Checkmate

20 |Three minutes

"It's not," Blake says with a crooked smile, "she's paying me."

My eyes widen. Mr. Charter looks between us and chuckles. "Of course, of course. Well, you're down as being second to last, Rose. I'll be escorting you to the auditorium in a moment. We're just getting the students settled."

As soon as he leaves the classroom, I shove Blake's chest. "What is wrong with you?"

He laughs, a low, warm sound I rarely get to hear; I realize I like it. "Relax, princess. He didn't believe me."

"You need to stop calling me that," I say, but really, I'm glad for the distraction.  "I'm not a princess."

"You're forgetting I've seen your house–" the corner of his mouth lifts, "–and bedroom."

My cheeks grow beetroot red in a way only he can invoke. "I haven't forgotten. I'm still fumigating."

He touches his heart like he's wounded. I ignore him and look at my speech again, reading the first line repeatedly. With minutes to go before I'm up on that stage, the nerves have taken over.

Mr. Charter returns a moment later to tell me it's time. My arm hurts, and I'm convinced I'm having a heart attack as he leads Blake and me into the small crowd of students huddled in the hallway. I catch a glimpse of Libby through the various heads, followed by Chase. She works overtime avoiding my gaze, but Chase looks right at me, eyes bright and severe. A shiver runs through me as I turn to Mr. Charter. Blake is right, people only have as much power as you give them, and I will not give Chase mine.

"Okay," Mr. Charter says, "campaign captains can head into the auditorium. Candidates follow me."

The campaign captains start hugging their candidates. I throw a panicked look at Blake. He lowers his head, just a little, enough for him to whisper, "Knock 'em dead," without anyone hearing. Then, with an easy grin, he joins the line of campaign captains and heads to the auditorium.

As I join the line of candidates, scanning each face, my heart stops. Two heads behind me, standing between Mark Johnson and a guy called Parker, is Angela Reynolds. Mr. Charter leads us to the auditorium as I try not to panic. If Angela Reynolds is campaigning for president, that means there is no way she could be my campaign captain. If my mother finds out, I'm screwed.

The walk to the auditorium is daunting. We don't go through the front entrance but around the back door, which leads to the back of the auditorium's stage. It's dark, quiet, but I think I prefer not being able to see the other campaign candidates. Eyes closed, I try to pretend I'm alone.

"All right," Mr. Charter says. "When you hear your name called, you head through the curtain onto the stage to give your speech. Remember, you've got three minutes to make an impression. A timer on the wall will give you an idea of how you're doing. Is everyone ready?"

There are a few murmurs. I don't say anything. Libby says, "I am." If I could see her, my stare would turn her to stone.

Angela is called to the podium first. I still can't believe I'd somehow missed she was running. What are the chances I pick her to be my fake campaign captain? Still, my mother is so busy with work these days that maybe she won't hear about who's campaigning this year.

I hope.

Angela's red hair disappears through the curtain and into the firing squad. As the curtain closes, I catch sight of the bright white stage lights and the mahogany podium we're to stand by. You've got this, Rose. The speech might have changed, but you've prepared for this for years.

Three minutes later, applause sounds. Through the gap in the curtain, I watch as Angela makes her way down the steps and to the side to stand by her campaign captain. Parker, a spindly kid who campaigned last minute, is next. I count down the minutes on my watch. He's finished in two, and there's lackluster applause before Mark Johnson is up.

Shoulders back, Mark smiles brightly like he's got this in the bag and moves toward the podium. I inhale slowly, trying to steady my breathing. I'm up next, which means I'll be standing at that podium reading my speech in less than three minutes. The old me would have been excited to be on display like this, but ever since that party, things have been different. There are people out there who outwardly dislike me; who knows what will happen after this?

Mr. Charter calls my name. I hold my breath, waiting a moment before stepping through the curtain. The auditorium's lights feel blinding as I reach the podium. The old speech I'd written – and spent years memorizing – is still ingrained in my head. I start to feel dizzy, but as I briefly scan the crowd, denying myself the urge to be sick, my eyes land on Blake. He's standing to the far side of the stage, forever in the shadows. I'd half expected him to have left now that he's no longer needed – at least for today – but he didn't.

He's here.

I turn to the crowd, relax my shoulders, and breathe. "Bullying," I start. Ordinarily, a candidate would introduce themselves, but people already know me from what happened with Chase, so I focus on my speech. "It's not a word you'd think could bring us together, but it does." Despite my nerves, my voice is steady as I clutch the podium. "It's likely that at some point in your education, you were bullied, knew someone bullied or were the bully yourself." I let that sink in as I focus on Blake, using him to steady me. "I know what you're thinking–" I turn to my audience, scanning their faces, "–this is another weak attempt to solve bullying, but it's not. I won't lie and say I can make it disappear – that's a little above my pay grade –but if you elect me for president, I promise to put in place support systems to help us to cope, starting with the three R's."

I delve into the three Rs: Report, Recount, and Remove, explaining how each R works and the benefits. As I speak, the nerves I'd felt in the beginning fade to nothing as I reclaim my confidence, ignoring the fact that somewhere in this audience, Chase is watching me.

"Remove," I say when I get to the final R. "Designated areas will be available around school for studying, meditation, or recreation; a place where anyone can go to relax. Maybe you're an introvert, and you need to recharge. Or maybe you want to study, but you can't stand how busy the library gets. Or maybe you just need to breathe. However you choose to use these new spaces is entirely up to you."

My voice comes out stronger as I near the end of my speech. After a brief closing summary, I stare into the hundred or so faces that stare back at me. My speech is nearly over, and I'm about to end it the same way I'd written on my paper, but something compels me to stop. I raise my hand to shield the lights and take a deep breath. "The old me would have ended this speech with some insincere line about how we'll all be okay, but I won't do that. I won't stand here and tell you I can take away your pain because I can't, but if you elect me as your senior class president, I promise to do everything I can to alleviate it. My hope is not just that my solutions will make school life more bearable; I hope they will serve as a reminder that whoever you are, whatever you're feeling, you are not alone. We are not alone. Thank you."

I step off the stage to a round of applause and make a beeline for Blake. As soon as I'm standing beside him, he lowers his head. "You did it," he says in my ear. "Breathe."

My body relaxes as I watch Libby take front and center on the stage. Even though she never planned on any of this, she clearly belongs there. Her smile is bright, the kind that could light up a room. If I weren't campaigning, I'd vote for her.

After a charming introduction, she scans the crowd briefly, eyes glistening with promise. "The future is important," she says in a passionate voice. "It's what keeps us moving forward, which is why I promise to focus on introducing ways to secure you the future you deserve."

I blink once, then twice, certain there's been some kind of mistake, but as she keeps going, reality sets in. I grab Blake's arm, suddenly unable to breathe.

My campaign.

Libby Ridgerton stole my campaign.

A/N

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