After a few minutes, I head to the basement for round two of the firing squad. About halfway down the stairs, I realize the others are talking about me and stop to hear what they're saying.

"All right, O'Hare," Freddie says, "give it to me straight. How long do we have to put up with this girl?"

Blake shrugs, playing with the joint in his hands but not smoking it. "We help her to win the campaign, she pays me, she leaves me alone. It's easy money."

Kenny scoffs. "There is nothing easy about working with that high-maintenance cheerleader."

"You guys are being harsh," Liv says, and I knew there was a reason I liked her. "She's just a little preppy. Better than being miserable like you guys."

Kenny audibly groans. "It's really not. You'd think she was campaigning to be the actual president she's so damn militant about it."

My cheeks burn hotter. I shouldn't care what a bunch of degenerates think about me, but their words hurt all the same. I move back a step, emitting a creak that makes their heads swivel. Blake's eyebrows knit as the rest of them fall silent. It's hard to tell what he's thinking right now, but it's clear I've caught him off guard.

I turn on my heel, abandoning my campaign book, and head back upstairs. I make it to the door before someone grabs my arm. Blake is towering over me when I turn around, his palm still wrapped around my wrist.

"Wait," he says.

My skin begins to thrum beneath his fingers. "Why? So your friends can hate on me some more? No thanks." I start to leave, but he doesn't let go. Despite the fact I could easily break free, my arm stays trapped in his palm.

"They don't mean it," he says. "They're just giving you a hard time."

"Why? What did I ever do to them?"

"Come on, Rose," he says, and something runs through me at the way he says my name, "it's not every day the uptight mayor's daughter finds her way into our basement."

And that's how they see me, I realize. How everyone sees me. Vapid. Uptight. The mayor's daughter. Things I'm certain they'll have thought before too, but at least Chase acted as my buffer. Without him, I'm just unlikeable. "Well, don't worry. I'm about to make my way out."

"Just wait." He drops my wrist to rub his jaw. Clearly, he's torn between getting rid of me and keeping me around for his payday. "I told them to knock it off, all right? Let's just get this meeting done."

I stare at him for what feels like a long time. If it weren't for the fact that I desperately needed him, I'd have walked out of this nightmare long ago. "Fine, but just know that I don't like you, I don't like your friends – minus Liv – and the second this campaign is over, we're going to go back to denying the other's existence."

His eyes blacken, an amused slope to his mouth. "There she is."

"There who is?"

"Prickly Rose, my favorite kind." He turns and heads toward the basement before looking over his shoulder. "Are you coming?"

I suppress the urge to scream and follow him down to the basement. He takes his seat, so I sit on the only available armchair and pick my campaign book off the table. "Right," I say, opening my book, "if you're done talking shit about me, we can get on with the rest of the meeting." Blake leans back in his chair and watches me. I suddenly feel hot as though his fingers are still pressed on my wrist. My favorite kind. I don't know what he meant by it, but every time I think of those words, I shiver. "I've been thinking about what affects all different kinds of people," I say, "and I've decided I'm going to focus my campaign on bullying."

Nobody speaks. I now know how it feels to stand in front of a class and have your students stare wordlessly back. Newsflash: it's not pleasant. "Since you're the ones I'm going to be representing if I win, do any of you have an opinion on the matter?"

Kenny half-raises his hand like he's scared I'll bite, so I nod for him to continue. "I feel like every candidate gives some half-ass speech about how they will solve bullying. How exactly do you propose to put an end to it?"

"My goal isn't to solve bullying," I say. "I'm not naive enough to think I can change human behavior. What I will do is help those suffering because of it."

Blake leans forward. "By doing what?"

I realize I like when he looks at me this way as if, for a second, he sees past whatever preconceptions he has of me and finds something unexpected. "That's what this meeting is about," I say. "We need to streamline a few key support systems that we want to put forward to support the campaign. The Anti-Bullying Alliance has a great response that I've used as a baseline: safety, prevention, and reflection. I'm thinking for our purposes, we could have something like: Report, Recount, Remove." Turning the page of my campaign book, I show the others the outline I've made.

Report – a school database whereby students can log an incident, selecting from a dropdown list similar to how report functions work on social media. It makes it easy to report someone for harassment/bullying, and the messages will go straight to the counselor to investigate.

Recount – a safe place for people to talk about their feelings, whether this is with the school counselor or some kind of school media platform that promotes positivity.

Remove – a designated place for people to go if they feel overwhelmed or need somewhere to be alone.

Freddie's mouth falls open as he takes the campaign book and briefly flicks through it. He gets to the page where I've outlined the hairstyle I'll wear for my speech and slowly turns to Blake.

"Well, I think it sounds great," Liv says, elbowing Kenny, "right, guys?"

Kenny's eyes narrow as he rubs at his shoulder. "Yeah, super."

Finally, we're getting somewhere. "All right, let's get thinking."

For the next hour or so, we work to come up with different ideas to support the three points, and despite knowing these people don't like me very much, I'm surprised by how well we work as a team. Even Kenny, who seems to dislike me the most, gets busy using Liv's laptop to research campaigns, and for the first time in a long time, I don't feel so alone.

It's getting late, so the others head home until it's just Blake and me. We're sitting on the floor with my campaign book between us, our backs against the sofa as he leans over my shoulder. While we've come up with ideas for most of my points, we're stuck on a designated safe place.

"We could convert one of the seventy-five trillion janitors' closets into a safe room," I say.

"That's not going to work."

I'm sure he gives these vague responses just to get under my skin. "Care to elaborate?"

"If you tell people the rooms are there to escape bullying, you run the risk of creating a stigma around them," he says. "People won't want to use them."

"Because they don't want people knowing they're being bullied?"

"Exactly. Did you know most choking victims are found in bathrooms? They're embarrassed to make a fuss, so they quietly go to the bathroom to deal with it themselves and end up asphyxiating."

I frown at his depressing story. "Okay, people get embarrassed, I get it. Maybe we don't pitch them as a way to escape bullying then. We create quiet places around the school that can be used for studying or relaxation. As long as we ensure each room can only have one person at a time, it should stop them from being used for anything else." And then maybe I won't have to hide behind the bikesheds anymore.

"Sounds good," Blake says, pulling out his phone, "but it doesn't solve the other problem."

"What other problem?"

"Your relatability."

I slam closed my campaign book and put it aside before facing him properly. I can't help it; whenever he brings up my relatability, I want to smother him with a pillow. In case he hasn't noticed, he's not exactly relatable either. "I've already reworked my whole campaign. I thought that was enough."

"It's a start," he says, "but that alone won't win people over."

"What do you know about winning people over?"

He puts his phone aside to lean closer. "Hate to break it to you, but you haven't got your old friends around to win you the vote. You're going to need to make new ones."

I glare at him, but he's right. The support of Chase and all of the others would have made this a landslide, but not anymore. Defeated, I say, "How?"

"I have an idea, but you're not going to like it."

I play with my Tiffany bracelet. "I'm listening."

He gets to his feet and heads over to the fridge in what I'm sure is an attempt to drag out my misery. After pulling out a beer, he clips the lid and takes a swig before turning back around. "I'm having a party tomorrow night. You can use it as a way to get to know people. Show them, you know, that you're not a complete princess. You can be chill."

I scrunch my nose in a way that makes him roll my eyes. He thinks I'm being difficult or that I think I'm too good to hang out with his friends, but the truth is, the thought of attending a party after what happened last time leaves my stomach in shreds. Still, as hard as it is to admit, Blake's right, people aren't going to vote for me unless I give them a reason to, and at least Chase won't be there.

"For the record," I say, "I'm not a princess."

He grins. "You're so princess-like it sickens me."

I get to my feet before folding my arms. God, Tristan had said, I never realized you were so boring. His words cut through the part of me where I'd buried them deep and wriggle to the surface. "Maybe I should be like you: skipping school, turning up late, drowning your sorrows in quick fixes. Not to mention your illegal side hustles. Just because I don't go around not giving a shit doesn't mean I'm not chill."

Blake puts his beer down and walks around the table until he's standing right before me. Arms folded, he doesn't bother to wipe the cynical look off his face. "Rose, you're the least chilled, most high-maintenance person I've ever met." I give him a laser death glare that makes him raise his hands in surrender. "Look, it makes sense. You've coasted through life on your good looks. You've never had to work on your personality like the rest of us. I can help you, but it's going to cost extra."

"If this is what you're like after working on your personality, I'd hate to see what you were like before. What exactly do you need all this money for anyway?"

He waits a beat. "That's classified."

"Fine." I grab my campaign book and clutch it to my chest like some kind of shield, and then, even though it kills me to say it, "I'll come to the party. I have a piano lesson tomorrow afternoon–"

"Of course you do."

"–but I can stop by before the party starts so that you can give me some tips or something." Then, before he can make me regret my decision, I hotfoot it out of his house.

❤️