The idea of meeting Blake's friends is terrifying. As seven approaches, I seriously consider canceling our meeting and seeing Blake on Monday, but that would only prove him right and that's the last thing I want. Besides, being class president means talking to people you wouldn't normally converse with, so, in a way, this is practice.

At seven, I pull up to Blake's house and wait in the car. The place feels quiet, which means they must all be in the basement. I kill the engine, ignoring the thud, thud, thud of my heart as I grab my campaign book from the seat. It's not like Blake gives a damn about this book, but it's become like my comfort blanket.

As I walk up to the house, it's hard to ignore the state of the rosebush creeping up the side of the porch. I take a quick detour, maneuvering around the ramshackle deck until I'm standing over the roses. Up close like this, it's easy to see that an overall lack of care is not the issue here. The blooms have distorted, and the clustering stems and coarse, thickened canes are all too familiar. It's the beginning of Rose Rosette.

My heart squeezes like the roses' stems have coiled themselves around it. I think back to how my mother destroyed the rosebush without hesitation or before trying to find another way. She knew how much that rose bush meant and tore it down anyway.

Turning to the house, I march back onto the old withered porch and bang on the door. It takes a while to see any movement on the other side. I grow impatient, about to knock again when the door swings open. Blake stands before me, a little less tired than he'd appeared this morning and wearing a plain black t-shirt. He rests a tattooed arm on the doorframe, lip curling slightly. It's clear he's surprised that I actually showed, but rather than admit he's got me all wrong, he steps aside to let me in.

I clutch my campaign book tighter and say, "I think your rosebush has Rose Rosette."

His lip curl develops into a full-blown grin. "Okay?"

"It's a deadly virus," I say. "There's no cure, but it's early enough that I'm hoping if we cut away some of the aborted buds, it might have a chance at survival."

He goes to speak, stops, then runs a hand along his stubbled jaw. "We're talking about a rosebush, right?"

"Yes," I say, because I know he's making fun of me. "Just grab me some cutting shears, and I'll do it."

But he doesn't move. "Let me get this straight," he says, leaning against the doorframe. It's hard to miss the low, warm laughter in his tone. "You want to trim my rosebush?"

"Don't say it like that."

His eyebrow arches. "Like what?"

"Like I'm crazy."

"Rose," he says, his voice low, "you are categorically insane."

I realize we're standing too close. Close enough to let me determine which parts of his eyes are caramel and which are coal black. Those same eyes draw me closer, darkened by disbelief. Just as I think I'm about to get lost in them, he manoeuvers past me.

"If the state of my house upsets you that much," he says, "you really are a princess." He disappears through the backyard's side gate, returning moments later with some shears. Handing them over, a gleam in his eye, he says, "Maybe when you're done landscaping, we can start the meeting."

I wait until he heads back inside before working on the rosebush, snipping away the parts starting to form those familiar red thorns. It's in the early stages, which is why I still have hope. Maybe my mother was right – maybe when this happens, the roses can't be saved, but I'm determined to try.

When I've salvaged what I can, I leave the shears on the porch and head down to the basement. I'm not used to feeling nervous in social situations, but it's another unfortunate consequence of that night. Feigning confidence, I descend the steps and peer into the basement, where Blake and his friends are spread out on the sofas. There are four of them in total, not including Blake – three boys and a girl. They all turn to watch me as I reach the last step.

Blake looks over as if waiting to see what I'll do. When it doesn't look like he'll introduce me anytime soon, I step forward with my brightest smile. "Hi, I'm Rose."

"Yeah," one of the guys says, "we know."

He doesn't say it like it's a good thing. Briefly, I wonder if they've heard about the rumors. As I contemplate this, the girl takes pity on me. "I'm Liv. That's Freddie," she says, pointing to the boy who'd spoken. He's tall and skinny, with dark skin, almond-shaped eyes, and full lips. Beside him, Liv tells me, is Kenny, who's equally as tall but with pale skin and rounded cheeks that make him look younger than the rest.

"Nice to meet you," I say, glancing at Blake for a little support, but he's too busy looking at his phone, "I'm guessing Blake already filled you in on why I'm here."

The boys stare back blankly, but Liv has the decency to nod. "You're campaigning for president, right?"

"Right." As awkward and uncomfortable as this situation is, I'm determined to make the best of it. "Well, since you're all here, why don't you join the team?" I glance at Liv, who's in the process of pulling her bright red hair into a casual, messy topknot, and notice the laptop by her feet. "Liv, if you don't mind, could you write down any ideas we might have?"

"Uh." She glances at Blake, who looks up and grins. It's enough to make her sigh before reaching for her laptop. "Sure, why not."

"Thanks," I say. Flicking my hair back, I try to find some common ground. "Does anyone have any hidden talents that might help this campaign along? Think arts and craft, design, promotion –anything."

Liv turns to Freddie, a wicked look in her eye. "Freddie here is great at design if you need any badges or posters. I'm sure he's eager to help. Right, Fredz?"

"Oh no, no, no," Freddie says, raising his hands, "Don't drag me into this parody. Blake said you were coming over, not that we had to help."

I turn to Kenny, who stares at me without saying a word before pulling a joint from his pocket. Raising it to his lips, he's about to light the end of it when one look from Blake gives him pause. Kenny's eyes narrow as he puts it away.

My skin grows clammy as I succumb to the awkward silence. This campaign meeting is a total disaster, and it's barely begun. I have a campaign captain I'm paying for and a dysfunctional team who don't even like me. In what world will I win this election?

"I'm going to the bathroom," I announce to no one in particular and head upstairs to give myself a pep talk.

My reflection stares back in the bathroom mirror, the same old Rose I've spent my whole life looking at, but this time she looks different. Not outwardly, I guess, but the spark that used to reside in my eyes appears to be missing. The worst part of all is that despite my best efforts, I don't know what to do to get it back.

🤚🏼❤️

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