I awake to dozens of tags on Instagram. Hands shaking, I click on the first notification in the list until a video of me playing beer pong pops up. I press play, my heart in my throat as I wait for something terrible to unfold. I don't remember doing anything embarrassing, but maybe I'd gotten so drunk I can't remember. Maybe this, right here, is what will take me out of the running for good. But then the video stops playing, and my shoulders heave. It lasted a minute, less than a minute, long enough to show me beating the boys and being hailed queen.

I'm about to click off it when I notice the comments – forty in total – and the panic I'd felt earlier returns with a vengeance. These comments will determine whether Blake's plan was successful or whether it helped seal my fate. I'm not sure I want to look.

Curiosity gets the better of me – either that or I'm a masochist – and I look at the comments. The first handful make my breath hitch:

Maybe she should spend less time playing beer pong and more time being faithful.

Whoever got Rose Matthews to remove the stick from her ass is a genius.

Please tell me why Rose Matthews is at BLAKE O'HARE'S PARTY.

Nausea takes over as I contemplate whether or not to read further, but then I catch the comment below it, this one more positive: SLAY. The following ones are equally as pleasant, and it's like I can breathe again. Maybe Blake's plan was successful; maybe I'm not hated.

More comments pour in during breakfast. The mean ones I'd read earlier disappear into the abyss as they're replaced with affirmation. It's not like the video is viral or anything – the only kids commenting are ones that go to Archbury – but that's all that matters. People are finally seeing something other than that kissing video. People are seeing me.

"You seem brighter today, Rose," Dad says. We're alone at the table – Mom went to the office early to look over some papers, so breakfast has been quiet. My dad is the type who speaks when there is something worth saying, and my mom is the opposite; I like to think I fall somewhere in between. "Did you manage to get your speech finished?"

I smile brightly. "Yeah, I did. In fact, I think I'm going to head to school a little earlier today to get a few things sorted." I finish what's left of my toast and grab my bag from the chair next to me. "I'll see you later."

"See you later, Rosebud."

The drive to school is excruciating. All I want is to get there and show Blake the messages, but I manage to hit every stoplight within a three-mile radius. When I finally pull up, I'm no earlier than I would have been if I'd set off at the usual time, not that it matters. Something tells me Blake might be late today anyway.

Still, I park and head to our usual spot, a skip in my step as I round the corner to the bikesheds. Blake is already standing there, leaning against the wall with his vape and looking unconcerned.

Warmth works its way into my face. Maybe it's a lingering effect of that one dirty thought, but it's hard not to notice how good he looks. Better than good. He must have gotten some sleep last night because his usual faint shadows have all but disappeared, and his eyes look that little bit brighter.

Ignoring the heat, I slip into the space beside him, pulling out my phone. "Did you see the video of me playing beer pong?"

His eyes flit over, warm and steady. "Hello to you too."

For a good three seconds, I forget what I'm saying. "Hi," I say, opening the video, "look at this." My voice is giddy – I still can't believe that a video about beer pong has made people like me. Blake puts his vape away and peers over my shoulder. "People are being nice about me." I grab his arm in my excitement, "Look at all these crown emojis. They're for me." It's impossible not to smile as his gaze meets mine, warm like honey. "Can you believe that? Your plan worked, Blake."

For the first time in a long time, he smiles. It's hard to tell if he's happy because I'm happy or because he's been proven right. The tiniest part of me prays it's the former. "Did you doubt me, Matthews?"

The way he holds my gaze surprises me. Not because it's filled with his usual disdain, but because, for once, it isn't.

"Can you blame me?"

"All right," he says, "just for that–" and pulls out his phone.

"Just for that, what?" I ask as he pulls up the video of me. "What are you doing?"

"Adding my own comment. You want crown emojis or beer? Or maybe winky faces – keep everyone on their toes."

Winky faces! What would people think then? "Don't you dare," I say, reaching for his phone, but he holds it above my head. I grab his arm and attempt to pull it closer, but his muscles are hard as concrete.

"Come on, Rose," he says, "you're not even trying."

His eyes are practically laughing at me. I pull him harder, which only ends up pushing us closer. His arm lowers, the phone now in reach, but I don't take it. Two things dawn on me: one is that his face is so close, I can smell the fresh mint on his breath. The other is that despite knowing it's wrong – more than wrong –I don't want to let go of his arm. Blake leans closer, eyes on my lips like he's thinking the same, and for a brief moment, I want to be braver than I've ever been before – I want to reach up and kiss him.

The vibration of his phone jerks us back. I turn away as he pulls out his phone, heart pounding. It's like the deepest, darkest parts of myself had pushed to the surface, and now they've retreated. I look back at Blake, at his careful expression, and realize he's just as confused.

"Um, so are you still okay with meeting tonight?" I ask. "I was up all night working on my speech, but I need another pair of eyes on it. We'll also need to fine-tune some of the key points in my plan. Make sure everything I mention has a solution."

His eyebrow furrows. I think he'll say something about what happened, but he doesn't. "Can it be after seven?"

"But that's so late." I can't mask the disappointment in my voice. This speech will determine whether or not I make it through this round, and he's forgotten all about it. "What if there are parts we need to rework?"

"I know, but I'm helping this guy with something tonight. I can't get out of it."

"With what?"

His eyes ask the question I'm asking myself: why do you care? But I care because he's my campaign captain. Because anything he does reflects back on me. Though the longer he stares, the hotter my cheeks grow, as if the truth is branded on my skin.

"Here's a thought," I say, "have you considered getting a real job?"

His lip curls. We feel like us again. "Why when I'm so good at this one?"

"I don't know, maybe because I'm certain half of what you do is illegal?"

"You're just too smart for our own good, princess."

The first bell rings. I want to let the job thing go – it's none of my business – but I can't forget the list of bills I'd seen in his room. I don't know where his parents are or how long his brother is away on vacation, but no seventeen-year-old should have to worry about bills. As he fiddles with his phone, I can't help myself. "Blake?"

"Yeah?"

I take a deep breath. "If you need help, I can–"

His voice is casual as he says, "What makes you think I need help?"

I think about lying, but it's never been my strong suit. "I saw the list of things that need paying off. If you want, I can loan you some money, and you can pay me back whenever."

He stops. Turns. "You went through my things?"

Seconds pass, but it feels like forever. I've never seen him look so pissed. "I didn't," I say, "I was just–"

"You're unbelievable," he says and walks off without me.

I don't know where he goes, but he doesn't attend first period. The seat beside me is empty, and I spend the whole of class with a tightness in my chest that I can't seem to shake. I shouldn't care that he's mad at me – I was trying to help – but it's all I can think about.

When class lets out, I head to my locker and see every hallway is plastered with campaign posters. Libby's face is everywhere, her bright white smile like a beacon of hope for the students of Archbury High. The other hallways are filled with Mark Johnson's, the know-it-all I'd initially identified as my competition. Of course, that was pre-Libby. With Chase on her side, who knows what the outcome will be?

I clutch my bag tighter and pick up my pace. I've been so preoccupied with rewriting my campaign that I've barely had time for marketing. It's too late now, I don't have time to design new posters, but if I can just get through my speech, I'll have time to work on it afterward.

My next few classes are split between rehearsing my speech and thinking of Blake. I don't know why I'm thinking of Blake, but I've felt sick since our argument. It felt different from our usual kind – the type that might drive him to quit.

I'm so convinced he will that I refuse to give him the opportunity. Instead of eating in our usual spot at lunch, I set off toward the cafeteria, determined to put my fear of seeing Chase behind me. He doesn't own the cafeteria; I can eat here if I want to.

Breath held, I walk in and join the line to get my food while scoping out the seating situation. Chase and the others are at their usual table, only this time, Georgia is in my seat. Chase has got his hand on her shoulder, and she's leaning into him, whispering something in his ear. With a boyish smile, he turns his head, spots me, and freezes.

I think about ditching my tray, but it's too late to back out now. As soon as the lunch lady serves up my food, I scan the other tables for somewhere to sit. By chance, I catch sight of Liv, Freddie, and Kenny in the corner and hotfoot it over without thinking. The three of them look up as I sit in what must be Blake's empty seat, but they don't say a word.

I undo the lid of my yogurt and say, "Is it okay if I sit here?"

They look at one another. Freddie says, "The queen of beer pong? Hell yeah."

I smile, relieved. After an awkward silence, the three of them talk about some light saber night while I try to steady my nerves. I'm certain Chase is looking – a lot of people are – and a glance behind my shoulder reveals I was right; his eyes are burning lasers in my head.

"So, are you game?" Liv asks.

I turn and say, "For what?"

"Our Beat Saber session. Wednesday night."

Wednesday. The day of my speech. If it all goes horribly, I doubt I'll be in the mood to do anything. "What's Beat Saber?"

Kenny's mouth falls open. "What's Beat Saber?" He looks at Liv. "What's Beat Saber," he repeats, throwing his hands up. "This girl, I swear." He leans forward now, resting his elbows on the table. "It's a VR game. You slash cubes to the beat of whatever song you choose. I'm the beat saber champion of our group by like, a longshot."

I glance at Liv to see if he's for real, and she nods. To Kenny, I say, "Sounds fun."

"It is," Freddie says. "I mean, it's fun because we make it a drinking game. Whoever loses the round has to drink."

I think back to my last conversation with Blake and grimace. "Well, I'm not sure Blake will want me there."

"Why?" Freddie asks, leaning forward. "You two have a lover's tiff?"

"No. I tried to help him with something, and he didn't take it too well."

"Ah, rookie mistake," Liv says as she steals my fries. "Blake likes to think he can handle everything himself."

Freddie reaches over and takes my fries too. "Whatever it was, apologizing to him goes a long way."

I push the plate of fries toward them and say, "But I don't think I did anything wrong."

The three of them look at each other. Freddie shakes his head, grinning. "I see you're both as stubborn as each other. Good luck with that."

The bell rings, and as if the day can't get any worse, Libby corners me by my locker when I go to grab my bag. I look to the left, wondering if there is enough space to push past her and run for the hills, but her ice-cold gaze keeps me frozen.

"Blake O'Hare, really?" she says. "Aren't you taking this a little far?"

I look past her at the poster of her face hanging proudly in the hallway. "Aren't you?"

Her eyes narrow. Somewhere in those ice blue eyes is the girl I considered my best friend. The girl I stayed up with most nights talking books and tv shows. The girl who had my back. Now, she has his. "I already told you," she says, "I'm doing this for me, not because Chase wants to get back at you."

She says it like she doesn't believe it, which only makes me angry. Not just angry – prickly. "The thing is," I say, leaning against my locker, "I just don't believe you."

Her eyes roll over me. "Look at you," she says. "You're turning into him. What's next, Rose? Are you going to start dealing for him too? This just isn't like you. He's already got you drinking and partying all over Instagram. Is that the kind of message you want to send? Because the Rose I know would be horrified. Your parents must be horrified."

I don't say anything. I can't. Deep down, she's right. If my parents knew Blake O'Hare was my campaign captain and this was my way of getting more votes, they'd be so disappointed in me. "Anything else?"

"Yeah," she says, stepping closer, "I say this next part as someone who still cares about you, Rose. Do yourself a favor and concede." She drops her voice, and something softens in her eyes. "You know what he's like – he won't quit. Just make this easier for both of us."

I realize I was right. Libby doesn't believe what she said about Chase; she's as trapped as I was. And maybe she's right, maybe dropping out completely would make things easier on both of us, but I don't have it in me to quit.

"If you want to make things easier," I say, "you concede," and I grab my bag, slam shut my locker, and make my way to class.

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