That Friday morning at school had turned into one of the busiest days of the term.
The spring air carried a charged energy through the hallways, crackling with possibility and the hint of change.
After our first class, my history teacher Mrs. Hutch played the campaign video for the class, and I felt my heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
I honestly didn't think Spencer would have it ready, but he pulled it off.
The video opened with a sweeping drone shot of our campus, the morning light painting Fair Oaks High in shades of gold and amber. He had added pictures of notable buildings with students gathered together—the library steps where the debate team met, the courtyard where the art students displayed their work, the cafeteria during last year's food drive.
It was beautiful and showcased exactly what Maddy and I stood for: community, inclusivity, real change.
Our campaign promises flashed across the screen in elegant text:
"Extended library hours during finals week. More funding for arts and academic clubs. A student-run committee to review dress code policies. Mental health awareness programs."
Each point emphasized our core message—Fair Oaks belonged to everyone, not just the athletes and their supporters.
The final frame showed our campaign slogan: "Your Voice Matters."
Fuck football.
This was the message I wanted Kingston to see. There was no mention of him or the team, but their absence spoke volumes.
The camera panned across faces I recognized—the quiet kid from AP Chemistry who started the robotics club, the girl who organized weekend tutoring sessions, the student who'd fought to get vegetarian options in the cafeteria.
Real people making real changes.
Then came my part. My voice, steady despite my nerves, talking about my past. About moving away and coming back. About second chances and fresh starts. About how Fair Oaks could be better—should be better.
Seeing all my classmates' faces turn and look at me had my insides doing doubles when it ended.
The silence felt electric, dangerous.
I had my hands in my lap, digging my nails into the pencil until I thought it might snap, scanning their faces for any trace of mockery or judgment. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, counting out the seconds of silence.
Mrs. Hutch was the first to break it, her hands coming together in a sharp clap that cut through the quiet.
A few other students joined in, tentative at first, and then—like a wave building momentum—a rush overtook the room. More hands joined the applause, and before I knew what was happening, the class was chanting Maddy's and my names.
"Sa-sha! Mad-dy! Sa-sha! Mad-dy!"
The sound filled the room, bounced off the walls, and settled somewhere deep in my chest.
What a beautiful feeling it was to be accepted and not laughed at. I smiled at them, fighting back the sting of tears, before Mrs. Hutch called the class back to attention. Her eyes met mine briefly, and I caught the ghost of a proud smile on her face.
After history class ended, I lingered outside the door, fingers flying across my phone screen as I tried to text Maddy about what happened.
That's when the reactions really started pouring in. A group of juniors from the art club approached, talking excitedly about our proposal for a student art gallery in the main hallway.
The debate team captain gave me a thumbs up, mentioning how the extended library hours would help everyone, not just athletes trying to maintain their GPAs.
A sophomore from the cheer team approached me—Ashley or Amber, I couldn't remember which. "I really liked your video," she said, twisting the end of her ponytail nervously. "I just want to say that I hope you win. I think it's time for a normal person to run the ropes around here. And..." she lowered her voice, "that thing about the dress code committee? Half the squad got written up last week for skirt length. It's ridiculous."
Behind her, I could see other students gathering in small clusters, discussing the video.
Two girls from my English class were passionately arguing about our proposal for monthly town halls where students could voice their concerns directly to the administration.
A freshman I recognized from the GSA club was explaining to his friends how our mental health awareness program could help combat bullying.
I smiled at the cheerleader, watching as she ran back to her friends who were pretending not to watch. Looking around, I heard my name being whispered, passed from person to person like a secret.
I noticed the stares and smiles from the students—not the cruel ones I'd feared, but looks of recognition, of possibility.
By the time I got to my locker, Maddy had been texting in all caps about the reaction to the video playing in her class as well.
She'd sent a string of messages about how the student council advisor, Mr. Peterson, had nodded approvingly during our budget proposal section, where we'd outlined plans to redistribute funding more equitably between sports and other extracurriculars.
Our plan was working.
It did exactly what we had expected—it started a buzz. It felt strange to have all the attention on me again, like slipping into an old costume that didn't quite fit anymore. But this attention was different.
This attention felt earned.
I didn't want to talk about my Mom in the video.
Didn't want to crack open that particular wound for everyone to see. But if I was going to win this election, I had to step up my game. Kingston wasn't going to use my past against me—I'd own it first.
I scanned the hallway for Kingston's blue jersey.
The football team always wore their jerseys on Fridays, a tradition as old as the school itself. But the usual sea of blue was conspicuously absent. The hallway felt different without them, like a stage missing its lead actor.
Maddy's hands wrapped around my waist, startling me out of my thoughts.
"Oh my freaking gosh, it worked!" Her voice was pitched high with excitement.
"Did you see the comment section on the school's social media? Everyone's sharing our campaign promises. Even some of the teachers are quietly supporting us. Mrs. Rodriguez from Spanish said our proposal for cultural awareness events was 'long overdue.'"
I turned around to face her, and we hugged tightly before pulling away. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and I found myself grinning despite my nerves.
"We got this!"
The sound of a door slamming startled us both, and there they were—the football team making their entrance like they owned the place.
I couldn't see Kingston's face through the crowd of girls that immediately swarmed them, their high-pitched laughter echoing off the lockers.
Angelo was the only one who smiled genuinely, acknowledging everyone who spoke to him while three girls trailed behind him like faithful shadows. His diamond chain glinted inside his unbuttoned shirt, tattoos peeking out across his chest. He was the cute rebel of the group, the one everyone wanted to be around—the total opposite of Kingston.
My eyes drifted to Kingston slowly, but the crowd around him was too thick to penetrate. It dawned on me that I hadn't considered his reaction to our video. Would he approach us? Would he approach me? Had he even seen it?
To his left stood Tommy, his vice president, a mountain of a person who never seemed to speak above a whisper.No one had ever seen him angry, and that was enough to keep everyone at a safe distance. He still hadn't acknowledged me, though I was sure he knew exactly who I was now.
The crowd began to thin, and I almost caught sight of Kingston's face before Maddy nudged me.
My heart jumped into my throat.
"Be right back, going to the bathroom," I stuttered, taking off before she could respond.
I had to see Kingston.
Call me sick.
Call me weird.
I didn't care.
I had to see his face, had to know if our video had cracked that perfect mask he always wore.
Every step I took down the hallway, I heard classmates calling out Maddy's and my names.
With every step, my heart pounded harder, like it was trying to remind me this was a bad idea. But I couldn't stop.
Finally, Kingston turned, and our eyes locked across the hall. He had been watching me the entire time, I realized with a jolt. His face was unreadable, but something in his eyes made my skin prickle.
A deep breath left my mouth, and I held my head high.
I continued to march towards him as he turned and began to walk towards the bathroom and the gymnasium.
There weren't many people around us now—the lunch crowd had gone in the opposite direction, leaving this part of the school eerily quiet.
I watched the back of Kingston's head as he entered the spare classroom, its door standing open like an invitation.
Or a trap.
I froze as the bathroom sign came into view on the opposite hall. What the fuck was I doing? Why was I going after him like some type of predator? Like a stalker?
A sick part of me wanted to rub it in his face, wanted to see him finally admit I had won this round. He could back off and let me enjoy my senior year in peace.
But had he lured me here on purpose? Did he know that I would follow him all the way here, like a puppet on strings he was still pulling?
Now I had to find out why.
He was at the back of the room where no windows or doors stood, the shadows making his jersey look almost black. The room smelled of chalk dust and old books, and something else—anticipation, maybe. Or danger.
"Looking for me?" he asked, his voice low and controlled. He refused to look at me directly, his attention fixed on his phone as his fingers flicked back and forth across the screen.
"I came to ask what your backup plan was," I said, proud of how steady my voice sounded. "Since I just jumped in front of your bullshit attempt to embarrass me."
Kingston threw his head back and laughed, but there was no humor in it. The sound bounced off the walls, making me flinch.
"You're so fucking stupid," he said, finally looking at me. His eyes were dark, dangerous. "Why would you follow me in here alone, knowing everyone saw you?"
An evil grin grew across his face as he nodded slowly at me, and the realization hit me like a bucket of ice water. I might have just fucked up.
Badly.
The classroom door clicked shut behind me, and my heart stopped.