The first thing he does is place his hands on my shoulders, no doubt in an attempt to steady me, but it only makes me more off balance. "Easy," he says through the vape between his lips, "where's the fire?"

My response doesn't come straight away. Probably because I'm still shocked about Libby, or maybe because this is the first time in my life that I have spoken to Blake, and it's like my brain can't compute.

"There's no fire." I take a step back, acutely aware of his large, solid hands still gripping my shoulders. His forearms are covered in intricate tatts, and I catch a glimpse of a coin-sized Virgin Mary. "I'm just..."

"Hiding?"

"No." I straighten my shoulders, ignoring the sting in my eyes. The last thing I need is for someone like Blake to witness my meltdown. "Taking the scenic route to class."

He grins, the first one I think I've ever seen. Blake is usually AWOL, an elusive name called out in homeroom but one that rarely elicits a response. To see him standing here is disconcerting.

"Well, do you mind?" he asks. "This is kind of my spot."

I'm about to happily bail when his phone pings. He pulls it from his pocket and frowns before typing back. Rumor has it that Blake is the person you go to when you want something done – in exchange for a price. Tech deals, drugs, he seems to have it all, though something tells me his methods are less than legal.

To say he unnerves me is an understatement. He's tall, intimidatingly so, with dark eyes subtly laced with contempt, but that's not what unsettles me. It's the vibe he gives off, an air of, I don't give a shit what you think, and he doesn't. His dark hair is messy, his eyes slightly dusted with bruise-like shadows, and he's wearing a faded Led Zeppelin t-shirt in desperate need of ironing. In a town like Archbury – where reputation rules – Blake O'Hare is an anomaly.

A cloud of smoke descends from his lips. I cough and fan my hand in my face, my distaste for him clear. His eyebrow arches as he puts away his phone, his distaste for me clear too. "You're into hard drugs, but vape smoke you draw the line at?"

"I'm not into hard drugs. That was just a rumor."

His eyes travel down my immaculate makeup and land on my put-together outfit. "Clearly. Aren't you going to be late?"

"Wait–" I grab his arm and pull it toward me, reading his watch upside down. "Shit." My skin grows clammy at the thought of being the last to walk into class. I'd planned to lay low and get through this day as a ghost, but now I'll be subjected to countless stares as I'm forced to take whichever seat is left.

"You could always skip," Blake says. "I am."

"Maybe that's normal for someone like you, but I've never skipped class in my life."

"Shocking.''

The late bell rings, so now it's official. I swallow hard, taking one final look at Blake. Not only will I be late, but I smell like cherry vape. Great.

"Guess that's your cue."

I nod but don't move, frozen by the thought of what people might say when I enter that classroom. In a sick twist of events, the idea of hiding out here with Blake feels inherently safer. "They're all going to be talking about me, aren't they?"

If this were my mother, she'd give me some speech about how I'm just being paranoid and to keep moving forward, but Blake doesn't do that. Instead, he leans closer, forcing my breath hitch in my throat.

"The trick is to walk in and act like you don't care," he says. "Be prickly. People don't bother prickly people."

"But I'm the opposite of prickly."

He shrugs and takes a hit of his vape. "All roses come with thorns."

Maybe he's right; maybe my life as the perfect Rose is officially over. Maybe all they'll see now are thorns. "Act prickly," I repeat, straightening up, and then I brace myself for impact.

For about five minutes, Blake O'Hare's advice to act prickly works. I walk into class with my shoulders back, ignoring the heads that swivel to face me as I look for an empty seat. One is by the window, right under the Vote For Your New Class President banner. If there's a God, she hates me.

Mr. Charter, my English teacher, stops talking to watch as I slip into my seat. He's heard about what happened – they all have – so his eyes flash with pity. After clearing his throat, he murmurs something about remembering to be on time and returns to teaching.

Now that I'm settled, I risk looking around. A few of the others lose interest and turn to the front, but a handful still watch me, a smirk on their lips as if to say, What a hypocrite. And the worst part of all is that he did this, the boy I was crazy about, the boy I thought loved me. Clearly, I am not a good judge of character.

Halfway through Mr. Charter's passionate spiel, a note flies toward me and lands on my desk. I don't see where it comes from, and a quick look around shows that whoever the culprit is, they're doing an excellent job at feigning interest in Mr. Charter, so I turn back around. Fingers shaking, I straighten out the scrunched-up ball and stare at the words on the page.

I sink even further into my seat. AP English is usually my favorite subject, and Mr. Charter is my favorite teacher. But right now, all I want to do is dive into a dark, black hole and never resurface.

The rumors had started off innocent enough: Rose is a cheater. A liar. A fraud. But then the rumors took an uglier turn, the way these things always do. Rose is a slut, a drug addict, and maybe the worst of them all: Rose is not perfect. My parents were horrified at what was said – the mayor's daughter now caught in a scandal – but I wasn't. I'd anticipated the cruelty of the kids at this school and the effect their words would have; it's why I'd dreaded the fallout.

As it turned out, people cared less about the content of the rumors and more about the fact they featured me. The girl who did no wrong had suddenly found herself on the receiving end of a scandal, and that's what people focus on, what people have taken pleasure in for centuries: the fall.

Finally, the bell rings. I'm too far from the door to be the first person out, so I pack my things slowly, allowing the others to trickle out first. By the time I've finished, I'm the only one left, avoiding confrontation. Backpack in hand, I get up and head for the door when Mr. Charter says, "Rose?"

I turn around. "Yes, Mr. Charter?"

He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I'm one of the faculty members overseeing this year's elections," he says. "I know how excited you were before the break about running. I look forward to seeing your campaign."

My shoulders deflate. "Actually, Mr. Charter, I'll no longer be running for president." It hurts to think it, let alone say it. All of that hard work for nothing.

His eyes soften. He knows. "This is something you've wanted for as long as I've known you, and it would be a shame to pass it up. I know it might not seem like it, but things will get better."

"And if they don't?"

I expect him to say they will, or maybe tell me I'm being dramatic, but he doesn't. Instead, he says, "You know, there's a phrase Abraham Lincoln used to love to quote, and it always helps me keep things in perspective. Want to hear it?"

"Um, sure."

He takes off his glasses, wipes them, and slips them back on his face. "This too shall pass."

Hardly life-changing, but something about it strikes a nerve. The old Rose would never have quit without a fight. The old Rose was confident, powerful, and brave in her decisions; I need to get her back. "Thanks, Mr. Charter," I say, "I'll think about it."

And I do. I think about it through my subsequent classes and again in the bathroom when I'm busy eating lunch. I think about it on the ride home with Mom, who quizzes me about my day, and again as I help her to unload the shopping. But no amount of thinking seems to help with a solution. If anything, it gives me a headache.

"Could you grab that last bag?" Mom asks.

I nod and walk around the car to the trunk. As I pull out the final bag, Mr. Peters, our neighbor, walks toward his mailbox and gives me a gleeful wave. I wave back and haul the bag over my shoulder as Mrs. Verity, the woman three doors down, cycles past. She waves too – though the look on her face suggests she's believed every word of those rumors about me – and cycles harder to get away.

That's Archbury for you. A small, post-colonial town with big Victorian houses and maple trees on every street. Neighbors who compete to be the best in everything: best house, best Christmas decorations, best pie in the annual pie contest. Perfection, or as close to it as one can get, is all that matters – it's all I've ever known.

I turn back to the house. It's no different from the dozens of others on this tree-lined avenue: tall, sprawling, with a sweeping driveway and an immaculate lawn with a state-of-the-art water feature. We've won Best Lawn in the Annual Garden Association three years running, much to the disappointment of Mrs. Verity; we'll win next year, too.

Inside, Dad is busy pottering around the yard with his nose in a book. My father is an Archbury University professor, meaning he's always either talking about books or reading them, sometimes both. I help Mom put the shopping away before opening the patio doors to the yard, strolling down the path toward him. He's sitting on the old wooden bench that once looked out onto the roses but now faces nothing but the faded dirt patch where the blossoming flowers once grew.

He smiles when he sees me and taps the bench beside me. I sit down, waiting a moment or two before speaking. "This is the first time you've been out here," I say, but I don't add the part that should follow. Since Mom killed the roses.

"I guess you're right," he says, staring at the dirt patch, "but it was too sunny not to." He turns to face me with eyes so soft that they make me feel broken. It's the same look he's been giving me since that day before spring break when my life changed for the worse.

"I know." Eyes closed, I tilt my head back and bask in the afternoon sun. Once upon a time, Dad and I could sit here for hours reading books or admiring our rose bush. It was our thing, something that bonded us in a way nothing else ever has. Each morning, he'd take my hand and lead me outside, my pink, flowery water can clutched in my hand, and together, we'd water it, taking great pleasure in watching it flourish. Occasionally he'd pluck off a particularly vibrant rose and kneel to my height before handing it to me.

"This one is perfect," he'd say with a smile, "just like you, Rose." Which is why, when the rose bush stopped being so perfect, it felt like I did too.

I glance over and see he's returned to reading his book. Before all this, becoming Class President meant making a difference, but now it would mean restoring my reputation. And trying to win without that squeaky clean image will be difficult. Not difficult: impossible.

At dinner, I'm so preoccupied with the campaign that I barely touch my pasta. Barely listen to the idle chatter of my parents discussing literature. Barely hear Dad's next question.

"Rosebud," he says.

I look up and see they're both staring expectantly. "Yeah?"

"I asked how school was."

"It was fine," but I don't sound convincing.

He glances at Mom, his dark eyes uncertain as they dart back to me. Although I've tried hard to convince them I'm fine, they're worried. "Something on your mind?"

I put down my fork and brace myself for their reaction. "Kind of...I'm thinking about staying in the running for Senior Class President."

Mom beams like this is the first good news she's received all week. While the rumors about me haven't affected her job, I can tell she's embarrassed all the same. Having your daughter be the talk of the high school is not a good look. "Oh, honey, I'm so glad to hear you say that. It's exactly what you need to put all of this behind you."

Dad smiles too. I'd known he would agree to this, not because he's as ambitious as my mother, but because to him, leadership roles keep the world from burning – it's what made him fall for my mother. According to him, there aren't many opportunities in life to make a difference, so when one comes along, you take it. And maybe they're wrong, maybe I need to lay low for a while until people forget, or maybe I need to give them something else to remember me for.

❤️