“Aren’t you proud we’ve come so far, Ashley?” Gwen asked in a register that only a genuinely sweet high school junior could hit.
“What? Just don’t fuck up the prechorus and I’ll be proud.” Ashley barked.

Even through years of friendship and months of dance practice, it had never dawned on winsome Gwen that Ashley didn’t give a damn about her. Ashley was using this assembly to try and become popular — popular enough to get new friends.

But Gwen, blinded by Ashley’s intoxicating beauty, couldn’t see any of it. This particular afternoon, Ashley’s silver catsuit snaked around her curves and brought out her pewter eyes. Gwen gaped.

“The Last One” began to play. The pair strode onstage and pumped and humped as Ashley had choreographed. During the prechorus, the metal tip of Gwen’s shoe sliced her calf. She tripped, but persevered.

Gwen felt herself getting faint as she danced. She looked down and saw blood. Blackness closed in.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, then fainted.

Ashley never forgave her.