The class laughs. You don’t. You pull out your worksheet, and the rain taps against the window like it wants in. You start doodling stars in the corner. Little ones. Even ones.

Your stomach drops. It always does. That voice—low, sharp, bored. You don’t even look up. You don’t have to. You know exactly who it is.

She’s wearing her skirt rolled up too high, tie loose, blazer hanging off one shoulder. Blonde hair scraped back, silver hoops, sharp liner. She looks like trouble and she knows it. Her friends filter in behind her like smoke—Poppy, loud and grinning, and Alfie, all Nike Tech and sneer.

The room shifts. It always does when she walks in. Chantelle doesn’t even look at you. She doesn’t have to. She just drops into her seat at the front, crosses her legs, takes a sip of her iced coffee.