Checkmate

42| Unwritten

Mr. Charter still rumbles about hard work and perseverance as I smile like a kid in a candy store. Blake O'Hare, the most anti-everything boy in school, is holding a banner with my name on it. The same guy who thinks Valentine's day is a scam or that romance is some con, who calls me princess and hates any form of authority.

That guy.

A slow tingle works its way through my fingers. The nerves are still there – I don't think anyone can stand before a crowd and feel entirely at ease – but seeing Blake's face is like a beacon of hope. I don't know what it means, whether it's enough for me to forgive him for going behind my back, but it's a start.

My eyes roam the auditorium, able to pick out Liv, Freddie, and Kenny as they beam from their seats, and that's when that tingle envelopes me completely. As crazily mismatched as the five of us are, I've finally found where I belong.

It's not long before a faculty member spots Blake and frowns. She walks over, whispers something, and practically escorts him out of the auditorium like a criminal, but it doesn't matter. I saw him. I saw him, and he cares.

I turn to the front, which doesn't feel so hard now. The faces stare back at me, but I'm not terrified like I was a moment ago. If anything, I feel ready to face whatever lies ahead, even if that means losing.

"This presidency has always been about democracy," Mr. Charter says as he scans the crowd. Beads of sweat now gather on his forehead as he tugs at the collar of his shirt. "We counted your votes quickly but fairly, and it is time to reveal who will lead you as senior class president. Libby Ridgerton and Rose Matthews have shown great resilience and willpower throughout this. No matter who becomes senior class president, both students will leave this auditorium as winners."

Libby looks at me and rolls her eyes at Mr. Charter's theatrics. I smile back before hoping against hope that my name is called, not because I have anything to prove or because I want my reputation back, but because I want to make a difference.

"So," Mr. Charter says, "without further ado." He lifts the envelope placed on his podium and opens it. The shuffling of paper echoes through the auditorium. He pulls out the slip, then pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, but his expression gives nothing away.

As I wait for Mr. Charter to get on with it, I glance back at Libby. She's nervous; I can tell by how hard she clasps her fingers, her telltale sign. It's the same thing she would do when we would have to wait for test results or for her love interest of the week to message back. And even though it isn't my problem, I can't help but think what Chase will say if she loses today.

I try not to think of the worst and face forward, shoulders back, ready to face the results of this thing, even if they're not the ones I hope for. The truth is, the old Rose would have given everything to become senior class president, even her soul, and the idea of standing here and losing today would have broken her, but I know now that losing this campaign won't break me – not even close.

"The moment you've all been waiting for," Mr. Charter says as he looks at the crowd. "Next year's senior class president, with two-hundred and sixty-three votes to two-hundred and thirty-five, is..."

The pause he takes feels like an eternity. At that moment, I think of several things, not all relating to the campaign. I think of what I had to go through with Chase Ridgerton to get here and how much I've changed since that day in Spring Break. I think of the friendships I've made: Freddie and Liv and even Kenny when he actually talks, people I'd never in a million years have guessed would make a difference in my life, but they have. And finally, I think of Blake. Blake O'Hare. The boy behind the bike sheds in a cloud of cherry vape.