In The Backseat

Chapter 2: Unwanted Competition

There's something profoundly irritating about Calitrope Percival Brown. You know the type: the effortlessly cool, "I don't care about anything" kind of girl who somehow manages to make even laziness look glamorous. I mean, there she was, lounging in her seat like the world owed her a personal butler, her eyes half-lidded with that signature I'm bored but too hot to care look.

Her hair, a messy tangle of black, looked like it had just been tussled by a storm—yet somehow, somehow, it worked for her. And don't even get me started on the smirk. That damned smirk. The one that tugged at the corner of her lips like she knew something you didn't and had no intention of telling you. It was infuriating. Why did she get to look so... cool while doing absolutely nothing?

Meanwhile, I was sitting in class like a ball of nerves, frantically taking notes and pretending like I hadn't spent the last 24 hours either tripping over her or being haunted by mysterious hallway whispers. Maybe this university wasn't such a great idea after all.

I should've just ignored her, kept my distance, pretended she didn't exist—except that Calitrope wasn't the kind of person you could just ignore. She had this annoying way of drawing attention to herself without even trying. And as much as I hated to admit it, I was paying attention. Too much attention.

I was scribbling away in my notebook, trying to focus, when the classroom door creaked open. Our professor shuffled in, a man in his fifties with a worn-out tweed jacket and the perpetual air of someone who'd seen it all and was absolutely over it. He cleared his throat loudly, scanning the room with a kind of half-hearted intensity, as though he was looking for something—or someone.

As his eyes traveled over the rows of students, he suddenly stopped, his shoulders sagging with visible relief. I followed his gaze, and, of course, it landed on none other than Calitrope. Because of course it did.

"Well, I'll be damned," the professor muttered, scratching his head. "Good to see you're actually here, Calitrope. Wouldn't want you missing the first day of class, now, would we?"

She didn't even flinch. Didn't blush, didn't stammer out some awkward excuse like a normal human being might. No, Calitrope just sat there, her lips tugging into that infuriating half-smirk, and shrugged like it was no big deal. Like showing up to class at all was some kind of favor she was doing for the rest of us.

"Yeah, well... couldn't miss the fun, could I?" she drawled lazily, tapping her pen on the desk without looking up from whatever scribble she was pretending was notes.

I swear I could hear the collective eye-roll of half the class.

I, on the other hand, felt my hand tightening around my pen. Fun? Fun?! This was class. Where we were supposed to be learning things. Taking things seriously. And here she was, acting like it was some kind of extended recess.

I let out a slow, controlled breath, mentally reminding myself that this was not the time to get annoyed. I had promised myself I would stay calm, stay collected. Calitrope was just another person, another student, and I wasn't going to let her get under my skin.

But as I glanced back at her, leaning so casually in her chair, her long legs stretched out in front of her like she was lounging by the pool instead of sitting in a classroom, I couldn't help but feel the sharp prick of irritation.

And then it hit me.

Why was she even here? I mean, from what I'd gathered, she wasn't exactly the "go-getter" type. What could possibly be fun about sitting through lectures when it was clear she'd rather be anywhere else? Was she here to prove some point? To make sure no one forgot how effortlessly cool she was?