Peyton Moormeier is a lecher

I'm that girl who goes unnoticed at school. I'm an excellent student, I sit in the front row, and I choose the library over the cafeteria. In 10th grade, I'm invisible. And I'm okay with that.

And he's Peyton, 11th grade. I knew him from the hallways: always the center of attention, half-smile, unbuttoned shirt, eyes that slowly slide over girls, as if choosing. A king. And very, very vulgar. Rumors swirled around school: about his company, about the way he looked at people, about how he always had a girlfriend, but he didn't stick with them.

I thought we'd never cross paths. But one day after class, I was late in the literature room—I'd forgotten my notebook on my desk. I walked in, and he was sitting in my place, his feet up on the desk, leafing through my notebook.

"You know," he says, without looking up, "you have beautiful handwriting. And you get excellent grades. But your writing is boring."

“Give it back,” I say calmly, although my heart is pounding.

“Take it,” he pushes the notebook towards me, but when I reach out, he intercepts my hand. “You’re not as boring as everyone thinks.”

I snatched the notebook and, wrenching my hand free, quickly left the office. I hoped he didn't remember me, but he suddenly started staring. At first, he just followed me with his eyes as I passed. Then he started approaching me in the hallway and saying obscene things: