On the first day of sixth grade, Macallan said if she could have any superpower, she would want it to be invisibility. I remembered giggling when she'd explained that being invisible would help her cut the lines at the ski lift.

That memory had always brought a wistful smile to my lips until lunch at the dining hall today when Macallan had muttered that she wished she was invisible. I would've loved it if she simply wanted to dodge the crowds when she went to Mount Snow with her family for the upcoming long weekend, but I knew this had nothing to do with skiing. We weren't those little girls discussing superpowers anymore. 

The remainder of the school day seemed to drag on endlessly, and Macallan's words echoed in my head. While I hadn't expected her to bounce back immediately, I hated seeing her so low. I also hated feeling like there was something more that I could be doing to help her.

Natural light flooded the first level of the library. The building was consistently busy following the final bell; everyone here was angling to secure a collaborative table for casual studying with friends or lock down a cubicle beside a window. I walked alongside the wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, deliberately avoiding the congestion within the middle of the room. I really wasn't in the mood to be slammed into by a fifty-pound backpack that someone carelessly yanked off their shoulders.

Even though it was only Tuesday, I needed to start chipping away at my assigned textbook problems for AP Calculus. I'd always been an excellent math student, but that class took up most of my time and energy. I was also almost always one of the last students in the room for exams and quizzes, needing every last minute to check my calculations. It was also why completing the entirety of the math section was my nemesis on the ACT. My plan for the April exam was to strategically select which problems to complete to maximize my score. Me and my pride needed that 30.

I was about to start up the main staircase when I spotted a familiar ratty peacoat draped over a chair at the end of one of the rows of iMacs. The jacket's owner stood brooding at a nearby printer.

I paused at the base of the staircase, my hand resting on the smooth wooden railing. 

Unlike the upper levels that required silence, the first level permitted chatter that supposedly fostered a collaborative learning environment. It also made it the perfect arena for a confrontation at a controlled volume.

I course-corrected. 

Win groaned as he saw me approaching.

"I don't have time to be ambushed," he said, sliding some sort of rubric into the interior pocket of his binder and flipping it closed. The crossword puzzle clipped to the front momentarily caught my eye. "I'm already late to Model UN."

I arched an eyebrow. "What makes you think that I'm ambushing you?"

"You have no other reason to be talking to me."

"That's not true."

Win wasn't paying attention to me any longer.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, slapping the side of the printer. I glanced around, half-expecting a librarian to tackle him. For whatever reason, they treated the printers like national treasures. "Why is this taking forever? It's just two damn pieces of paper."

"Printers can smell fear," I quipped before I could think better of it. I drummed my fingertips against the black surface. "You can't let them know you're running late. Otherwise, you're screwed."

Win looked up distractedly from the printer, his features momentarily construed with bewilderment. He stared at me for a beat before shaking his head. "You're almost funny when you're not acting completely self-absorbed."

"Wow, you really know how to make a girl blush, Win."

The printer groaned and spat out the two sheets of paper. I could tell that there was print on both sides - Times New Roman font, of course. 

Win swiped up the pages. "What is it that you want, Chandler?"

A bitter taste settled in my mouth. I wasn't here to apologize, but I knew I needed to strike a conciliatory tone. That wasn't something that came naturally to me. But I couldn't stand seeing Macallan so miserable, and Win could be of use to me. I was willing to put myself in the spotlight by writing that opinion piece in the Cannondale Weekly.

"I shouldn't have shot down your idea so quickly," I told him. "Macallan isn't ready to put herself out there yet, but I can defend her. I can write the opinion piece instead."

"That's nice to hear, but the window of opportunity closed."

"What?" I threw the word like a dagger.

Only one day had passed since Win approached Macallan with his idea. Nothing could've changed other than him clearly deciding to make this personal.

"It's not newsworthy anymore," Win shrugged. "Attention has shifted elsewhere."

"That's not true and you know it," I protested.

No one outside of our circle of close friends dared to discuss the message board with us, but I knew people were still talking about it. Sometimes you felt the whispers rather than heard them.

"There are other columns I need to make room for. The first home game for the boys' varsity lacrosse team is a big deal, apparently, and now I've got a junior editor interviewing the captains. Kirby and McKenna have an oddly extensive fanbase, but you already know that."

If Win thought he could derail my purpose with a singular jab, he was about to be wildly disappointed.

"It's one opinion piece, Win," I said, my gaze mutinous. "Besides, you're the one who wanted to do it in the first place."

"I did," he confirmed. "And now I'm the one telling you it's no longer newsworthy. The Cannondale Weekly won't publish it."

"You mean you won't publish it. You're the editor-in-chief, so it's your call."

"Quit acting like I'm somehow betraying you, Chandler. The feature article on Women's Activist Club is scheduled to be on the front page of our next issue instead of Guys With Ties."

Win's subtle threat went unspoken.

He had the authority and the prerogative to make a change in the newspaper. Every student at Cannondale automatically received the Cannondale Weekly in their school email's inbox. I doubted many people read through the entire issue, so being on the front page was important for visibility. As I thought about how excited Kelsey was about the feature article, I knew I'd never do or say anything that could jeopardize that.

Besides, Win wasn't going to let me have my way. I should've known that from the start. I'd have to find another way to help Macallan.

Win took advantage of my resigned silence, walking over to a supply table and stapling the pages with a little too much force. I clenched my jaw and glanced down at the crossword puzzle clipped to his binder to distract myself from my irritation.

Judging from everything he'd filled in, the theme was world history. There was also only one word remaining, composed of eleven letters. I scoffed at the sight of the faded remnants of previous letters in the now-vacant boxes. Only amateurs or wannabe perfectionists who refused to scribble out the incorrect word completed a crossword puzzle in pencil. I suspected Win was the latter.

Dad religiously completed the daily crossword in the New York Times and had once required me to help him with at least one word at the kitchen table every morning before school. Alternatively, I could make crossword puzzles my bitch when I wanted to. And right now, I absolutely wanted to.

I located the clue from the list at the bottom: nicknamed 'The Incorruptible'.

A name rushed into my mind instantaneously, and I grinned. I didn't bother counting out the letters to double-check that it fit. I was that confidant in my answer. 

I graced Win with a devious smile when he returned. "It's Robespierre, by the way."

"What?" His gaze dropped to the crossword and his scowl boosted my serotonin levels.

"The Incorruptible," I said pointedly. "That's what Maximilien Robespierre's allies called him before, you know, he was sent to the guillotine."

"Spare me whatever French Revolution analogy you're about to make. I know your dad's a history professor."

"Everyone knows that," I countered, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Also, for the record, I wasn't going to make an analogy. I just wanted to take away the satisfaction of completing the crossword on your own." 

Win scoffed. "At least you're honest."

"At least I made you even more late to Model UN. Thanks for your time."

I turned on my heels and started back towards the main staircase. I had calculus problems and actual problems I needed to solve.

✘ ✘ ✘

Given everything that had been going on, Kelsey and I decided that the best way to spend WAC on Wednesday was to watch a few scenes from Becoming on Netflix and discuss women in American politics.

As the Vice President of WAC, I was obviously strategically inclined to sit next to someone as high-profile as captain of the boys' lacrosse team. After all, one of the club's primary goals was to increase male participation.

Once Kelsey and I closed out the meeting, I made a swift exit with the aforementioned high-profile boys' lacrosse captain. For strategically inclined purposes, of course.

"Your eyes were glistening when Barack Obama started singing "Amazing Grace"," I told Trip as we started down the hallway.

"Oh, so you think my eyes glisten?"

"Listen, the only reason why I didn't cry this time was that I bawled my eyes out with Kelsey when it was first released. Michelle already has all my tears for that documentary."

"I was at Grant Park for Obama's victory speech," Trip said. "My dad dug my brother and me out of bed so we could take the L downtown to watch. I still have the button I found on the pavement that night, but I wish I remembered it better. I feel like that's something you're supposed to remember no matter what."

Every thought strolling around inside my head dropped dead. There was so much that I wanted to process, so naturally I settled on the most insignificant detail to address and said, "I didn't know you lived in Chicago."

"I was born there and moved to Boston after the third grade."

I poked the logo on his shirt. "And had the sense to become a Red Sox fan."

Trip grinned, holding the door out of the humanities building open for me. "From one formerly cursed baseball team to another."

I mirrored his grin and decided that I didn't want to prolong a conversation about baseball. Dad liked the Yankees, and I knew enough not to fall down that classic New England rabbit hole.

"So, when are you leaving on Friday?" I asked, flipping up the hood of my rain jacket as we stepped outside into the rain.

Trip had told me at brunch on Sunday that he was heading down to Duke for accepted students day and to attend the lacrosse team's winter play day. Even though he'd locked himself in as a recruit, it was still common for players to attend their future team's recruiting events.

"Right after the final bell, I'm flying out of Logan around 7:00." Trip gave an uncharacteristic huff. "I hate having to check my gear."

I let out a short laugh, arching an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Airports misplace bags all the time. I don't want to buy new gear all at once."

I regretted my initial reaction.

There was nothing cheap about lacrosse gear. My stick alone was over $200. Some brands were more expensive than others, but the grand total spent on gear was still monumental. Boys lacrosse also required more gear; they had to wear pads and helmets (as so many arrogant male players loved to mention). But more gear meant spending more money that I wasn't willing to speculate he had - or didn't.

"Well, I envy your plans," I said, selecting a segue. "My Dad's dragging me to this overly posh Cornell alumni event in Manhattan."

Trip gently jabbed me in the arm with his elbow as we approached the library. "Is this some sort of Cornell club?"

I scoffed a little. "That's what it's called, actually."

"Because of course, it is." He paused for dramatic effect. "But I'm sure it's a fine establishment."

"If by fine establishment you mean a cesspool of cigar smoke and overly inflated egos, then yes it is."

I elected not to distinguish the alumni from their offspring, who were almost always in attendance - myself included. I'd grown up around these kids - those who made it a hobby to brag about what their parents did for a living. It was just another shallow way to flaunt status and wealth. The England family name had a long-standing reputation for possessing both of those entities, and if there were people who thought there wasn't anything fundamentally prestigious about being a professor with tenure, meeting Dad would change that. Even in his collection of Kodak photos from his Cornell days largely starring his long-time roommate Patrick Gunther, he exuded that cool, magnetic academic air about him. So, I'd never felt the need to brag about Dr. England, and I certainly never needed to bring up Mom because everyone already knew about Gretchen England. There was power in not having to talk.

Trip laughed, the sound bright and warm even with the rain still coming down. "I'm sure you're more than capable of slotting yourself in with that crowd."

I was capable, because that was just who I was. That was who I might always be.