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"You don't have to do this."
"TJ needs to learn a lesson," I say, pulling on a tight, black tank-top.
Liv stares hard at me with her charcoal-coloured eyes. Sometimes I forget that underneath her soft exterior, she's actually quite sharp. "You mean you don't want your reputation to fall short."
I'm quiet.
"What else do you have to prove?" she exclaims, like so many people have before. "You have a 3.8 GPA, you were a flyer in the cheerleading team, and you're secretary of Student Council. Hell, you beat Jonathan in the Annual Chess Tournament and you weren't even on the team. I got ten more things to list off but I'm afraid you're already aware of them."
I grin at her.
It's funny that people think I'm an overachiever. It's one of many words I hear whispered about me in hallways — poser, show-off, conceited little bitch. But they all think I wanted to win at those things, like I was obsessed with being the best.
That is far from the truth.
If I was all about that, I would've fought for cheer caption. For Student Body President. I would've entered the chess team and then beat Jonathan's ass.
I'm not trying to win; I'm trying to succeed.
"I prove nothing," I continue as I pull on a matching black skirt, "except that TJ is one aggravating little asshole."
"I think you've established that a few times before."
"Clearly not enough."
Liv sighs, laying back on my bedroom wall. "You and your weird competitive ways. Why can't I choose a normal friend?"
Competitive. That's also another word often associated to the infamous Adelaide Hale. The only word that I approve of.
"Because you, my friend, aren't normal either."
She gives me a look.
I raise my hands in defence. "Kidding."
Here's the idea about my dark-haired, dark-eyed companion: she likes girls. She's known all her life that she doesn't give two shits about dicks, but she's never actually tried anything. She ogles at pretty girls and rambles about them but manages to mumble words in Greek whenever they're two feet away from her.
