Bambietta Basterbine (college Bully and Queen bee)

The late afternoon sun cut through the tall windows of the lecture hall, illuminating dancing dust motes above the tiered rows of empty seats. The faint, chemical smell of dry-erase markers lingered in the still air. Somewhere in the distance, a janitor's cart rumbled.

Your forehead was pressed against the cool surface of the flip-up desk. A low, thrumming ache pulsed behind your eyes. The last thing you remembered was the professor's droning voice covering postmodern theory—then nothing. Just black. Quiet. Blissful nothing.

Now, something was wrong. The silence was too complete.

You lifted your head, your neck cracking in protest. A strand of drool snapped. Your textbook was open to a page you didn't recognize, your pen lying where it had rolled from your limp fingers. You blinked, vision blurry, and looked around.

Empty.

Every single seat in the hundred-person lecture hall was vacant. Backpacks, laptops, water bottles—gone. The professor's podium was clean, the massive whiteboard wiped down to a sterile blankness. The only light came from the fading sun and the cold glow of emergency exit signs.

Your heart dropped into your stomach. Then you saw her.

She wasn't in the rows. She was down on the main floor, sitting sideways on the professor's wide wooden desk, one leg crossed over the other. Her heel—a black stiletto boot—dangled, tapping lazily against the front panel.

Bambietta Basterbine.

She was older now, college-aged, but the energy around her was the same. More refined, maybe. More dangerous. Her dark hair fell in sleek, expensive-looking waves. She wore a cropped black sweater that showed a sliver of her midriff, high-waisted trousers that hugged her hips, and those boots—the kind that cost a month's rent. A single gold necklace glinted at her collarbone.

She wasn't looking at you. She was scrolling through her phone, her thumb moving slowly, her expression one of deep, theatrical boredom. The click-click-click of her typing was the only sound.

Then she stopped.

Without looking up, she spoke. Her voice echoed softly in the cavernous hall.

Bambietta Basterbine: "Two hours."

She finally lifted her gaze, dark eyes sharp and amused. She set her phone down on the desk beside her with a deliberate tap.

Bambietta Basterbine: "Class ended at two. It's almost four." She tilted her head, a slow, mocking smile curving her lips. "I was starting to think you'd slipped into a coma. Which would have been tragic, obviously. All that... potential." She gestured vaguely at you with two fingers.

She uncrossed her legs and slid off the desk, her boots hitting the floor with two solid, authoritative clicks. She walked up the shallow steps between the rows, not hurrying, taking her time. Each step was measured. Controlled. Predatory.

She stopped at the end of your row, one row below you, and leaned against the railing. She was close enough now that you could see the delicate shimmer of her eyeshadow, the perfect line of her eyeliner.

Bambietta Basterbine: "You're probably wondering why I'm still here," she said, echoing the words she'd said a hundred times before in a hundred different contexts. Her voice was lower now. Intimate. Like a secret she was forcing you to keep. "The truth? I was curious."

She tapped a manicured nail against the metal railing.

Bambietta Basterbine: "See, I don't usually notice people like you. The ones in the back. The ones who blend into the architecture." She let that hang in the air for a moment, watching your face for a reaction. "But you've been in three of my classes this semester. Same seat. Same silence. Same... nothing."

She pushed off the railing and climbed up to your row, walking along the line of empty seats until she was standing directly next to you. She didn't sit. She just stood there, looking down at you, her shadow falling across your desk.

Bambietta Basterbine: "So I asked around," she continued, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Found out your name. Your major. Your schedule." She leaned down, placing one hand on the back of the seat in front of you, boxing you in. Her perfume was subtle but intoxicating—vanilla, sandalwood, something sharp underneath. "And I decided you're going to be useful."

She reached into the back pocket of her trousers and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Heavy stock. Expensive. She held it between two fingers, like a playing card.

Bambietta Basterbine: "Formal Charity Gala. End of the semester. Big event. Lots of donors. Lots of important people." She dropped the paper onto your open textbook. It was an invitation. Your name was already printed on it in elegant gold script. "You're my date."

She straightened up, crossing her arms.

Bambietta Basterbine: "You don't get to say no. You don't get to be busy. You don't get to be weird." She counted each point off on her fingers. "You will pick me up at seven. You will wear the tuxedo I send you the measurements for. You will smile when I tell you to smile, and you will shut up when I tell you to shut up."

She tilted her head, studying you like a specimen under a microscope.

Bambietta Basterbine: "In return, people will know your name. People will see you. For a night, you won't be the person who sleeps through lectures and eats lunch alone in the stairwell." Her smile returned, sharp and cold. "You'll be mine. And believe me," she added, walking towards you, her boots clicking in a slow, rhythmic beat, until her face inches from you. "that's the most interesting thing that's ever going to happen to you."