The air in the Meadows Ridge Preparatory library always smells the same: old paper, crappy coffee, and the nervous sweat of ambitious fifteen-year-olds fighting for their first taste of power. I will admit, I contribute a little to the smell of crappy coffee.
Rows of scarred oak tables stretched beneath flickering lamps, the kind that made everything feel more serious than it deserved.
It's a smell I know well—one I'm aiming to replace with the crisp scent of new initiatives
and, come November, victory.
I, Sage Ashford, intend to be student body president.
Oscar sits across from me at our usual table, illuminated by a sliver of weak afternoon sun.
He meticulously highlights his history notes with a fresh yellow felt-tip, posture terrible as he hunches over the sheets, black hair falling forward to hide his eyes. We're friends—best friends. Nothing can change that, I tell myself firmly, like repetition might make it true.
We're the kind of best friends only two people with a relentless drive to succeed can be. We're the power duo of Meadows Ridge, the kind of pair the teachers loved and the other students—well, the other students hardly noticed us.
"Oskie, you're going to use up that entire highlighter on a single paragraph," I say, leaning back in my stiff wooden chair.
He doesn't look up, his black hair obscuring his eyes from my view. "Thoroughness is a virtue, Sage. If I'm going to be president, I should probably understand the past."
I laugh it off. Oscar always took things too seriously. That was why I'd win. People who followed rules always lost to people who understood them.
He finally meets my eyes, a slight, practiced smile playing on his lips. I know where he's going with this. I sigh.
"Speaking of which," he says, "have you decided on a campaign slogan?"
I narrow my eyes. We have—or had—an unofficial pact: no talking about the election until October. It's September. "Breaking the pact already?"
"Just testing the waters," he says smoothly. "I'm thinking something simple. Chadwick: A Better Choice."
"A better choice than what? It's silly and it sounds incomplete," I counter. "I'm going with Ashford: For the People."
It's broad, inoffensive, and impossible to argue with—exactly what people like.
"More cliché," he says mildly. After a long while, he closes his history book with a soft thud. "Let's head to my house and play a board game. I need a break."
"Agreed. I'm going to head to the bathroom real quick—pack my stuff for me."
"I'm not your slave."
"Sure you're not." I smile and walk away.
________________________________________
When I come back from the restroom, he's just finishing up packing my things. He's taking forever.
I tap him on the shoulder. "Ready to go?"
"Yep."
Outside the library, the high-ceilinged hallways of Meadows Ridge feel cold, banners of past student councils hanging overhead. We walk in sync, our footsteps echoing off the polished stone floors.
The school is old, designed to inspire awe, making every minor achievement feel like part of history—even when it wasn't.
Oscar nudges me. "Hey, did you finish the English paper? I'm stumped on the symbolism of the green light."
I stop and stare at him in disbelief as I tuck my brunette hair behind my ear. "It's about the unattainable nature of the American Dream, Oscar. I told you that in AP Lit prep last year." I adjust my backpack strap and keep walking.
"Right, right. Still, felt a bit flimsy." He stops at his locker, dialing the combination with a casual flick of his wrist. "Mrs. Gable mentioned the president's debate will have a 'surprise format.' Think it'll be anything wild?"
"Probably a timed Q&A," I say, leaning against the lockers. "Nothing we can't handle. We'll both make great speeches, shake hands, and the best person wins."
It's the kind of thing people expect you to believe. That was the version of elections people liked to hear. I'd learned early it was easier to win if you told people what they needed to believe.
"The best person," Oscar repeats quietly, and for a moment his voice loses its edge. "I hope you mean that, Sage. Friendship is one thing, but this is about the future. It's bigger than just friendship."
"It's tenth grade, Oscar. It's not the most important thing in the world—don't take it so seriously." I roll my eyes. Of course, I'm right. But it matters enough to me.
The tenth-grade president has a seat on the school council. A voice. A budget. It's the first real rung on a ladder we both intend to climb.
We fall back into step. "You planning on going to the Fall Formal?"
"Planning on it."
"Cool. My mom has an appointment. Could you and your mom pick me up?"
"Sure."
________________________________________
When we arrive, carpooling, the gym has been transformed with crepe paper streamers in the school colors—maroon and gray—and a DJ playing music that seems intentionally undanceable. The lights are dimmed just enough to hide the scuffed floor.
I find Oscar by the punch bowl, plastic cup in hand, surrounded by a small, happy circle of kids. He's charming. Of course he is. He makes them laugh about the terrible music and how the punch tastes like cherry cough syrup. A natural leader.
"Sage! Come over here," he calls. "We were just talking about improvements for next year's dance."
I join them, clearing my throat and smoothing my white dress—the kind that reads polite before anyone looks too closely.
"We'd need a better budget. A real DJ." I glance at the music man, who has apparently overheard me and is now glaring. "Maybe move it out of this tiny
sweatbox of a gym."
"Exactly," Oscar beams. "That's what I was saying. See? Sage has the logistical mind. We're a great team."
That's us—a team. For now, at least.
Watching his enthusiastic face in the dim lights, I decide we can stay a team even through the election. Friends who compete honorably. That's better. The thought pulls at the corners of my mouth.
The night wears on. I'm near the bleachers, sipping my cup of cough syrup, when something chills the humid air around me.
Oscar is no longer where I left him.
He's near the far exit, talking to three people: Sarah Jenkins—effortlessly popular; Mr. Harrison in his ever-present tweed jacket; and Maya Chen, neat and observant, already looking like she belonged in a leadership photo. She's the only other person running for student body president, aside from me and Oscar.
Something sharp twists in my chest. I'd planned on talking to Jenkins soon. He beat me to it.
I let out a breath and smile—the kind of smile teachers are drawn to. It's okay. I can deal with this.
They aren't laughing. Their heads are close together in serious conversation. Mr. Harrison nods, then hands Oscar a sleek black notebook. Maya points at something inside it. Oscar smiles—that practiced, political smile.
It hits me.
Cold settles in my stomach.
The black notebook. Mine.
I drop my smile.
My campaign idea book. Slogans. Budget. Allies. Weaknesses—oh my god. I'd left it on the library table when I ran to the restroom, trusting Oscar to watch my things.
Of course he took it.
I would have.
I stand and walk slowly toward the punch bowl, refilling my cup.
Oscar slips my notebook into his jacket pocket and looks up at me. He smiles.
The jerk smiles at me.
The disco ball catches the light in his eye, and for the first time, I don't see my best friend at all. I see a traitor who just took my first move in a game I didn't realize had already begun.
The taste of betrayal is much stronger than cherry syrup. I force a smile.
You didn't just betray me, Oscar. You made your first move.