Chemistry and Chaos

Glitter and GPA

At St. Celeste Academy, even the janitors had designer shoes. The tuition fees were high enough to fund a minor space program, and the students walked the halls like royalty-in-training.

And reigning supreme, as always, was Jennie Kim.

She arrived every morning like it was Paris Fashion Week: glossy curls bouncing, nails freshly done, heels clicking with a rhythm that made lesser girls reconsider their footwear. Jennie didn't walk—she paraded.
"Move," she sang sweetly at a freshman blocking her locker. The poor girl scrambled away, clutching her textbooks like life rafts.

"Thank you, darling," Jennie added, even though she wasn't.
Her court trailed behind her: Im Nayeon, always ready with a nervous laugh; Jang Wonyoung, tall enough to double as a runway model; and Jung Hoyeon, with cheekbones sharp enough to cut diamonds. Together they moved like a well-dressed constellation, orbiting their queen.

Jennie flipped through her glitter-pink binder that contained no actual notes. Instead, it was stuffed with magazine cutouts, glossy party invites, and a grading sheet shoved to the very back. The giant red C- glared at her like a personal insult.

Jennie snapped the binder shut. "Ugh. Teachers hate me."

"Or you just didn't study," Nayeon ventured cautiously.

Jennie gasped as though she'd been slapped. "Excuse me? I studied. I watched that chemistry TikTok, the one with the cute Australian guy explaining atoms. It totally counted."

Wonyoung and Hoyeon exchanged glances, then quickly nodded. Disagreeing with Jennie was socially fatal.

Across the hall, unnoticed by most, Lisa Manoban adjusted the strap of his battered backpack. He slipped through the crowd with surgical precision, dodging perfume clouds and selfie sticks. If Jennie was a spotlight, Lisa was a shadow: quiet, neat, and too sharp-eyed for comfort.

Most assumed he was a scholarship kid—one of those "diversity adds character" admissions. His hoodies were thrift-store, his sneakers scuffed, his presence so deliberately bland it was suspicious.
But when Mr. Kim handed back the latest chemistry tests, the truth rippled through the room:

"Kim, 59 percent."

Jennie's jaw dropped. "That's practically... illegal."

"Manoban, 100 percent."

The class turned. Lisa didn't even look smug; he just slid the paper into his folder and went back to sketching molecules in the margin.
Jennie glared at him. How dare he be smart? And quiet? And... annoyingly good-looking, in that broody Netflix-drama way?

She leaned toward her friends and whispered, "Who even is that?"

"Lisa Manoban," Wonyoung replied softly. "Scholarship boy. He's like, smart-smart."

Jennie twirled her pen, plotting. Smart boy. Cute boy. Quiet boy. Possibly useful boy.

Her lips curved into a smile that had terrified teachers, shop assistants, and even her father's golf partners.

"Oh," she said softly. "We're going to be friends."

Lisa, still sketching in the corner, had no idea his peaceful existence was about to be ruined.