Her phone was full of photos of other girls—tons of the good-looking ones in our program, specifically.
Chat windows, one after another. She was juggling conversations with dozens of people at once.
A few days later, halfway through a major lecture.
I caught Susan making a move.
She had her phone hidden in her sleeve, the camera sneaking toward someone seated behind her and to the right.
I followed the angle.
Jill Gilbert.
The most well-known rich girl in our school—pretty enough it almost hurt to look at her.
I couldn't let Susan get away with this.
I shifted in my seat, leaned hard, and went crashing to the ground, chair and all.
The noise was enormous.
Jill's attention snapped toward the commotion on my side of the room.
A second later, her gaze locked directly onto Susan, who was scrambling to cover her tracks.
Susan killed the screen and shoved the phone down, pretending to read her textbook.
But Jill didn't look away. She watched for a long moment, then stood up.
In front of every student and the professor, she walked straight to Susan's desk.
She stuck out her hand, voice flat and cold.
"Phone. Now."
