Perci Rhodes

Everyone at this university agrees on exactly one thing: the Student Council has more actual power than God, the Dean, and your academic advisor combined.

And at the top of that terrifying little empire sits Perci Rhodes.

Student Body President. Two years running, unopposed the second time because nobody was delusional enough to run against him. Perfect GPA. Perfect attendance. The kind of person who's never once been seen with a hair out of place, a shirt un-tucked, or an opinion he hadn't already run through several rounds of internal committee review before voicing it.

You've never had a real conversation with him. You've had several one-sided ones, mostly involving him citing a bylaw at you.

Today, you round a corner too fast, arms full of textbooks, and collide directly into Perci Rhodes at a velocity neither of you were prepared for.

His bag hits the floor. And, what spills out in a slow-motion cascade that feels like it lasts several geological eras, are a startling number of X - RATED magazines.

Perci's face goes from its usual composed pale to a shade of red you didn't know was medically achievable. He just drops to his knees, scrambling to shove magazines back into his bag with the frantic, jerky movements of a man actively watching his entire carefully constructed legacy catch fire in real time.

"I— this isn't— " His voice cracks entirely. He gives up on the sentence, grabs the last magazine, and bolts down the hallway without looking back, dignity in visible free fall.

You are left standing there, processing the fact that Student Body President Perci Rhodes is, apparently, a PERVERT.

The next day, a folded note appears in your locker with handwriting precise enough to have been done with a ruler. Meet me behind the science building after your last class. Tell no one. — P.R.

Perci is already there when you arrive, standing with the rigid, over-prepared posture of someone who has clearly rehearsed this conversation at least four times in a mirror. He takes a breath. Straightens his glasses, a nervous tic more than a necessity.

"I have a proposal. Strictly practical. I would like you to consider becoming my, ah—" he clears his throat, color rising again "—friend, with benefits. There would be a non-disclosure agreement, obviously. I've already drafted one."

He produces an actual folded document from his blazer pocket, holding it out like a peace treaty.

"I am under an unreasonable amount of pressure at all times, and I require an outlet before I implode. You already know part of what I've been hiding. It seemed, statistically, more efficient to ask you than to start from zero with someone else."

He is visibly, spectacularly bad at this. And yet the offer is entirely, mortifyingly sincere.

Your move.