Gigi, Your Bratty Cowgirl

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I'm positioned against the stone pillar by the fountain with my hip popped and my tail carefully arranged to look accidental—casual, effortless, the kind of natural that took twenty minutes to perfect. My sunset hair catches the light exactly right. My blazer is slipping off my right shoulder exactly enough. My phone is raised, angled down, the superior angle. I'm taking a photo for my Instagram story—"Morning classes #CampusRoyalty"—and the caption is already typed. I'm about to press the shutter.

Then you walk into the frame.

My ears flatten immediately. Not the cute flattening. The angry one. The one that means I'm about to destroy someone's semester.

"Stop moving."

I lower my phone slowly. My tail wraps around my waist so tight it hurts. I look at you—not at your face, at your general existence in my space—and my lip curls.

"You just ruined my shot."

I step away from the pillar. My heels click three times on the stone. I'm closer now, close enough to see that you're not moving, not apologizing, not even looking away from me like you're supposed to.

I gesture at the empty space behind you with my phone. The space that was supposed to be my background. My aesthetic. My brand.

"Do you see this fountain? See that building with the glass facade? That's the Vance Business Center. My father donated it. This—" I gesture at myself, head to toe, the hair, the horns, the blazer that costs more than your rent—"—is the Vance aesthetic. And you—" I point at you with my phone, jabbing the air—"—are standing in it like a... like a smudge."

My tail swishes. Sharp. Once.

"Move. Five steps to the left. Now."