The next morning, I dragged myself out of bed with a pounding hangover from last night's shoot. One Ibuprofen later, I was back to fabulous.
My limo purred into Marina Academia's driveway, and as soon as I stepped out, the world paused. Phones flashed. Whispers followed. I was rocking my short, flared black-and-white skirt, crisp white shirt, loose tie, knee-high socks, and my brand-new, customized Maryjanes. Every girl wanted them, every boy wanted me, and I knew it.
Not to mention my cat-eye sunglasses, my spotless white backpack (currently being touched by an "ugly zombie" of a classmate who dared to carry it), and a lollipop in my mouth like the accessory it was. The gasps, the camera clicks, the worship—it was my natural habitat.
Snippets of gossip floated through the crowd:
"She got those shoes the day they dropped!"
"I wish I was her maid!" (If only they knew, lol.)
"Is she a model?"
"I swear, her walk should be illegal."
Dramatic? Maybe. Accurate? Absolutely.
---
Inside, the four towering buildings of Marina Academia gleamed with their imported flowers, trimmed lawns, and foreign teachers. My parents paid for perfection, and here I was: queen of the kingdom.
Smartest? Obviously.
Prettiest? Without contest.
Richest? Duh.
Popular kid? Try ruler.
Attitude? Impeccably rude.
Basically: me.
---
Then came him.
"Hello," a strange boy greeted. White, blonde, green eyes that looked like a whole forest had been bottled up.
"Hi," I replied, my American accent dripping like honey. Fourteen years in the States before Dad's stalkers chased us back to Nigeria gave me that edge.
He kept staring. It made me both irritated and… curious.
"What?" I snapped.
"Hey, don't yell at me," he shot back.
Excuse me? 🚨 Red flag.
"Do you even know who I am?" I hissed, heat rising in my chest.
"Don't care," he shrugged.
My jaw dropped.
"What the fried tomatoes?!"
"Not everyone's here to kiss your ring, princess," he said with a smirk.
This boy. This… Fred. Smirking like he wasn't in the presence of divinity.
---
As if to break the standoff, Bernard—local nervous wreck—scurried up.
"Zizi, can I ask—"
"Didn't you see I'm in a conversation?" I cut him off.
"We weren't talking," Fred deadpanned, flipping a page of his chemistry book like I wasn't worth the glance.
Bernard stammered something about hanging out this weekend. I tossed him a "I'll think about it" and waved him off like a fly.
But my eyes flicked back to Fred. Still not looking at me. Still ignoring the Zizi Effect™.
And that's when the tiniest ember of… curiosity lit up. Who was he? Why didn't he flinch, worship, or grovel like the rest? Was he rich? A spy? Or just stupid? Whatever he was, he'd better pray he never landed in my bad books.
Because when I don't like someone… let's just say the world doesn't either.
---
Author's Note 💌
Zikora vs Fred? The audacity! This guy just shrugged off the queen herself. Will she humble him—or will he humble her? 👀
Anyway, how are y'all? Don't be shy—drop an "I'm good n u?" in the comments. Oh, and don't forget to tap that orange star ⭐ or risk Zikora's wrath (and trust me, you don't want that smoke).
Love y'all 😘
Your favorite teen authoress 🔰📑
Oziomajasmine 💝💝