There is a knot in my stomach the moment I wake up. I roll on my side, propping myself up with an elbow, and stare at the clock on the bedside table. It's just gone seven, which means my parents will already be awake and eating breakfast. Sundays are usually family Day in the Matthews household, which is why it feels strange that I'm here, in a house and bed that are not my own.

In Blake's bed.

For a moment, as I lie here entangled in his sheets, I'm overcome with shame. Not over last night – from what I remember, I didn't do anything too bad – but over the thoughts I'd had about Blake. We are opposites in every way, so opposite, in fact, that I struggle to think of a thing we have in common, not to mention he's a jerk. If he knew what sordid thoughts crossed my mind, he'd be horrified too.

My stomach squeezes just thinking about it. I tell myself it was down to the alcohol and nothing else. Blake was being nice – uncharacteristically so – and my brain got confused. That's it. As if to prove it, I jump out of bed and gather my things before tiptoeing into the hallway. The house remains quiet, and there's no sign of movement coming from downstairs, which tells me Blake is asleep. I push on further, convinced that if I look in Blake's eyes, he'll see the dirty thoughts I had. When the coast is clear, I sneak back to my car before reversing out of the driveway.

The drive gives me time to get my head straight. Whether last night helped or hindered my campaign remains to be seen, and the worst part is that I won't find out until Monday, which means another twenty-four hours of overthinking.

Instead of obsessing, I think about the next few steps in my campaign, such as preparing my speech and putting together a plan of action for if it's successful. I'll need to talk to Mr. Charters, the faculty advisor, at some point, and I'll need to start planning what else I'm going to do to ensure I get the vote. No doubt Chase and Libby have something big in the works, which means I've got some serious thinking to do. I just hope last night helped to make me relatable like Blake said it would, or else I'm in trouble.

As soon as I get home, I drop my purse on the hanger by the door, brush out my hair, and follow the voices to the kitchen. My parents are at the table, Dad's nose in a book and Mom's in her laptop. Even though they're preoccupied with different things, I catch Dad holding her hand beneath the table.

"Morning," Mom says as I sit at the table, "how was last night?" She doesn't look up; she's too busy replying to an email. Even on a Sunday, the mayor doesn't rest.

"It was good," I say, reaching for a piece of fruit. "It was nice spending time with Angela outside of the campaign."

"That's good, honey," she says. "How is the campaign going?"

"Okay, I think. I know what I want it to be about, so I'm going to spend today working on my speech."

Mom frowns. "What do you mean?"

"I thought you had that planned out since kindergarten," Dad teases.

The familiar tightness in my stomach returns. I keep my voice light as I say, "I had to make a few changes, but I think it's for the better. I'll be campaigning to help victims of bullying."

Dad smiles, but Mom stops tapping on her laptop to look at me. "Your campaign is on bullying?"

I falter, and then, "I thought it would be good to campaign about something that many students in Archbury experience. Something more...relatable."

"Oh, Rose," she says with disapproval, "you don't want to be that candidate."

As if by magic, the last of the Rose from last night wilts away. "What candidate?"

"The relatable one," she says. "The everybody's friend type. They start strong and fizzle out quickly because people don't want your average Joe in charge, Rose. They want people who are confident and cutthroat enough to get things done."

"I will get things done," I say. My way. "I just know that bullying is something most people have experienced. It hits a nerve with many people."

She shakes her and gets back to her laptop before thinking better of it. "It's just a little...amateur, one of those things that first-time candidates suggest to make them look caring before they realize that what they're trying to change can't be done. What have I always told you, Rose?"

"Tackle problems that have solutions," I say. "That way–"

"You always come out on top," she finishes.

"I know, but–"

"And your speech," she continues as if she didn't hear me. "Aren't you giving it on Wednesday? It's a little short notice to write a new one. Stick with what you know, Rose. I thought your previous idea of networking was perfect. Preparing students for the future with tailored platforms and workshops made for a well-rounded campaign. This new idea feels...whimsical."

"Well," Dad says, "I think it's nice you want to focus on an important topic, Rose." There is a but coming; I can feel it. "But maybe your mother is right. It's very late to change your ideas, especially when the last idea was perfect."

There it is again, that word. Perfect. "Look," I say, my eye twitching, "I can't run that campaign anymore. It was all about how to be likable through networking."

"So?"

"So," I say, "I'm not–" I'm about to say likable, but I realize she doesn't get it. She doesn't know that I don't have friends anymore or that people don't take me seriously. She sees me campaigning and making up lies about befriending Angela, and she thinks it's all better; I can't bring myself to break the illusion.

"I should get ready for tutoring," I say, excusing myself. Then I head to the bathroom to shower and change before going to Mrs. Delaware's house to tutor her daughter in English. It's a little absurd – the kid is five – but tutoring looks good on a college application, and I like having the excuse to get out of the house. I knock on the door and wait for the click-clacking sound of Mrs. Delaware's heels on the polished hardwood floors.

It's the first time I'll have seen her since before spring break, and a part of me is nervous. Mrs. Delaware is one of those women who thinks every little thing will negatively impact her children, so she keeps them on a tight leash. No tv, no playdates unless the parents are vetted, and definitely no junk food. She only trusted me because my mother is the mayor, though even that doesn't explain why she's kept me around since hearing the rumors.

She opens the door and steps onto the porch wearing a long cream cardigan and matching wide-leg trousers. "Good morning, Rose. Lovely to see you."

I give her what I like to call an Archbury smile. Bright but slightly forced. "Likewise, Mrs. Delaware."

Meridia stands behind her, wearing a pretty cream dress that matches her mother's. Her blonde hair frames her face in little pigtails, and her mouth is purple from the countless blackberries she eats. Mrs. Delaware glances behind her, looks at Myridia's face, and sighs. "You've got blackberry juice all over your mouth, missy. Go and clean it off."

Meridia giggles as Mrs. Delaware leads me inside. While their house isn't quite as lavish as ours, it's still one of the best on the street. Modern, with a wide-set hallway adorned with abstract art and state-of-the-art skylights. At the end of the hallway is an oval archway opening up to the kitchen, which is where my tutoring takes place. I follow Mrs. Delaware to the kitchen's island and sit on a mustard barstool. In the corner of the room, a set of French doors look out onto the patio. They're slightly ajar, and a gust of fresh air breezes through the gap and swirls about the white-linen curtains.

"Would you like some tea?" Mrs. Delaware asks. She doesn't have coffee but a selection box of various teas from across the globe.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Delaware," I say, pulling out my resources. I set them on the table and wait for Meridia to return, but she's taking her sweet time.

Mrs. Delaware gets to making her green tea. A moment passes, and I think I may have escaped any comments when she turns with her steaming cup of tea in hand and gives me a pitiful look. "You know, your mother told me you're campaigning for class president, and I have to say I'm proud of you for putting that awful incident behind you. You're a good girl, Rose. You just made a bad choice. Unfortunately for us, men who make bad choices never quite seem to suffer the same repercussions."

A part of me wonders if she's right. Adam is Chase's best friend, but not once did anyone mention how wrong it was of him to kiss his friend's girlfriend. Nobody asked why Chase was filming the incident or asked for my side of the story. The only one who suffered the fallout was me.

"Thank you, Mrs. Delaware."

Meridia can't come back soon enough. She sits opposite me on the island and uses her elbows to prop up her head. Grinning, she says, "Long time no see. Do you want a cookie?" She points to the plate of fresh cookies on the counter and glances at her mother. "They're sugar-free and made with wheat. Mommy says their healthy cookies."

"I'm okay, thank you."

Her mother disappears into the living room as I get out the exercise book Meridia has been working in and correct the homework I'd given her. "Okay, a few of these sentences still don't have capital letters and full stops. I'm going to write out some new ones, and I want you to add the correct punctuation, okay?"

She watches as I write a few simple sentences in my delicate scrawl. "I wish I had handwriting like yours," she says.

I smile. "It's all about practice. Practice makes perfect."

"My mommy says that if I keep working hard like you, I can be a genius."

Her words make me flinch. It's a simple enough statement, and yet somehow, it's part of the problem. Parents keep putting this overwhelming pressure on their kids to be great, but what if we don't want to be great? What if we don't want to be perfect or geniuses or athletes? What if we're perfectly content with being ordinary?

"I think you're perfect the way you are," I say, tilting the book, "but we can practice some ascenders if you like." She nods eagerly, and we spend the rest of the morning splitting our time between punctuation and handwriting.

By the time I get home, I'm exhausted. It's not yet noon, so I push away the tiredness and head to my room to work on my speech. Something feels different now that Blake has been here. I picture him by the window, holding Mr. Stuffy and looking around my juvenile excuse for a bedroom. His presence still lingers, his disdain ingrained into the satin sheets, his judging gaze settling on every little flaw. And the worst part is now I see them too.

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