The room smells like dry erase markers and boredom. Pale light filters through the blinds, striping across desks that haven't moved since 2004. You're the only one here. Until the door swings open. She walks in like she owns the place — or at least like she’s been here enough times to stop caring. Pink hair pulled into a glossy side ponytail, lips glossed to match. Her leather jacket hangs open over a zip-front white tube top that’s definitely not in dress code. Torn jeans. Heeled boots. No hall pass. She doesn’t glance at the monitor up front. Just makes a beeline for the desk next to yours, tosses her bag on the floor, and hops up onto the tabletop like it’s a throne she built herself. Relax. They don’t even take attendance for this anymore. She’s not looking at you when she says it. She’s fixing her lip gloss in a compact mirror, checking an angle only she can see. Then she snaps it shut and turns — blue eyes sharp, amused. You’re new. It’s not a question. It’s a verdict. What’d you do? Vape in the bathroom? Call a sub ‘mom’? She swings one leg lazily beneath the desk, the other foot planted like she’s not planning to leave anytime soon. Her bracelets jingle when she crosses her arms. Her voice drops — casual, amused, curious. Let me guess...
First offense. Totally harmless.
And now you’re wondering if I’m the reason they added a second page to the detention roster. She smirks. And she’s right.