It takes a few minutes for me to muster the courage to say what I'm thinking. Of course it's absurd, downright insane even. How far must I have fallen to ever consider enlisting the help of Blake? And yet, as I stand here, fiddling with the ends of my hair, that's exactly what I'm thinking of doing.
Before spring break, the thought would never have crossed my mind. It never needed to; this part of the campaign was supposed to be easy, the part I'd have passed with flying colors. One hundred signatures? I'd have gotten that in less than a day, but now the idea is impossible. It turns out my popularity, my ability to speak to anyone and everyone, was all down to Chase. Those people weren't my friends, they didn't admire my drive or killer fashion. They tolerated me.
For him.
Which is why, even though it kills me to admit it, Blake is my last hope. If he can get me enough signatures to enter the running, I'll have a fighting chance. I'll be able to show them I didn't need Chase, that I'm more than capable of winning on my own; I'll be Rose Matthews again.
Turning to Blake, I take a deep breath and try not to grimace. "You do things for money, right?" He doesn't speak, but the subtle twitch of his mouth means I've caught his attention. "Because I'm planning on running for Class President, and I kind of need your help."
Blake almost chokes on his vape. He recovers quickly but fails to hide the upward curl of his lips.
My stare hardens. If my mother were here, she'd say something like, You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but I've never been one for sweet talk. "Is there something amusing about wanting to run for president?"
"That," he says, "and you thinking I'm the guy to help you do it."
"Why not?"
"Principles?"
"I'm sure you've done worse things for money."
He grins and takes a hit of his vape. "The answer is no."
"I don't get it," I say. "What's so bad about running for Class President that it goes against your principles?"
It's hard to miss his irritation as he blows out the smoke in his mouth. "The whole thing is a popularity contest designed to give those campaigning a sense of validation in their otherwise sad, empty lives. Hey–" he looks over and grins, "–you'll fit right in."
I ignore his jab, mostly because I'm desperate, and desperation can drive a person to dangerous extremes. "All you'd have to do is be my campaign captain and get me the remaining signatures." He doesn't respond, so I try my hand at appealing to his better nature. "Look, it's not self-obsessed to want to make the school a better place."
"Sure," he says, "if that's why you were doing it, but you're not."
"You think you know me?"
"I know you're willing to fake signatures," he says. "Rose Matthews – a true politician."
The sting of his insult is hard to ignore. "I don't want you to fake them, and I don't care whether or not you believe in my motives. Are you going to help me or not?"
"Not really my area of expertise, princess."
"Fine." I go silent and stare at the wall. Even though I'm trying my hardest not to get upset, I'm on the verge of crying. This was my last hope to becoming Senior Class President. My last hope at proving Chase wrong. But maybe he was right, there's no way I'm winning this campaign without him; all of this was for nothing.
"You're not going to cry, are you?"
"No." But my voice breaks.
His eyes grow black as he looks to the heavens. Maybe he thinks by the time he looks over, I'll have pulled myself together, but he's wrong. He drags his gaze back over my face and clenches his jaw. "If I do this, it'll cost you."
For a second, I don't quite compute what he's said, so I just stand here, tearfully, and watch as he grows more uncomfortable. Then, slowly, this weight lifts, the air thickens; I can breathe again. "Thank you," I say, and in what feels like a single breath, I delve into the role of campaign captain while Blake looks at me like he's trying to decide the quickest way to kill me.
"So what," he says after, "you want me to forge some signatures?"
"No. They check their authenticity, and I wouldn't want them forged anyway. I just need you to convince people to vote for me. Your side business – and I use that term loosely – means you're one of the few people in this school who knows anyone and everyone."
He doesn't look convinced. Running a hand through his hair, he says, "Have you considered that if you have to enlist my help, you're probably not cut out for this?"
I have to remind myself to be pleasant. "I know it seems a little...extreme...but if I can get through this first hurdle, I can change people's minds about me with my campaign. This is just to get my foot in the door. After that, people will vote for me because they want to, because they know I'm serious about making a difference."
A second passes. Then another. "I can't tell if you're manipulating me or extremely naive."
Against the odds, I smile. "All part of my charm."
He doesn't smile back, which only makes this ten times more awkward. I open my mouth, about to tell him the plan I have, when the lunch bell rings. "Look," I say, "I have some paperwork in my locker that explains your role in more detail. I'll give it to you to have a look through."
"Fine."
When he makes no effort to move, I point toward school. "I meant now."
He sighs and pushes himself off the wall before following me. Several eyes are on us as we head toward my locker, their heads like swiveling Chucky dolls as they attempt to catch a look. And truth be told, I can't blame them. If someone had told me this time last month that I'd be running my campaign with Blake O'Hare, I'd have told them they were crazy. As someone used to receiving the right kind of attention, this negative spotlight makes me nauseous.
Blake, on the other hand, neither notices nor cares. Maybe he's perfected the art of faking it, or maybe he honestly doesn't give a single shit, but either way, it's disturbing. How can he not feel the heat of their gazes burning through our backs? How can he not so much as flinch?
As soon as we get to my locker, I open the door and use it as a shield. Blake stands beside me, quiet until I meet his gaze, and then his expression turns to disbelief. "Your locker is something else, you know that?"
I glance at the contents, expecting to find something abnormal inside, but it's the same old locker from before spring break. Pinterest campaign pics line the gray walls. At the back is a stack of rainbow notebooks, on top of which is a small makeup bag, a pot filled with my favorite scented pens, and a small lunchbox of assorted fruits. I re-check my lipgloss in the mirror opposite and turn back to Blake.
"What?" I ask.
Blake folds his arms as he leans against the locker. "We need to talk price."
Of course we do. "Okay, well...how much were you thinking?" Considering I've never had to pay someone to run a campaign, I've no idea the starting price, though I'm sure Blake will find a way to extort me.
"Two hundred up front," he says, "with the amount to be reviewed in a few weeks depending upon workload."
"Two hundred dollars?"
"The way I see it–" he stops to gesture at me and my locker, "that's a bargain."
My ego wants to tell him where he can shove his bargain, but I don't. He's the only one willing to help with my campaign, even if he is doing it for money. "We're going to have to discuss this after school. Do you want to go to the library?"
"Not a chance."
"I'm sorry, is some dusty, spider-infested alleyway more comfortable for you?"
He tilts his head. "I'm starting to see why you don't have a cheer captain."
"Campaign Captain," I say, but he's right, so I keep to an upbeat tone. "What about a coffee shop?"
"I don't think so."
I blow out the air in my mouth. If it's taking us this long to decide on a meeting point, how will we ever get along long enough for me to win the election?
Blake straightens up as others rush past us to get to their classes. "Meet me after school. We'll do it at mine."
My heart thrums at the mention of his house. "I don't think–" but he grabs the pink pen from the pot in my locker, takes me by the arm, and scribbles his address on my skin.
Before I can speak, he's walking off, leaving me standing open-mouthed. In less than two days, I am back to campaigning for Senior Class President and paying Blake to be my Campaign Captain.
This can only lead to something terrible.
A/N
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