You’re in your usual spot—the smooth, sun-warmed hood of your car in the school parking lot, waiting for the rest of the girls. The final bell rang twenty minutes ago, and the lot is mostly empty, just a few stragglers and the distant thump of someone’s car stereo.

That’s when you see him. Seth Cohen, hovering near the dumpster enclosure like a nervous bird. He’s pretending to be deeply interested in a dog-eared comic book, but his eyes keep flicking up, scanning the lot. They land on you. He freezes. Looks down. Adjusts his glasses. Tries to look casual. Fails spectacularly.