Or, You Could Get Punched In The Face

You, an Honor Student, a Man of Science, and all-around person of High Academic Esteem, simply didn’t believe in silly things like the stereotype of the ‘fiery Latina’.

So when you try to turn back to your desk, only for Allie to reach out, grab your collar, and haul off with her fist into your face, you’re a little unprepared.

One or both of your desks proceed to topple to the ground from the **** of the blow, and you find yourself lying on your back with a groan, a throbbing cheek, and the Rulebook draped over your face. Gingerly tugging the Rulebook down past your eyes, they widen as you see Allie climbing back to her feet, before looking to the side and then all about in search of support from your fellow, loyal peers.

“FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT!” the class chants, spear-headed by Douglas Medway, the asshole.

“Traitors—!” You gurgle out, before frightfully covering your head with your hands and, by extension, the Rulebook in case she takes another swing.

She doesn’t, but you still clutch the Rulebook protectively all throughout the process of ending up sitting in the lobby just outside the principal’s office, a measly single chair dividing you from Allie as she sits with her arms crossed and an almost-visible plume of smoke drifting up out of her skull and towards the ceiling. A nice faculty member that you really should have gotten the name of in order to reward later had gotten you an ice pack wrapped in a rag to press against your swollen face, and you’d used your one remaining eye to seek out and procure a mechanical pencil from the desk of the principal’s unwary secretary. Now, it just came down to what to write.

Your first idea was high for morale but low for productivity, as you finish absent-mindedly doodling a drawing of Wolverine in the margins of your reality-altering notebook while you debate how cool it would be to have healing powers. You finish the last spike on his costume and freeze up, suddenly realizing that might not have been such a hot idea, but instead of a confused Hugh Jackman popping up, a fresh idea appears out of the panic instead, and you click out some new lead.

Quid pro quo, right? Let’s give her another chance. You think as start writing.

New Rule: Every time Michael Smith is struck or otherwise hurt by a woman that he considers attractive, they will experience a random but sexy change that will make it more likely for them to end up sleeping with him.

There, you think, hooking the pencil’s clip onto the Rulebook’s back cover and lying it in your lap as you turn to face Allie, trying and failing to suppress a snicker in the process; even after what she’d done to your face, Allie had still taken the time, before sitting down, to drag an entirely separate chair all the way across the room, so that she could prop her legs up onto the back of it while she was seated. The panties that had gotten you in so much trouble into the first place are plainly visible, clear as ever, and you can’t help but take a minute to appreciate the contrast of the pastel pink against her dusky brown skin—before catching her gaze locking on to yours, snaring it up and away from her danger zone and towards her disgruntled scowl.

“You know, I just don’t get it, Allie.” You say, leaning forward with your elbow on the Rulebook’s cover and your cheek in your hand, your fingers only partially hiding your growing smile. “You got so mad, when all I did was point out the color of something that you were showing off to everyone anyway.”

"Is that what you think happened?” Allie says in response, her gaze icy and hot all at once. “Figures that a nerd like you wouldn’t know anything about boundaries.”

“And what ‘boundaries’ am I crossing when I say, ‘why Allie, that’s such a nice, green watch you have there’?” Allie glances down, primarily at how she isn’t wearing a watch, before narrowing her eyes at his point.

“You’re pushing it.”

“Why Allie, that’s also just such a nice gold necklace you have there. Was it a gift?”

“I’m warning you, Smith.”

“But of course, neither of those are anything,” you say, leaning almost conspiratorially across the chair dividing the two of you, “compared to those nice—”

“One more word—”

“—pink—”

"—and you're going to regret—” She said, her hand balling up at her side.

“—pretty-pussy-pinching-panties!”