Checkmate

8| Bright idea

I wake up a good two hours before my alarm clock with an attitude unbecoming of a future class president. Determined to ignore the nightmare from last night, I jump in the shower, but as I stand under the running water, still half-asleep, it's all I can think about. Not what happened at the party, but after, when Chase took that rage and turned it into vengeance.

It feels foolish now, but I'd woken up that morning feeling open to hearing Chase's apology. Open to reconciling despite every cruel word he'd said. The truth was, a part of me believed we were meant to be together and that, just like everything else in my life, somehow, we'd work out.

Only that's not what happened. Instead, I awoke to hundreds of tags in a post Chase made, a post I remember word for word: When you catch your girlfriend doing drugs and hooking up with your best friend at a party you invited her to. And that wasn't the worst part, not by a long shot. The worst part was that the caption was over a two-second video of the kiss.

My heart stopped, mostly down to the realization that for Chase to have had time to take a video means he'd been standing there long before he'd made his presence known. He'd have heard the conversation and seen that I wasn't the instigator, but instead of jumping in to defend me, he chose to take a compromising video.

That's what hurt me, the part of this that keeps me up most nights, terrified to trust again. Not the argument or the kiss or the unfair accusations, but that this person who claimed to love me more than anything could turn around and break me like that.

A lump forms in my throat that I fight to push back, but when it doesn't seem to work, I let it out in big, ugly sobs. It's not the first time that night has reduced me to tears, but paired with having to rewrite my campaign, I'm hanging by a thread. When I finally step out and glance at a mirror, my eyes are red-raw. But if one good thing has come from my breakdown, it's that I've thought of a new campaign.

As soon as I've finished getting ready, I head down to the kitchen, where Dad is making omelets in the World's Greatest Chef apron I'd gotten him for Christmas last year. Mom is cradling a hot cup of coffee at the table and staring intently at her laptop.

"Morning, baby," she says without looking up.

"Morning," I say brightly. Straightening my blouse, I move toward the cupboard and grab a mug before making a cup of coffee. I'm not usually a coffee drinker – I prefer green tea – but today's the day I plan to hold a campaign meeting with Blake. I'll need all the coffee I can get.

"You seem happy," Mom says. She looks up to study my face a little closer.

Afraid she'll see my bloodshot eyes, I look at my steaming coffee. "Well, I'm going to try and hold my first campaign meeting tonight."

"That's great news," Dad chimes.

"Fantastic news," Mom adds. "Who did you choose as your campaign captain?"

I run my hand back and forth through my hair while I think of a believable lie. "Angela Reynolds."

It's not completely unbelievable. Angela Reynolds is the studious bookworm who likes to set up book clubs in the school's library, where her mother works as a librarian. She's lowkey enough that her life isn't usually the topic of discussion, so my mother won't learn I'm lying.

"Well, how lovely," she says, "I didn't even know you were friends."

"More acquaintances," I say, "but I ran into her in the library, and when I told her I was campaigning, she volunteered to help."

"That was kind of her."

"See," Dad says, "we told you not to worry. Hard work and perseverance always pay off."

I force a smile. "Right."

"Come on," Mom says, getting to her feet, "I'll head out with you."

I grab my bag from where it's placed on the floor and sling it across my shoulder. As we get to our cars, we catch the neighbor examining our lawn with a notepad and pen. He jumps back when he sees us, caught redhanded in what I can only assume is him trying to figure out how to win Best Lawn in the Garden's Association. Mom smiles and waves like she didn't just catch him – ever the diplomat – and waves me goodbye before hurrying to work.

The first thing I do when I make it to school is head to Blake's spot. Predictable as always, he turns up a few minutes before the first bell in an old Nirvana t-shirt. Dropping his bag, he leans against the wall opposite and pulls out his vape, putting it to his lips.

"Are you always this disorganized?" I ask.

His gaze flicks sideways to mine. "Are you always this abrasive?" 

I don't say anything. I shouldn't care that he thinks I'm abrasive, but deep down, I do. 

As though he can sense he's hurt my feelings, he sighs. "I didn't get much sleep." 

"Why not?"

His eyebrow arches in typical Blake fashion. "Sorry, princess. That kind of information costs extra."

"Fine. I just came to tell you I've thought of a campaign. Are you free tonight? I'll tell you about it in our campaign meeting."

He stares so long that I start to grow uncomfortable. "There's two of us."

"Yeah, so?"

He blows his vape smoke to the side instead of in my face. "So, why do you need to call a campaign meeting for something you could just tell me now?"

"Because I actually take this role seriously and don't want to discuss my campaign near some dark, gloomy bikeshed. Are you free tonight or not? We don't have much time before I have to start thinking about my presidential speech."

He sighs and leans back. "Yes and no."

"Do you do this on purpose?"

"My friends are coming over tonight," he says. "I mean, they're over most nights. You can still come over if you want." I must physically shudder because he gives me that smile like he's got me figured out. "Thought as much."

For some reason, this annoys me more than anything, him thinking he knows me. He doesn't know me at all. "Sounds great," I say in a clipped voice. If there's one thing I enjoy more than insulting him, it's proving him wrong. "I'll be over around seven."

He stares at me for a second too long. I wonder if maybe he sees my eyes still red, so I grab my bag and turn around, too afraid to face him. He seems to have this way of seeing straight through me, and that's what I hate about him most.

"Hey," he says, but I'm already heading to class.

For the remainder of the morning, I focus on streamlining my campaign, determined to make the best out of a bad situation. Just because I now need to rework my entire campaign does not mean I'm out of the running; it just means I need to get creative. And now that I have the basis of an idea, I'll be back on track before I know it. I'm sure of it.

At lunch, I think about heading to the cafeteria and showing my face –  if I'm going to be president, it's not like I can keep hiding in the shadows – but the moment I get to those glass double doors, I freeze like a deer in headlights. Libby, Chase, and the others will be inside, talking and laughing at our table. Only it's not our table anymore, it's theirs; maybe it always was.

Feeling like a failure, I hotfoot it over to the other side of school and head to the area by the bikeshed. I have no idea why it's the area I choose to seek out, especially since it's the one Blake frequents the most, but sometimes it feels like the only place in school where I can drop the facade. The only place I can breathe.

Blake isn't here for once, so I sit on the floor and pull an apple out of my bag, munching away while I work on my campaign book. As I'm busy writing ideas, I can't help but wonder where Blake is right now and whether he's doing something he shouldn't be. Skipping school? Selling drugs? He's the kind of guy I could catch doing anything, and it wouldn't surprise me – yet another reason I don't trust him. As my new campaign captain, anything he does reflects poorly on me, which is why I can't wait for this to end. The sooner this campaign is over, the sooner I can become class president and forget about this nightmare arrangement.

A/N

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