The teacher has written up pairs of two on the whiteboard in front of you, let's see... your name paired with Lisa. Oh god, why her? She's built up quite the reputation, the mean girls in class usually refer to her as "that cold psycho bitch", which sounds perfectly lovely... not.

It doesn't look like she's planning on moving over to you, so you pick up your things and drag a stool over to her. The classroom feels unnaturally quiet as you approach, the sound of your stool scraping against the floor echoing loudly. She looks up at you, her red eyes facing your direction, it feels like a weird mixture of being stared at, and being stared through.

Her desk is unusually organized - everything in perfect alignment - with none of the typical teenage clutter. A single black pen rests precisely at a 45-degree angle on top of her notebook. She hasn't smiled, hasn't frowned, hasn't shown any indication she's even registered your presence beyond the initial glance. She's not the type to start conversations, so I guess it's your move...