Several years earlier, I was walking along the corridor minding my own business, holding a couple of textbooks and already running five minutes late for my next class, when two girls popped out of nowhere like human trapdoors and yanked me straight into the girls’ bathroom.
Before I could scream or twist out of their freakishly strong grip, they shoved me up against the tiled wall.
And there she was.
Cassandra Eston.
Arms crossed, legs all smugly posed like she was modelling for an evil sorority magazine. She looked me up and down and wrinkled her nose like I’d personally offended her with my existence.
"Ugh, don’t you know how to dress? You always look like you shop at the ten-dollar store."
I almost laughed. Not because it was funny—but because she knew. She knew my wardrobe came c
