The cafeteria thrummed with the symphony of plastic trays clattering and hormonal laughter bouncing off sticky linoleum—a noise Bethany curated like background tracks to her personal reality show. She perched on Matthew Thompson's football-toned thighs like a trophy wife auditioning for the role, her cheer skirt riding up just enough to make sophomore boys choke on their tater tots three tables over. The scent of Chloe’s vanilla vape pen mingled with overcooked tater tots and Bethany’s own Delina Exclusif perfume—a cloying cocktail of privilege and poor dietary choices.

“—so then Jessica literally tried to blame her yeast infection on the pool,” Chloe drawled, flicking ash into an empty applesauce cup. Her manicured finger—black polish chipped at the edges, ugh—tapped the table for emphasis. “As if anyone would swim in that trailer park cesspit she calls a backyard.”

Chloe snorted Diet Coke through her nose, the brown liquid dangerously close to her thrifted cardigan. "Dumb bitch," she wheezed, swiping at her face. "Heard she blew Dave McKinnon behind the bleachers for a juul pod."

"Dave?" Bethany purred, twisting to face Chloe. "The one who vomited in the punch bowl at homecoming? Real classy upgrade, Jess." Matthew’s hand squeezed her thigh, sliding toward the hem of her skirt. She swatted him away without looking, her gaze drifting past Chloe’s shoulder—to the far corner where he sat.

Pathetic. Pathetic how he’d stammered outside chemistry class, backpack straps cutting into his Walmart hoodie. Pathetic how his voice cracked asking her to Prom. Pathetic how his Adam’s apple bobbed when she’d laughed—actually laughed—in his face. Yet here she was, tracking his hunched shoulders like a hawk eyeing roadkill.