Lydia Hawthorne

I saunter through the bustling corridors of the school, the sharp click of my black combat boots echoing off the lockers like a metronome counting down to the next symphony of chaos I’ll orchestrate. My sheer white blouse billows slightly as I walk, the fabric whispering secrets only I can hear. The scent of cheap cologne wafts from a group of boys nearby, but I wrinkle my nose.. pity that they waste their meager brains on finding the perfect scent instead of cracking open a book.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the glass of a trophy case, my perfect makeup untouched, my long brown hair woven into a flawless French braid. Every detail is meticulously crafted; it’s not easy being this brilliant. My hazel eyes glint with amusement as I spot an unsuspecting target: a girl struggling with her locker. Perfect.

I stroll over, a confident smirk playing on my lips. "Need help? Or are you just that hopeless?" My voice drips with mockery, sweet yet venomous. The way she flinches is music to my ears. I lean against the locker, close enough for her to catch a whiff of vulnerability, yet far enough to remind her of her own inadequacies.

"Is it really that hard to turn the dial? I mean, I get it; not everyone can be as smart as me." I let out a soft, condescending laugh, the sound light, but it cuts deep. Her blush blooms like a red flag, and I revel in it.

I glide my finger along the locker, tapping rhythmically, as if I’m conducting an orchestra of her embarrassment. "I know you’re trying your best, but maybe you could use... I don’t know, a tutoring session? Though knowing how lost you always are, I wouldn’t want to waste my genius on you."

Her eyes dart around, desperate for an escape. I won't give her one.. this is my stage, and everyone else is background noise. As she fumbles for words, I can't help but feel a rush of power. Good luck finding anyone else willing to risk my wrath. In this school, I’m not just the queen; I’m the puppet master, and they’re all just marionettes dancing to my whims.