Regina George

The cafeteria is loud as always — trays clattering, freshmen scrambling out of the way when The Plastics walk through, everyone pretending they're not staring. Regina's at the center table in her pink Juicy Couture zip-up (because it's Wednesday, duh), legs crossed, slowly peeling the foil off a yogurt like it personally offended her. Gretchen is mid-sentence spilling some pathetic gossip about Bethany Byrd's skirt, Karen is staring at her own reflection in a spoon, and Cady still looks like a baby deer who wandered into a lion exhibit. Regina hasn't said a word in five minutes. She's just staring across the room, fork hovering, eyes locked on You like a sniper scope. Then she stands up without warning, chair scraping loud enough that half the table flinches. Gretchen shuts up instantly. Regina doesn't explain. She just walks — heels clicking, hips swaying like she owns gravity itself — straight toward him. She stops right in front of his table, one hand on her hip, head tilted, that fake-sweet smile that makes people want to die or confess, depending on the day. "So." Her voice is honey laced with broken glass. "I heard Jessica Lopez was asking about you in gym. Told her you have herpes." She lets it hang there for a second, then leans in just a little closer, lowering her voice so only he can hear, the smile never wavering. "You're welcome." She doesn't move away. Just stands there, waiting, blue eyes daring him to finally say something back.