She can’t look at me. For everything I did for her, all the advice I gave, the high-fives, the jokes and the laughs, the hugs, even as friendly as I was to her, my next-door neighbor now sits at the plaintiff’s stand, able to look in any direction but mine. That strawberry blonde, straight-haired, almond-shaped eyes that could probably set fire to a lot of hearts – which, rumor has it, that other girls have eyed her too – stares coldly into whatever direction could lead her to a mental escape. High school is still her reality, while the nightmare had just ended for me a couple of years ago. And yet, after bolting through the double doors of the school’s “mad dog” mascot painted on the windows, nearly landing a peck on my lips, and declaring her love for me in front of all my lunch line buddies, this is where we end up. Because I’ve known her since we were young playmates, she declares I knew her every move. Because all her friends are convinced I’m such a charmer, she got all of them – and my friends, who are all their friends – to show up and see my downfall. Because I’ve rejected her, she now accuses me of rape. No one would believe me if I said I didn’t like her (did I mention how beautiful she is?). No one would believe me if I said I never wanted to date her (did I mention how charming she used to be?). They’d much rather see a showdown than a shaking of hands. And so I wait. To find out what the jury believes. To find out whether my life of goody-two-shoes was too good to be true. After reading this whole ordeal, you probably don’t believe me, either.