It’s as if Owen was waiting for me to come, his feet perched up on the back corner of the only other open desk in the room. It was my seat yesterday, near the front, and surrounded by other students—other students who clearly moved out of the way for Owen Harper.

I take my last deep breath at the door and promise myself to not be intimidated, at least not on the outside.

“Excuse me,” I say, dropping my heavy backpack to the ground next to my seat and resting my eyes on his gray Converse. I will myself not to look at him, and it’s harder than I thought it would be. The challenge only grows the longer I stand there and wait for him to move his feet, finally realizing he has no intention of doing so.

I haven’t made any friends in this class yet. Willow and Jess are a year younger, and Elise is only in science with me. It seems academically, I’m destined to be paired with Owen.

“Wow, so it’s true what they say about you,” I say, pushing at the sole of his right shoe with the tip of my finger. It slides a few inches to the right along my desktop, but he quickly flexes and puts up resistance.

“Your little band geek friends been telling you stories, Ken Doll?” he says, and his voice has that same edge it did last night. It’s raspy, and tired—as if he doesn’t sleep at all. But it’s also deep, and I’ll admit, it’s a little tempting, like something you know you shouldn’t like, but crave hearing again.

“It’s Kensington, because you and I…we aren’t friends. And yes, they’ve shared a few important facts with me,” I say, catching the teacher walking in from the corner of my eye. I give Owen’s foot a hard shove, and his weight is finally knocked off balance.

I do my best to ignore him throughout the rest of the class, focusing on the reading questions and discussion points for Death of a Salesman. But I feel him behind me the entire time, the small hairs on the back of my neck standing to attention, anticipating his breath—his breath that never comes.

When the bell finally rings, I drop my pen flat on my paper and note how white my knuckles are from my grip. I shove my things back in my bag and close my eyes before standing to leave, every bit of me expecting Owen to be waiting right behind me to continue our face-off.

But he’s gone—the only trace is the trailing fabric of his black hoodie wrapped around his waist as the door swings closed behind him.

The pattern repeats in math, Owen’s feet back on the only open desk in the room, my desk. And like a fool, I do the same thing and expect a different result.

“Excuse me,” I say, like an echo from an hour before.

“You’re excused,” he smirks, clicking the top of his pen and chewing on the clip part while his eyes dance over me slowly.

The math teacher is less punctual, the bell ringing without much fanfare as students continue to talk to one another, text their friends, and keep their headphones pushed in their ears. Owen continues to stare.

“Whatever,” I say, shoving my back hard into his feet as I sit down in my desk.

After two or three minutes, he finally gives in, letting his feet slide away until they’re finally under his desk behind me. I catch the tips of his shoes with my glance downward for confirmation.

The principal walks in a minute or two after, and everyone finally slides into their seats, the chatter subsiding.

“Okay, ladies and gentlemen. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me for today. Mrs. Carrol had an emergency, and she’s not going to make it in today. So pull out your last assignment and turn to the next set of problems in your book,” he says. We all obey, even Owen, who I notice has a full page of math problems noted on his pad.

“Eyes forward there, Kensington. No cheating,” he says, careful to say my full name slowly—condescendingly. It pisses me off.

“Oh, don’t you know? You and I have different assignments. You see, I work out of the calculus book, not the book with pictures of apples asking you how many nickels Peggy spent at the grocery store,” I say back quickly, some strange sensation also working down my arm. I think…I think I actually want to punch someone.

A deep chuckle vibrates in Owen’s chest, and I force my glance away from him, back in my lap and at my paper on my desk. I force my focus on the next twenty problems, completing them with time to spare, so I continue to the next set until the bell rings.

Just as before, Owen is gone when I turn around. And just like the day before, he’s making out with the same dark-haired girl outside the window when I slide my lunch tray on the table.

Today, though, I ignore him. Or at least, I pretend to. I won’t give him the satisfaction. Owen Harper may get his way with everything in this school and town and life. But he won’t get his way with me.