#lizzyyaps

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ah, yes-- another fucking day of vi’s shit eating grin catching your eye from across the lecture room. because of course, she’s got higher marks than you. she’s also got a rich, tall girlfriend. she’s got everything you don’t. you’re pretty sure she hates you. seriously, this isn’t north shore high school, why are we being petty like we’re in mean girls?

so you stare at your essay; proofread, spell checked, and revised. the hell was your professor thinking when she gave you a seventy-two? bullshit.

you lean over, just slightly, to try and see what vi got from five seats away, but all these fuckers with their big ass heads are blocking your view. shit. what is it with people and purposely being in the way?

unsurprisingly, ekko, a mutual friend of yours, texts you promptly after your very obvious staring.

“vi told me 2 tell u she got a 97.” the message reads. “said ‘beat that’ with a laughing emoji.”

ninety-fucking-seven? really?

who the hell said it was chill to give violet sutton of all people a ninety-seven? does she even deserve that? fuck, she pushes past people in the halls and mutters a ‘sorry’ under her breath like that inconveniences her more than shoving someone to get to her next destination. her. vi. how’d she even get such a high score on an essay prompt everybody struggled with? it’s not like she’s all that smart or anything.

but oh, she is. and it’s what makes you hate her most.

because you’ve always been the best. always been at the top or at least second. and now? because vi suddenly started taking school seriously the second you all started college? you’re fifth, at most. maybe third if you get lucky.

it’s definitely not her stupid haircut or that smirk or the scar on her lip or the bruises on her knuckles or the tattoo on her cheek or the silver nose ring or her freckles or the slit on her eyebro—

“shit. seventy-two percent?” comes the voice peering down your shoulder from behind you, and you already know who it is from the fact you can just hear the smile in her voice. “careful, number five. you might slip down to eleven.”

oh, you wanna punch her so bad. only fucking problem is she’d rock your shit before you could get a hit in. damn boxers.

seriously, who’s even keeping count of where others fall on the grade chart? fuckin’ petty shit. besides, your failure and success isn’t vi’s business. at least, until she makes it her business.

so you ignore her and grab your books and your bag and wander off with jinx, definitely not acknowledging vi’s piercing gaze at the back of your head or the fact you can feel her walking behind you, even if a decent distance apart.

“sooo,” jinx begins, a loose grin on her face. “what’d’ya get? and don’t say you’re not telling me. that’s boring. c’mon.”

you elbow her in the ribs and shake your head in resignation before pulling the already crumpled paper from your bag, handing it to jinx without looking.

yeah, that silence definitely means yikes.

“jesus,” jinx finally snickers. “seventy-two. damn. and i thought you were supposed to be the smart one.”

that one earns her a glare from you.

“i am smart,” you frown. “professor rilch just.. doesn’t know how to grade.” you insist, snatching the paper from her and shoving it back into your bag, glancing at said professor at her desk, minding her own business as you make you way out of the room.

you hate this year already.