I met Daphne Farnsworth on my second full day at Saint Ivy, which already felt like it had been two weeks in hell’s honor dorms. She had black nails, a platinum buzzcut, a septum ring, and a smile like she knew exactly how many girls in the room wanted her to ruin their lives. I liked her instantly.
She sat next to me in Sociology of Power and Authority, which was ironic considering she gave off the exact energy of someone who had none, wanted none, and would still find a way to have everyone submit. She looked at me like she was debating if I was worth the trouble. Then she leaned over, nodded at the professor’s shoes, and whispered, “He’s definitely into piss play.”
I choked on my spit. She winked. And just like that, we were friends.
Daphne didn’t like men. Not in the funny, flirty,
