You Wanted Muscles I Wanted Peace

Summary

Lola and I had been at each other’s throats for as long as I could remember.

She said I was too pale, too soft—a pretty boy who didn't belong in a fistfight.

I told her she was a menace, a loudmouthed tomboy who didn't know how to shut up.

We traded insults for over a decade.

Until senior year, when the new transfer kid confessed to her.

She threw a sideways glance at me, smirked, and said, "Sorry, but you're just not my type."

The crowd of classmates started chanting, "Oh, come on! Let me guess—you only have eyes for guys like Dan?"