The smell of new notebooks and freshly uncapped highlighters filled the air as Alex Dunphy slid into her usual spot—front row, dead center. First day of senior year. Her last dance.
One more year of dealing with idiotic jocks and girls who only cared about their looks before she could finally escape. Next year, she'd be surrounded by her true peers—the intellectual elite. College applications loomed on the horizon, a storm cloud that made her equal parts nervous and excited.
Around her, half the class was still shuffling in, looking like they hadn't even glanced at the reading list. Alex adjusted her glasses, determined to mind her own business and focus. But, of course, the universe had other plans.
Behind her, two girls were very much not discreet in their whispering. Let's call them Barbie One and Barbie Two.
Barbie Two was practically bragging about how she'd finally slept with a certain boy after a summer party. Alex couldn't help overhearing, considering the girl was whispering at the volume of a lawnmower. The details were… disturbing. Something about sneaking into the woods, something about it being "semi-illegal," and way too much gushing over how "hot" it had been.
Alex's eyebrow twitched. Was that even something to brag about? She honestly didn't know. How could a high school girl be this shameless?
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mrs. Holloway, the English Literature teacher, strode into the classroom. Her heels clicked sharply against the linoleum floor, echoing like a metronome that measured every impatient second Alex had been enduring.
She began speaking in her calm, practiced tone about the importance of senior year—how it was the final stretch, the time to push themselves, to refine their intellect, and to prepare for the world beyond high school. Alex nodded along politely, though inwardly she was already assessing which classmates would survive the year and which would collapse under the weight of expectations.
The air carried the faint scent of paper and pencil shavings, mixed with the lingering aroma of someone's peppermint gum. Sunlight spilled through the windows, dust motes floating lazily above the desks, and Alex found herself counting the seconds until she could dive into the syllabus and start organizing her notes.
"And we'll start the year with The Great Gatsby," Mrs. Holloway announced, placing the book on her desk with deliberate care. Its glossy cover shimmered faintly in the sunlight. "I expect thoughtful discussion and insightful analysis. Remember, this class is about understanding not just the words on the page, but the world they reflect."
A few students murmured in excitement, others groaned quietly. Alex's eyes flicked around the room, noting the uneven stacks of textbooks, the scattered pens, the bored expressions of some classmates. She adjusted her glasses, straightened her posture, and made a mental note: This is going to be another year of carrying the class on my own, apparently.
Mrs. Holloway clasped her hands together. "Alright, let's start with a debate. The Great Gatsby—classic American literature or an overrated melodrama? Who wants to begin?"
Alex straightened in her chair, raising her hand immediately. "Fitzgerald's novel is a masterful critique of the American Dream. Gatsby embodies the illusion of self-made success, chasing a dream that was never truly within his grasp. His downfall proves that wealth cannot buy happiness, and the past is an illusion we can never return to." She finished with confidence, her voice sharp and precise.
"Very good, Miss Dunphy," Mrs. Holloway praised. "Anyone else have an opinion? Any counter-arguments? Come on, guys, we can't have a debate with only one student."
Alex glanced around the classroom, noticing the sea of blank faces. Nobody moved. Nobody even breathed noticeably—except for a light, rhythmic snoring coming from somewhere in the back.
Mrs. Holloway's eyes narrowed as she scanned the room, hunting for a volunteer. Her gaze landed on the source of the noise. "Mr. Allister," she said, raising an eyebrow, "wake up. It's a desk, not a bed."
The class erupted into quiet stifled laughs, and Alex couldn't help but roll her eyes. Of course, there's always one guy who ruins the perfect classroom vibe.
Of course—it had to be him.
Jasper Allister.
Tall—ridiculously tall—broad shoulders framed by a leather jacket that definitely wasn't school-approved. His dark wavy hair fell into place effortlessly, like he'd spent hours on it but somehow looked like he'd just rolled out of bed. And those eyes—icy blue, sharp, like he could see straight through anyone in the room.
The school's resident party boy and playboy. Rumor had it he even had a criminal record. Alex wasn't sure if that was true, but the stories about the number of girls he'd dated—or more—were enough to make her want to hide behind her notebook. Many whispered he was a literal sex god. Probably an exaggeration… but who knew?
When it became obvious he wasn't waking up, Mrs. Holloway finally muttered, "Will someone please wake him?"
The girl sitting next to him didn't just tap him—she gently caressed his back, as if he were made of porcelain. Alex could hear a few girls murmur about how lucky she was.
Jasper finally lifted his head, letting out a lazy smile. "Hi, gorgeous."
The girl blushed fiercely. "Mrs. Holloway is call calling you… ," she stammered, retreating to her seat, cheeks burning red.
Jasper ran a hand through his hair, then leaned back and called out to the front, loud enough for everyone to hear: "What's up, teach?"
Alex pinched the bridge of her nose and muttered under her breath, Of course it's him. Of course the class has to start with the one guy who makes every teacher sigh and every girl swoon.
She tried to focus on the front, on Mrs. Holloway's patiently raised eyebrows, on the syllabus she'd already memorized in her head. But it was impossible. Jasper's smirk lingered in her peripheral vision, his effortless charm radiating across the classroom like a sun she didn't ask to be under.
And that smile… Alex scowled inwardly. Ugh, it's unfair. How can someone look like he owns the world without even trying?
Her hands tightened around her notebook. Stay professional, Alex. Don't get distracted. He's trouble.
Meanwhile, a few classmates whispered and giggled, stealing glances at Jasper. Alex's lips pressed into a thin line, partly annoyed, partly… curious. She didn't want to admit it, but even from the back of the room, it was impossible to ignore him.
Mrs. Holloway cleared her throat. "Mr. Allister, perhaps you'd like to contribute to the debate, rather than sleep through it?"
Jasper stretched lazily, yawned dramatically, then smirked at the teacher. "Sure, teach. I was just… uh… contemplating Gatsby's tragic flaws in my sleep."
The class erupted in quiet laughter, and Alex rolled her eyes so hard she almost felt them click.
Jasper leaned back in his chair, stretching his long arms lazily. "Let me think… Gatsby? He was just a fool in love. Didn't know when to quit. Nothing profound about it—just human nature. People chase things they can't have all the time. Doesn't mean it's tragic. Just… predictable."
Alex leaned back in her chair, letting out a quiet sigh. Of course. Senior year. My last dance. And somehow, I'm stuck in a classroom full of idiots, with a sleeping playboy who thinks human tragedy is "predictable" and everyone else too busy staring at him to care about the actual discussion. Just my luck.