He doesn’t even notice me stop in front of my desk and stare at him. He’s a jock, a soccer player by the looks of his stupid black hoodie with the soccer team logo on it. He’s chatting with two other equally stupid soccer players who are sitting in the next row.

I clear my throat.

He doesn’t even look over.

“Excuse you,” I say, loud enough to get his attention. “Your feet are on my chair.”

His eyes meet mine. They’re a bright blue, and would match his short brown hair nicely if he wasn’t a stupid jock douche. Shawn was a jock, a baseball player to be exact, and because of him I now hate not only every short girl, but every jock as well.

“What’s the magic word?” he says. He gives me this stupid smirk like he’s stupid enough to think I’m going to ask him nicely to move his feet off my chair. And to make matters worse, his stupid friends laugh like this is all some funny game. I’m tired of playing games with guys.

I sling my backpack off my shoulders, and swoop it down, using it to knock his feet off my chair in one quick motion. “The magic word is get the fuck off my desk,” I say.

And then I sit down, ignoring the laughter from his idiot friends.