"Get up. Get up! Hey Nieve! You dumb ass, wake up! Thud. Niiiiiieve!!"

I jerked awake, blinking at the girl standing over me with her backpack slung casually over one shoulder.

"Mera? What the hell? Why are you screaming like a banshee?"

"The class is over," she said, folding her arms across her chest like some disappointed mother hen. "And you were drooling in Miss Dolly's lecture."

"Oh?" I rubbed my eyes, confused, before glancing at my watch. My eyes widened. "Oh shit—"

"—we have Mr. Cooper's class," Mera finished for me, rolling her eyes. "Now come on. I already picked up your books from the library."

"Aww, so sweet of you," I cooed, throwing my arms around her dramatically.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. Leave—you're choking me."

"Oops. Solly."

Hello world, my name is Nieve Winston, age 18 (well, in two months, but who's counting). I live in Ottawa. And that bossy girl beside me? That's Mera, my best friend. If you look up all-rounder in a dictionary, you'd probably find her picture there. She's that person who's perfect at literally everything—cheerleading, basketball, dancing, singing, maybe even underwater basket weaving, who knows. Basically, the kind of girl that makes teachers gush and students jealous.

And me? Pfft. People always expect me to be some goddess with long red hair, sharp jawline, and lips like Scarlett Johansson. Wrong. Dead wrong. I am the human embodiment of a potato. Yep, soft, round, and lazy. Don't get me wrong—sometimes I do get active... mostly when my Grammy waves her spatula at me like it's the Sword of Excalibur.

Anyway—

Thud. Something smacked the back of my head.

"Who the hell threw that ball?" Mera barked, scanning the crowded hallway like a guard dog on duty.

"Ah, sorry Me-raaa," a boy stammered as he jogged up, looking guilty. "It was... un-in-ten-tional."

"Of course," Mera mocked. "Just like the last three weeks of unintentional balls hitting my bestie's head."

Cue dramatic entrance: Trevor, the school's self-proclaimed king. Aka the ponce. He swaggered over, tall, muscular, and annoyingly smug, like he owned not just the school but also the oxygen supply we were breathing.

"Why so hyper, baby girl?" he smirked, sliding an arm across his chest like he was posing for a cologne ad. "It's just my ball... lost its way to you." He winked. "Unlucky me, it hit your frumpy little friend instead."

Bingo. There it was. The insult.

See, every high school has that one guy—the walking cliché. Perfect hair, daddy's money, steroids-injected muscles, and a fan club of minions who laugh at his every bad joke. He wasn't Trevor. He was Mayor's Son Trevor™.

Mera squared her shoulders, ready to bite back. "From last three weeks, you've been aiming at her, don't act innocent. You even pushed her on the stairs during assembly! Instead of saying sorry, you call her names?!"

Trevor's grin widened like he was enjoying the attention. "Oh, c'mon baby girl. For this frump you're going against me? Me—Trevor. Do you know how many girls I rejected just for you? Can't you see how much I like you? Let's make a deal—ditch her, be my girl, and I'll stop making her life hell. As long as you're with me, nobody will care about your mama."

That last word was venom. I saw Mera flinch, her fists clenching. A circle of students gathered around us, whispering and gasping like this was the highlight of their day. Trevor loved it. He always did.

He leaned in with mock thoughtfulness. "What was your mama called again? Oh yeah... arm candy, right?"

I stood up slowly, brushing imaginary dust off my shirt. Everyone's eyes snapped to me.

"No," I said calmly. "Her name was Hannah Roosevelt. Champion of tennis three years in a row, from 1984 to 1986. She beat Matilda Goode 1–5 in the finals. And she was so damn polite that our current mayor tried to break into her house just to stop her wedding."

The crowd murmured, some laughing, some gasping. I wasn't done.

"That little mayor—your daddy, Trevor—ended up marrying Matilda, Hannah's rival. Or should I say, he bought her from her family for a neat little sum. Why? Because rumor had it Matilda was pregnant... with a ponce." I wiggled my eyebrows dramatically. The hallway erupted in laughter.

Trevor's face turned crimson. He grabbed the ball and hurled it at me, but I ducked. It bounced off a locker with a loud clang.

I smirked. "Oh boy, wait—are you gonna cry in your hidden closet? Or run to Mama and complain?" My tone dropped sharp. "Listen, Trevor. You can flirt with whoever wants to be with you. But we're not interested. High school crushes don't last forever, but kindness does. People want someone with a heart—not some spoiled brat with daddy's name stamped on his forehead. You're not Trevor. You're just Mayor's Son."

I stepped close enough to whisper, low so only he heard. "Stay away from her... unless you want me to reveal more secrets about your little family, son of Miss Matilda."

He froze, jaw clenched, before turning and storming off. His minions scurried after him like lost puppies.

I stretched, yawning loudly. "Well. That was intense."

Did I mention? Along with being lazy... I'm savage. I may look like a potato, but my tongue? Sharp as Grammy's spatula.