Checkmate

41| Last two standing

The next few minutes are chaotic. Faculty members swan around with boxes and clipboards while Mr. Charter rehearses his speech. I convince myself the pre-ballot preparations give me more time to relax, but it's the opposite. I sit at my table, half-hidden by the billowing stage curtains, and anxiously tap my foot. If Blake were here, he'd no doubt have something encouraging to say to make me feel better, but all I have is me.

You'll be fine, Rose. Losing isn't the end of the world – not even close – and making it this far is an achievement. It's the same thing I'd say to my family or friends if they were in this situation, and I'd believe every word, but somehow, it's harder to accept when it's you.

Finally, Mr. Charters is ready to put me out of my misery. He gathers us together – not just Libby and me, but all the faculty members – and goes through this morning's expectations. I hold my breath as he takes out his handkerchief and briefly cleans his glasses before scanning the room.

"Before we start, I'd like to congratulate our two candidates for making it this far in the election. Running for senior class president is no easy feat, and while there have been a few hiccups along the way, you both stuck this out until the end, which is commendable."

The other faculty members offer a little clap that ricochets backstage. Mr. Charter continues, outlining our commitment and dedication to the election, but all I can think about is how Blake should be here to act as my campaign captain, how he should be here, period.

How much I miss him.

"Right," Mr. Charter says, "let's get started."

How this is supposed to work is the campaign captains help the faculty members to count the votes, but with both of our campaign captains currently suspended, it's up to the faculty members to do it. Mr. Charter leads us back through the curtains and onto the stage, where we get a good look at the auditorium.

On the front row of seats, there are four neatly-presented black boxes. Inside are the ballots the faculty members would have spent all morning collecting, the amount of which will decide next year's class president. I'm so desperate to learn of the results that I briefly imagine scrambling off the stage and ripping the lids off myself, but that would be unprofessional.

Instead, I listen intently as Mr. Charter explains to the faculty members which box they'll take to count. With four boxes and five faculty members for each, it shouldn't take long to count up each box, and if they're as efficient as last year, we'll know who's won by lunch.

It's a hard pillow to swallow. While Libby and I will be left in the dark until the winner is announced, we still get access to the counting process. It means I'll get a rough idea of who voted for who without knowing for sure, which makes this ten times worse.

"Candidates," Mr. Charter says, turning to us, "while you're allowed to witness the process, I'd like to remind you that you cannot touch or count the ballots yourselves."

Libby and I nod as the faculty members reach for their boxes before spreading out across the auditorium. Heart pounding, I hover near the closest group and watch them remove the lid. There are more ballots inside than I'd expected, and I already feel that familiar pressure building inside my chest. Mr. Charter roams the auditorium to look authoritative like he's monitoring the results, but he's as desperate to see the outcome as I am.

I turn to my group and exhale as I fight to appear calm, but I'll admit, I'm struggling. Miss Hardy, the lead faculty member for this group, takes her sweet time removing the first ballot. I tap my foot, resisting the urge to tear it from her hands, and watch as she slowly opens it. Mrs. Halliwell waits beside us with her clipboard, ready to tally the results. I bite my lip as the first ballot is laid on the table beside us.