The first step to running for president is the hardest. One hundred signatures, something I'd have found easy if that night hadn't happened, but now I'll be lucky if I get so much as thirty. The worst part of all? Having to watch Libby wrack up signature after signature, overtaking the twenty I'd gotten before spring break.
Still, despite my lack of support, I'm undeterred. If there is one thing I know how to do, it's stay positive in the face of adversity. Besides, campaigning will give me the distraction I need to not focus on what happened. If I don't think about that night, I won't get upset; I won't have to play it on repeat.
A quiet spring is in my step as I get through my morning classes. Last week, I'd dreamt of finishing high school just so I'd never have to see these people again, but today, things seem brighter, a sign that the old Rose is making an appearance. Positive, preppy, and ready to go: I hope.
Most of History involves me scribbling down a plan of action in the back page of my History book. I become so transfixed that the sound of the door opening startles me. Mrs. Maxwell sighs heavily and waits for whoever the latecomer is to take their seat. It's only as the clunking sound of footsteps grows closer that I finally look up.
Blake drops into the empty seat beside me and stretches out his legs. He doesn't want to be here – he usually isn't here – which is why I'm so surprised to see him. He looks a little more presentable this morning: he's wearing a plain white tee that offsets his tan and dark blue jeans. Either he's suddenly developed an eagerness to learn or he's been spoken to about his attendance.
We don't say a word – why would we – but I'm acutely aware of the steady yet annoying tapping of his foot. Despite knowing it'll chip the varnish, I tap my manicured nails on the table in a bid to drown him out. He doesn't acklowledge me for a full minute. Then slowly, he turns, giving me the death stare to end all death stares. I let out a lungful of air and stop tapping. He turns to the front.
For the rest of the class, I attempt to focus on the notes in front of me, but it's hard when I'm too scared to breathe. Blake's obvious manspreading means his arm rests a mere two inches from mine, and any slight move would have us touch. I lower my gaze, catching a glimpse of his half-sleeve. It's hard to tell if the odd combination is random or meaningful. Beside the Virgin Mary sits a Queen of Spades, a tombstone, and a compass with a mini drawing of Archbury inside. I don't have time to make out the others before he snatches his arm back. Embarrassed, I turn to the front.
As soon as class is over, he's out of his seat like the thing is on fire and disappearing into the hallway. I rush out too, but instead of hiding out in the bathroom again – a move so unlike me – I settle on one of the unoccupied candidacy tables lining the hallway and pull out the banner I made last summer with Chase. It reads VOTE FOR ROSE in big, pink letters with a stenciled rose beside it.
It had taken us forever to make it. Not because painting is particularly taxing – though I'll admit, it's not my forte – but because we'd repeatedly get sidetracked. If we weren't laughing, we were kissing, and if we weren't kissing, we were on the verge of kissing. We'd eventually focus, only for him to splash me with paint, which set us off again. By the end of the night, we were covered in paint, kissing and laughing and happy.
I swallow hard and focus on setting up my booth. Mr. Charter walks past with his lunchbox in hand and gives me an encouraging thumbs-up. I smile back, trying not to fixate on how he's the only one to acknowledge my existence. Before last week, my friends and I would have dominated this table. Now, I'm practically a ghost.
"Still campaigning, huh?"
My head snaps up just as Chase and his friends crowd my booth. For about a millisecond, I forget every terrible thing and lean forward, suppressing the urge to touch him. He looks the same as always, soft blond hair that matches his tan and endless blue eyes – a devil disguised as an angel.
"Here," he says when I don't speak, and he reaches down to grab my pen before scribbling his name on my sheet – a pity signature.
I'd vowed to stay silent, but the urge to speak becomes too great. "Shouldn't you be voting for your sister?"
He shrugs. "I figured you could use some help."
Humiliated. That's how I feel as his friends begin to snicker, but I'll be damned if I let them see it. "Thanks, but I think I'll be fine."
"Come on, Rose." He leans closer now and drops his voice. "You really think you can win this? You don't even have a campaign captain."
I want to argue, but he's right. The odds are against me in more ways than one, and if I had any sense of self-preservation, I'd end this campaign before I ruin my reputation for good. But as someone who isn't used to conceding, I can't. I won't. "I guess we'll have to wait and see."
His eyes harden. He drops the pen, and I watch as it rolls off the table's edge and clatters to the floor. With his back turned to me, the three of them head in the opposite direction without looking back. To avoid crying, I pull out the checklist I'd written last summer and re-read it for the millionth time:
Maintain perfect GPA
Create campaign
Write speech
Appoint campaign captain.
I've crossed off each benchmark in sparkly pen, but of course, that last one no longer applies. I pick up the pen and write it again underneath. Even if I somehow manage to find 100 signatures, I can't submit them without having appointed a campaign captain, and as someone who pretty much has zero friends, how will I convince someone to help me?
The minutes tick by in excruciating fashion. I manage to hold it together for another fifteen minutes, but as people stroll past – some with looks of pity and others with indifference – I start to lose hope. Maybe I'm stupid for wanting to run. Maybe I was right all along; my dreams are officially over.
When I can't take the embarrassment, I roll up my poster and head to the space by the bike sheds. Eyes closed, I lean on the wall and steady my breathing the way they show you in those meditation clips, but it doesn't seem to work.
"You again."
I open my eyes to see Blake staring at me, somewhat unimpressed. He leans against the wall opposite, vape between his lips, and blows out a cloud in my face. From the wicked look he gives me afterward, he did it on purpose.
"Look," I snap, "you don't have a monopoly on the space beside the bike shed. I can stand here if I want to."
His eyebrow arches. Something about the amusement in his eyes tells me he hadn't been expecting that. Truth be told, I hadn't expected it either. "Suit yourself."
He pulls out his phone while I watch him. We're standing so close that I can smell his cologne, which smells surprisingly good. Libby once said that if it weren't for his attitude, he'd be one of the most sought-after boys in school. I'd strongly disagreed – maybe because I hardly ever saw him, or the rolled-out-of-bed vibe never appealed to someone like me – but standing this close, I wonder if she's right.
"You didn't get a good enough look in History?"
"Don't flatter yourself," I say, "as if I'd be staring at you."
His mouth lifts slightly like he's on the verge of smiling. "I thought you weren't prickly?"
For some reason, knowing he sees me like this annoys me. I want to be the old me; the one people thought had the world at her fingertips. The one people liked. "Just because we're both standing here doesn't mean we need to talk," I say. "In fact, I'd prefer it if we didn't."
He salutes me as though I'm a colonel in the military and goes back to looking at his phone. I sigh and lean back, then sigh again. How is that one's life can change so drastically in just a few weeks? Before spring break, I had friends and a boyfriend and was well on my way to becoming Class President; now, I'm in the shadows with Blake.
Defeated, I look at my signatureless sheet and back up. Out of nowhere, as I watch Blake tapping away on his phone – no doubt fulfilling another illegal duty – it hits me. The answer to my problems is standing in front of me, surrounded by a cloud of cherry vape.
A/N
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Checkmate
Teen Fiction[FREE STORY w/ bonus paid chapters] When a scandal hits perfect seventeen-year-old Rose in the run-up to an election, she starts to believe that her dreams of becoming Class President are over. But in the shreds of her reputation is where she meets...
