I wake up before my alarm, already tense, like my body knows something my mind is still pretending to sort out.
The ceiling above my bed is the same off-white it's always been, faintly cracked in the corner near the vent. Nothing looks different. Things should look different after a betrayal. There should be some visible change—something shifted, something broken. Instead, the morning light slants in through my blinds like it always does, thin and unbothered.
My phone buzzes on my nightstand.
I don't check it.
I lie there for a moment longer, replaying the image I couldn't stop seeing even after I fell asleep: Oscar's hand slipping my notebook into his jacket pocket. Casual. Confident. Like it had always belonged there.
He didn't hesitate.
That's the part that keeps catching on me.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My campaign notebook used to live on my desk, tucked beneath my planner. The empty space looks deliberate now. I hadn't even written my name inside it. I'd never thought I'd need to.
Downstairs, my mom's coffee machine hums softly. The smell should be comforting. It isn't. I pour myself a cup anyway and let it sit untouched on the counter while I stare at the fridge calendar. October is circled in red—debate season. November is boxed in twice, like I was afraid it might escape.
I'd planned for everything. Slogans, platforms, turnout strategies. I'd planned for Maya Chen, quiet and methodical. I'd planned for popularity gaps and faculty bias.
I hadn't planned for Oscar.
Not like this.
The thought festers slowly, solid and unpleasant: what he did wasn't impulsive. He didn't grab my notebook out of curiosity or panic. He waited until I trusted him enough to leave it behind.
By the time I leave for school, my coffee is still cooling on the counter. I don't go back for it.
________________________________________
The halls of Meadows Ridge look the same as always—polished floors, banners hanging overhead, names stitched into fabric like they're supposed to mean something. As I walk past them, I catch myself reading the years, counting backward, wondering which of those students thought they were doing the right thing when they won.
In first period, Mr. Harrison clears his throat and sets his papers neatly on the podium.
"Before we start," he says, "I want to float an interesting proposal that came up in a student conversation recently. Nothing official yet—just an idea."
My pen pauses halfway through a sentence.
He talks about increasing attendance at school events by tying participation to tangible incentives. Priority seating at games. Extra funding for clubs with high turnout. Student ambassadors highlighted in the announcements. He uses ideas I recognize, I chose them carefully when I wrote them down.
My grip tightens around my pen before I can stop it. I force my fingers to relax, count my breaths, keep my face neutral. Around me, heads nod. Someone murmurs approval. The idea sounds good. It always did.
Mr. Harrison smiles, pleased. "It's the kind of initiative that makes people feel included," he says. "Like their presence matters."
I swallow.
I don't look at Oscar. I don't need to. I can picture him perfectly: attentive posture, thoughtful expression, saying just enough to sound collaborative. He didn't steal my notebook to sabotage me.
He stole it to win.
This thought cools the heat in my chest, sharpens it into something cleaner.
So this is how it works.
I straighten my notes, smoothing the page like it's done something wrong. If Oscar wanted a head start, fine. I'd let him have it.
Races were more interesting when someone thought they were winning.
_____________________________________
The bell rings, sharp and final. Chairs scrape back. Conversation swells. The moment is over, just like that, swallowed by routine.
I pack my bag carefully, slower than usual. My hand brushes the zipper pocket where my notebook used to be, and for half a second my throat tightens again. I force myself to breathe out through my nose and keep moving.
Oscar leaves before I do.
That's new.
In the hallway, the current of students carries me forward whether I want it to or not. Lockers slam. Someone laughs too loudly. The banners overhead ripple slightly in the air, years stitched into fabric like promises that aged poorly.
"Oscar was on fire in first period," someone says behind me. "Did you hear that idea about the dance incentives?"
"Yeah," another voice replies. "It actually makes sense."
I don't turn around.
At my locker, I spin the dial too fast and have to start over. I tell myself it's nothing—just nerves—but my fingers feel clumsy, like they're waiting for instructions I haven't given yet.
Oscar appears at the end of the row, talking to a sophomore I recognize from student council subcommittee meetings. He's smiling, relaxed, backpack slung over one shoulder. When he notices me, he pauses.
For a moment, we just look at each other.
He nods first. Polite. Neutral.
"Sage," he says, like we're classmates instead of buddies. "How'd you think the proposal landed?"
There it is. Clean. Bloodless. He's offering me the chance to object, to accuse, to make a scene in front of witnesses.
I don't take it.
"It was solid," I say instead, matching his tone.
Something flickers behind his eyes—not guilt. Assessment.
"Exactly," he says. "That's what I was going for."
Of course it was.
A bell rings again, warning this time. The sophomore glances between us, clearly sensing something he doesn't understand.
"Well," Oscar says, stepping back, "see you around."
He walks away before I can respond, already back into the flow of the hallway. No apology. No explanation. No nothing.
I watch him go until the space he occupied fills with other bodies.
So that's how we're doing this.
By lunch, the idea has evolved.
________________________________________
At my table, I overheard two girls talking about "Oscar's" ideas.
"He's just really prepared," the one girl says, stabbing her salad with unnecessary force. "Like, you can tell he's thought this through."
I nod, because that's what you do when people compliment your opponent like it's a neutral observation.
I chew slowly, barely tasting anything. This isn't about Oscar being smarter or faster. He's positioning himself as the candidate with solutions, while I'm still the girl with potential.
Potential doesn't win elections.
I excuse myself early and head for the bathroom, pushing open the heavy door and letting it swing shut behind me. The mirrors line the wall, as the lights overhead shine on my face. I meet my own gaze and hold it there, cataloging what I see: steady posture, neutral expression, nothing visibly cracking.
Good.
I run cold water over my hands and think, briefly, about what it would feel like to confront him. To demand my notebook back. To make him explain himself.
The thought burns hot and useless.
No. Not yet.
When I dry my hands, my decision feels quieter—but firmer. Oscar made the first move. He took what I'd already built and repackaged it for an audience that mattered.
Fine.
He can have my ideas.
I still have my instincts.
________________________________________
The student council office smells like dry erase markers and old carpet.
I haven't been here alone in months. Usually there's someone arguing over poster colors or complaining about turnout, but today the room is empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead. I like it that way. Empty rooms don't interrupt.
I set my backpack down and pull out my planner, flipping to the page I marked earlier with a folded corner. Mrs. Gable's handwriting fills the margins — meeting times, budget notes, reminders written in looping blue ink.
Tucked between them is what I'm looking for.
Event Engagement Allocation. It's a line item so small it barely registers. A modest fund set aside every semester for "experimental participation incentives." The kind of thing that gets approved automatically and forgotten immediately. No one's used it in years.
I can see why. Incentives sound desperate. Bribes, even.
But they aren't, not if you do them right.
I pull out a blank proposal form and start writing.
Not a speech. Not a promise.
Short pop-up events tied to existing school functions. Low-cost. High-visibility. Student-led. Participation tracked through sign-ins and QR codes — optional, of course. Nothing mandatory ever works. The draw isn't the reward; it's the recognition.
I keep it simple. No slogans. No crazy big language. Just logistics and outcomes.
By the time I'm done, my hand aches.
There's a knock on the open door. I look up, expecting a hall monitor or maybe a curious underclassman.
It's Mr. Harrison.
He pauses when he sees me, eyebrows lifting slightly. "Working late?"
"Something like that," I say, steady. I don't close the folder.
He steps inside, adjusting his tweed jacket. His gaze flicks to the form, then back to my face. "You know the deadline for independent proposals passed last week."
"I do." I slide the paper toward him anyway. "But this isn't independent. It falls under the engagement allocation. Still unclaimed."
He studies it in silence. I wait.
Finally, he lets out a quiet hum. "This is… practical."
"I thought so."
"It's also measurable," he adds. "Administrators like measurable."
"I figured."
He taps the page once, then twice. "If approved, this would roll out before the debate."
"Yes," I say. "That's the point."
Another pause. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles — not the fake one he gives assemblies, but something smaller. Real.
"Leave this with me," he says. "I'll bring it up tomorrow."
When he leaves, the room feels different. Charged. Like something has shifted without making a single sound.
I pack up slowly, carefully.
As I step into the hallway, I catch a glimpse of a flyer taped crookedly to the bulletin board. Fresh ink. Clean lines.
CHADWICK: A BETTER CHOICE.
I don't stop walking.
He can have my words.
By the time the bell rings tomorrow, I'll have something better.