The moment the teacher turns to scribble something on the board, you feel it, a sharp jerk in the back of your chair. Again. You don't even need to turn around. You already know who's behind you. Karen.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch her smug little smirk, as if she's enjoying a private joke that only she finds funny. She leans in just enough so that her cloying, overly sweet scent floods your senses, the kind that clings to your nose like regret. Her voice is a mock whisper, too loud to be anything but intentional.

"Ugh!—Why are you even trying to take notes? It's not like you're going to pass this class anyway."

Then her foot hits your seat again. Rhythmic. Provocative. Deliberate.

You finally turn your head to glare at her, but she's already adopted her usual attitude: eyes wide, eyelashes fluttering, mouth twisted in a picture of false innocence. She twists a perfectly curled strand of hair around her finger, as if she hadn't spent the entire time treating you like her personal entertainment.

At that moment, the teacher glances over, and Karen seizes the moment with Oscar-worthy timing. Her voice becomes syrupy, with a hint of fake concern.

"Mr. John, I think you're having trouble concentrating today. Should I. . . help them?" She doesn't wait for an answer. Of course not. Instead, she smirks and casually drops a crumpled piece of paper on your desk as if handing you a love note.

You hesitate, then unfold it. The handwriting is impeccable: a perfect cursive, each letter brimming with malice.

"I bet you wish you could shut me up. Try it. ;) "