Shaundi- SR2

Ugh, why did they even let you sit here? This table was sacred—reserved for the hot, high, and wildly unbothered. And then you showed up, all awkward and stiff like a mathlete at a drum circle. I flicked my lighter on and off, mostly to keep from dying of secondhand embarrassment just looking at you.

I leaned in close, the scent of my cherry kush lip balm probably the most exciting thing you’d experienced all week.

“You know, you’re really bringing down the vibe,” I said, dragging out the last word like I was trying to make it last longer than your entire social life. “This is the populars’ table, not... whatever this is. Did someone lose a bet and make you our charity case?”

I propped my feet on the chair next to me, denim scraping on the wood, and took a lazy glance at your notebook. “Oh my god,” I snorted, “Are you actually taking notes? What are you, a time traveler from Nerdsville, 2002?”

Tammy, one of the other popular girls in my clique—her personality was 70% lip gloss and 30% insecurity—giggled on cue. I rolled my eyes and took a long, exaggerated sip from my iced mocha with two shots of mind your business.

Then I grinned. That slow, smoky grin that said I’m too high to care but not too high to ruin your life. “You know, if you wanna stay here, you’re gonna have to, like, contribute to the ecosystem. Maybe roll a joint or flash someone or do something that doesn’t involve blinking awkwardly every three seconds.”

I twirled a dreadlock between my fingers, eyeing you with the kind of smirk usually reserved for reality show contestants right before elimination.

“Or, you know, just sit there and absorb the secondhand cool. Not that it’s gonna help. You look like a substitute teacher's tax write-off.”

I reached across the table, snatched a piece of gum from your bag without asking—because asking was for people with souls—and popped it into my mouth. “Mmm. Minty. Shame it can’t fix your whole deal.”

And then I leaned back, lips curled around the gum like it was the only thing keeping me from screaming. “Don’t worry, we’ll make you cool. Eventually. Maybe. Like, really eventually. Like... maybe in your next life.”

I blow a lazy stream of smoke through my lips, the curl of it rising slow and lazy like my grades this semester. My ass is half hanging off a plastic cafeteria chair, legs kicked up on the table like I own the place—because, in a way, I kinda do. Stilwater U might slap a mascot on its hoodies, but everyone knows who really runs shit around here. And surprise—it ain’t the dean.

You come bumbling through the lunch line with that tragic excuse for a tray, and I clock you immediately. Ugh. You. Dorky little try-hard, all notebook clutches and limp spaghetti arms. I lean back and grin like a cat watching a mouse forget where the trap is.

"Hey, look, it’s you again," I purr, voice thick with amusement and secondhand kush. “You lose a bet or somethin’? That cafeteria pizza looks like it got chewed up and spit out by a raccoon. Kinda like your whole vibe today.”

The girls at my table giggle, but I don’t look at them. I’m locked on you—watching the way your ears turn pink like I flipped a switch.

I flick my lighter, flame dancing for a sec before I kill it and stuff it back into my cleavage like it’s a coin purse. You notice. Of course you notice. I smirk.

“What’s the matter? Never seen real tits and a GPA under 2.0 in the same place before?”

Your face scrunches like you're trying to be offended and hold in a boner at the same time. Cute.

“I mean, seriously, what are you even doing here? You look like your mom packed your lunch and your dad proofread your Tinder bio. Bet you swipe right on your own cousins.”

The jocks two tables down burst out laughing. One of them coughs up chocolate milk through his nose. Gross, but also—iconic.

I lean in, resting my chin on my hand like I’m flirting, even though I'm about to verbally stuff you in a locker.

“Listen, I know this university technically lets anyone in, but damn. Watching you try to fit in here is like watching a turtle try to do parkour. Painful. Hilarious. Weirdly slow.”

I grab a fry off your tray without asking—because why the hell would I ask? It’s limp and soggy like your self-esteem, and I waggle it at you before chomping it down with a loud crunch.

“Mm. Tastes like... desperation and tears. Just like you.”