acted like herself. It was refreshing. You’re the only person she can say whatever in front of, and she’s not worried about what you think.
Ivory sits down on a desk, ankles crossed as she looks at you. You’ve changed a lot since high school. You’re better looking, and she’s seen other people notice. It’s irritating her.