Macallan wouldn't quit pacing.

Granted, she looked stunning in her lavender single-breasted blazer and matching high-waisted mini pencil skirt, but this wasn't how she should spend the 45 minutes remaining before the student government's presidential debate. It took place in the auditorium, which had enough seats for the entire student body and faculty to attend. The auditorium was one of the oldest buildings on campus, but it had advanced technical facilities and professional sound systems.

"You're going to work up a sweat, Mac," Kelsey called out from the black foldable chair she'd claimed when we'd arrived in the small band rehearsal room. "You don't want your fake tan to run."

"Or worse, mess up your clean girl ponytail," Gianna added jokingly. "I watched you use half your bottle of Got2b Glued hairspray earlier."

"That would never happen,'' Macallan replied as she continued to pace at the front of the room. ''I've perfected my craft in both fake tanning and being a natural blonde with thin hair."

I was about to chip in with a smarmy remark to help diffuse some of the natural tension in the air, but my phone vibrated in my lap with a text from Trip.

TRIP MCKENNA, 1:15 PM: Jameson will do his speech first, but I'll save him a good seat upfront

TRIP MCKENNA, 1:15 PM: Will let you know where so Mac will know where to look

CHANDLER ENGLAND, 1:16 PM: I love your commitment to the cause

TRIP MCKENNA, 1:16 PM: #MacHasYourBack2021

I snorted and hearted the message before forcing myself to tune into my friends' conversation.

Macallan was still pacing, but I honestly couldn't blame her. Cannondale's administration had scheduled the debate for the morning after the final day of AP exams, which now felt like a purposeful trick played on the candidates after enduring hours of studying and testing.

So now as Macallan continued to pace, I realized her perpetual movement was the only way to stay awake and stay sharp in the face of brutal competition.

Unsurprisingly, Cannondale made a spectacle out of its student government elections. The school thrived off competition, and the presidential election for the rising senior class was the apex of it all. The debate was 90 minutes and had four sessions, each with a broad subject area. The audience could also vote once per session using an online form to measure who performed the best. The only comparable intra-school contest was that for Valedictorian, but direct democracy didn't determine the outcome, and this one did.

During my first two years at Cannondale, I'd watched on with detached interest and cast my vote for whoever annoyed me the least. But now that Macallan was running, I had skin in the game. I wanted her to win with my whole heart.

The wooden double doors suddenly flung open, and Win Petrov strolled in, decked out in a crisp white dress shirt and tailored navy trousers. His loosened necktie was the only casual thing about him, but it cultivated his tired but unconventionally handsome political operative look.

"You're getting the center-left podium with Peter Anderson on your left," he informed Macallan, who finally stopped pacing.

Peter Anderson was Macallan's main competitor. I hadn't known this until forty-eight hours ago when I finally dialed into my best friend's campaign and learned about the field of candidates. They were all involved in student government at some level, like Macallan, who claimed they were all decent people.

As a cynic, I found that difficult to believe. They couldn't all be decent, especially Peter. I'd gagged when I read his profile in the Cannondale Weekly, in which he'd advocated for increasing the number of formal dinners each week from one to two to promote a greater sense of community.

"Left, as in if I'm looking at the stage?" Macallan asked.

"Yes."

"But wait." Her brows pinched together. "Then wouldn't Peter be on my right?"

''Allow me to rephrase this,'' Win said, clasping his hands together in front of him in a patient manner. ''There are four podiums, and Anderson will occupy the other middle podium.''

Macallan nodded. "Okay, got it."

"Who decided the order?" Kelsey straightened in her seat and tucked the two little braids framing her face behind her ears. The mini emerald hair elastics she wore matched her bell-sleeved sundress.

"Headmistress Harvey drew names from a hat," Win answered without missing a beat.

I arched an eyebrow. Dad once told me that if you always knew the answers to simple questions, people would trust you to answer the complicated ones, even if there was no good answer to them. I wondered if that had somehow become the case with Win Petrov. He seemed to know everything

Macallan nodded, but she looked at me as if for guidance.

Take that, I thought.

"It's a good spot," I assured Macallan. "If this was a presidential primary debate, the order would most likely be determined by the average of qualifying polls. The candidates with the highest average would get the center podiums."

"You're a nerd," she laughed, shaking her head with bemused affection.

"But she's not wrong," Win said and drew in a long inhale. Seconds stretched themselves into a long, uncertain pause before he returned his attention to Macallan and said, "There's something I need to tell you."

That didn't sound good.

I perched myself on the edge of my seat and looked at Macallan. Her peachy Glossier blush had become more noticeable in a matter of seconds.

"Go on," she urged evenly.

"As you know, our graduating class could anonymously submit topical questions online, and the debate moderators picked a few to include for each candidate. I don't know the exact content, but one of yours is about the two surveys posted on the message board."

Win's words seemed to vacuum the oxygen out of the room. I felt like we were in a malfunctioning spaceship, pressure weighing in on us from all angles.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, furious that I didn't see this coming. After everything that had transpired, it should've been obvious to someone like me who prided themselves on having impeccable foresight.

"How is that question relevant?" Gianna demanded. "The submission guidelines made it crystal clear that all questions had to pertain to one of the debate topics."

"It's being linked to Cannondale's culture and community," Win said.

I grimaced, but had become mentally preoccupied with assessing what I thought to be the bigger picture. What or who was the source of this information, and why did Win know? He couldn't be that naturally informed.

''This isn't right, Mac,'' Kelsey stood up and walked over to pull her into a side-arm hug. ''We could speak directly to Headmistress Harvey. She won't let this stand if she knows you're against it. Especially when the question takes the focus away from the actual debate.''

Gianna nodded vigorously and looked at Win like he could walk on water. ''You should go talk to Headmistress Harvey now. There's still time for her to intervene.''

Win shook his head. ''It should be Macallan-''

"Who told you about the question, Win?" I interrupted, sitting up in my seat with my hands folded neatly in the lap of my dress.

For better or worse, Win wasn't an idiot. The acute awareness in his eyes reflected his knowledge of the trap I'd set at his loafers. I was waiting for him to step into it.

"One of the moderators."

"Which moderator?"

Win's jaw tightened as he willingly stepped into my trap. "Caroline Drake."

Despite having fully anticipated his answer, my vision went red. "Win-"

"Don't start, Chandler,'' he protested, predictably defensive. ''I trust her commitment to the integrity of the debate."

I scoffed. ''Because that makes all the difference in the world.''

"Enough," Macallan intervened, her blue eyes sharp as she looked between us. "No more bickering. I'm ready for whatever questions the moderators throw my way, and this is my opportunity to speak out on something that has tormented us for months."

Win and I surrendered a compliment nod but then proceeded to fix each other with stern glares.

"I know you are," Kelsey reassured Macallan. "But I'm more than happy to listen to your opening statement again."

Macallan chuckled, and the sound eased some of the tension in my shoulders. "As if you didn't hear it enough this morning," she said. "But yes, let's do it. I'll fetch my note cards."

While Macallan went to rifle through her backpack, I turned my attention to Win, and gestured to the open chair next to me. "Care to sit?"

"We already spend enough time sitting next to each other, don't you think?" Win countered.

I rolled my eyes and opened my mouth to launch a clever retort, but Gianna inserted herself between us, though she fastened her attention to Win.

"You should still talk to Headmistress Harvey," she insisted. "Macallan shouldn't have to speak about the surveys or the message board. That's not fair to her.''

I frowned. I understood Gianna's perspective, but it wasn't her job to decide what was fair or not. Macallan had already voiced her intentions and we needed to respect that.

"Macallan made up her mind." Win sidestepped Gianna and settled into the seat beside me with crossed legs. His position seemed to demonstrate his intention not to intervene.

Gianna stared at Win with an intensity that didn't seem to fit the context of their conversation. She likely shared my annoyance with Win, but I figured I'd check.

"G, are you alright?"

Gianna flinched and faced me wide-eyed as if I'd just materialized before her. "Yeah, of course." She offered me a thin smile. "Still tired from our AP Calc exam...and probably dehydrated. I should probably drink more water to avoid collapsing at practice later. I can refill your water bottle too if you'd like?"

"I've got enough, but thank you," I replied, but hesitated as I struggled to decide whether I should write off her abnormal behavior. I'd only ever seen her jittery once before, and that was in the safety of her dorm room.

While I watched Gianna leave the room, Macallan and Kelsey ventured into my line of sight.

"Okay, so this is me trying really hard not to freak...but I think I lost my note cards," Macallan said, her voice strained with renewed apprehension.

"They're not lost," Kelsey countered, immediately launching herself into expert problem-solving mode. "You just put them down somewhere, and we'll retrace your steps. You've been in the band room, the Cannondale Weekly's office, our dorm-"

I unintentionally cut Kelsey off by jumping out of my seat. "I'll check our room at Roosevelt. I can be back in less than fifteen minutes."

"And I'll go check the Cannondale Weekly office," Win said and glanced at his watch as he stood up. ''But Macallan needs to be on stage in 30 minutes, with or without those note cards.''

Macallan exhaled a shaky breath and fanned herself with her hands. "Thanks, guys. I'm totally not freaking out."

"Let's review the rest of your talking points in the meantime," Kelsey proposed and set her hands on Macallan's shoulders. "Or meditate."

"My vote is for mediation. All you can do is keep breathing, Mac," I called out over my shoulder as I pushed through the doors with Win in toe.

Win snorted. "I'll text you if I find the note cards, Ingrid Michaelson."

I rolled my eyes and held the door open behind me. "Yeah, yeah, I'll do the same."

✘ ✘ ✘

Win found Macallan's note cards.

He texted me just as I scanned into Roosevelt Hall, which saved me the trouble of running up a few flights of stairs. I was about to thank him when he sent a follow-up text saying that he needed another ten minutes at the Cannondale Weekly's office. A texting bubble appeared beneath his text, but it vanished a few seconds later. He wasn't going to elaborate.

"I'm getting those damn note cards," I muttered, unwilling to keep Macallan waiting longer than necessary.

The Cannondale Weekly's office occupied the smallest room on the ground of the humanities building. I'd never stepped foot in the office, but I knew how to find it without getting turned around in a labyrinth-like building with nearly identical hallways.

The hallways were relatively empty as most of the school had started to flock to the auditorium for the debate. As I approached the end of the hallway on the ground floor, hushed and urgent voices floated out the propped-open door of the Cannondale Weekly's office. With my interest piqued, I quieted my steps and focused on discerning the voices.

Even though I couldn't make out the words, I identified the voices belonged to Gianna and Win. As I arrived outside the door, I stood with one shoulder pressed on the wall beside the frame. I hadn't gone out of my way to eavesdrop, but my gut told me that I needed to stick around and stay out of sight. Unmistakable tension polluted the air, holding me hostage.

"How would you feel if it was you and your friends?" Gianna asked, her voice clogged in a way that suggested she was crying.

"Respectfully, this wouldn't have happened to us," Win answered, no-nonsense. "No one bothers to target the Model UN or student newspaper crowd on the message board."

"But if they did?"

"I can't sort this out for you." Win sighed, and I envisioned him dragging a hand through his midnight hair. "I know this isn't what you want to hear, but I would've already told them."

Even if I'd only heard less than half the story, staying out of sight was no longer an option. I needed to insert myself.

Without hesitating, I pushed the door open and stood on the threshold to assess the scene. Gianna sat slumped in a plush desk chair, her mascara running in little rivers beneath her eyes, while Win stood at his desk with Macallan's note cards clutched in one hand.

A flabbergasted silence descended as I stood before them with my arms crossed. Despite the stillness, I could feel time moving, hurtling us toward something inevitable and explosive.

''Macallan needs her note cards," I stated plainly, shifting my gaze between the two of them.

Win cleared his throat and held up the note cards. "I'm on my way out now."

He managed to take a few steps forward before Gianna caught his wrist, yanking him back a step. "Win, please. I need to explain. She needs to understand.''

''What I need is Macallan's flashcards,'' I said, feeling like a livewire that had water slowly dripping onto it.

The column of Win's throat rippled. ''Gianna, now isn't the right time.'' He untethered himself from her grip with his free hand, but indecision seemed to grip his features. "Wait until after the debate. Wait until you can speak to the three of them together."

She shook her head. "She's going to leave this room thinking the worst. That I'm responsible for everything. I can't let that happen."

I looked from Gianna to Win and back again until realization struck me with the force of a lightning bolt. Gianna was referring to the surveys and the thread from the message board on bostonspilledtea.com. While I didn't know what precisely she was responsible for, I knew she was guilty.

It was like watching a wall of water recede, revealing an old coastline, the original emotional topography of our relationship.

I was initially skeptical of the new girl. I should've stayed skeptical.

"Enlighten me, then," I requested, venom twisting my voice.

"There was a new thread on the message board after Winter Formal." A sob rattled through her, and she wiped her eyes before continuing. MB is the perfect example of how popularity provides immunity in high school. That's what it said. That's what I wrote, but nothing else was me. The surveys weren't mine, and I don't know more about them than you do. I promise."

"Why?"

I couldn't have asked a simpler question, but it was also the only one I could stand to issue. My throat and nose had started to tingle, threatening to brew tears that neither Gianna or Win deserved to see.

"People cheered when Macallan punched Grayson." Gianna gave a hollow, broken laugh. "At least three teachers witnessed her do it, but the administration barely penalized her. She got to walk away from it with her head held high and assurances that her detentions wouldn't go on her transcript." She paused to wipe the mascara-stained tears from her cheeks and slowly shook her head. When her eyes met mine again, I saw the frustration and shame pooling in them. "I couldn't help but think about how unfair it was, how grossly unfair it was that I had to leave my whole life in New York behind to escape the whispers and slut-shaming notes in my locker. My friends believed me, but it was too damn hard for them to stand by my side when the local golden boy's name got dragged through the mud. It didn't matter that what I said was true. It just wasn't enough."

Various scenarios of how I could respond to Gianna's confession flashed through my mind in a split-second supercut.

Overwhelmed, I cast a glance at Win just as he inspected his watch, a dark curl falling into his eyes. I suspected he wanted to get out of here for reasons that didn't solely concern Macallan's note cards.

He was guilty of something too, and I couldn't bring myself to face it just yet.

I gritted my teeth as I forced my gaze back over to Gianna. "I'm sorry for what happened to you in New York," I said, fighting hard to keep my voice even. "I meant what I said before about being brave for leaving, but I'm going to be crystal clear with you now, Gianna. You're my teammate. I'll leave my grievances on the sidelines because I want to win. That part is simple." I inhaled a breath that sent icy grief searing through my veins. "But you're not my friend, and that part isn't so simple, which is why it's important to me that you know that no matter how many smiles I send your way on campus, they're all fake. If we have to sit together, fine, but know that I don't want to. We're done here, Gianna."

Silent tears slid down Gianna's angular cheekbones. "Please don't do this, Chan. I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell the three of you so badly, but I was terrified. I couldn't risk losing the only friends I had at Cannondale." She took a step toward me, and I took a step back, folding my arms across my chest. "I couldn't be more sorry. Please understand that."

I didn't want to hear that she was sorry. Anyone could say they were sorry without actually meaning it. I also didn't want to understand, knowing I would risk forgiving her. I couldn't afford to do that. I risk another betrayal, and neither could my friends.

"You're going to tell Macallan and Kelsey tonight," I stated like I had all the authority in the world. "You're going to tell them everything because they deserve to hear it from you."

With my heart lodged in my throat, I turned to Win.

He was already looking at me, looking like he could see right into the eye of the hurricane in my mind.

His signet ring glinted beneath the fluorescent lights as he extended a hand to me as if to set it on my arm. The gesture struck a soft spot that I wasn't aware of.

"Chandler-"

I couldn't do this.

I snatched the note cards out of Win's hand and stormed out of the office without a backward glance.

I fled the building in a haze of betrayal, clinging to Macallan's note cards like priceless artifacts.

I could feel my anger dissolving into something bitter and poignant, leaving me lightheaded. As I slowed down, the sound of footsteps pounding on the walkway rose over the heartbeat in my ears.

I whirled around to find Win jogging to catch up with his loosened necktie flopping over one shoulder. I'd never seen him jog before; it didn't suit him.

''You'll turn around right now if you know what's good for you."

Win didn't listen to me - though I couldn't recall a time when he had - and continued his clumsy approach.

When he slowed to a stop, I noted the ample distance he left between us. In an alternate dimension where I wanted to resort to violence, I would need to launch myself at him to inflict any damage.

His chest heaved like he needed to catch his breath, and he flicked a curly lock of hair away from his face so he could look me in the eye. ''I left a girl crying in my office because I wanted to talk to you, so that's what I'm going to do, Chandler." He took a ragged breath as he glanced at his watch. "We still have fifteen minutes.''

"Fine, I'll start us off," I snapped. "You knew Gianna wrote that first post on the message board, didn't you? And you better drop your bullshit journalistic integrity facade and tell me the truth."

''I'm not going to accept the premise of that question because-''

I cut Win off with a scoff. ''Then you better accept me walking away.''

I took approximately three steps before my indecision altered my plans, and I whirled around so abruptly that Win jolted in his loafers. As he recentered himself, rolling back his shoulders, I thought I caught a glimpse of hurt dart across his features.

I told myself I didn't care. He wasn't the one who got to feel hurt.

''You really had me fooled, Win," I told him, my voice cracking pathetically. "But it all makes perfect sense now. You weren't trying to score some big article for the newspaper or put your glorified chief-of-staff job on your college resume." I gave a humorless laugh, shaking my head at my mistake. ''It's actually far less clever and ambitious than that. I gave you too much credit. All you wanted was to feel less guilty about knowing the truth and lacking the courage to do anything about it.''

Win must've anticipated my response because the sharp edges of my words didn't leave a visible mark on his expression. He could challenge Mom for having the best poker face out of everyone I knew.

''I'm going to start over,'' he said.

I shook my head. Now that I'd said what I needed to, I wanted him gone. ''You can start by leaving me alone.''

Win pointed over my shoulder. "We're both going to the auditorium, whether you like it or not."

I knew he wouldn't walk away. He wouldn't do that to Macallan. But it would've been so much easier to make him into a conniving villain if he did. I also wouldn't feel compelled to question him about what he knew and why he did.

Win appeared to read my mind. "I wasn't supposed to know it was Gianna," he explained. "I wasn't supposed to see her slip an anonymous letter into my mailbox at the Cannondale Weekly's office, but I did and read it. In the letter, she apologized and condemned the posts on the message board. She asked for the newspaper to publish it.''

''Which you didn't do.''

''I thought it would only compound the scandal, and Headmistress Harvey had already requested that the newspaper stay out of it." Win gave a disapproving sigh and ran a hand through his hair. "She wanted a smooth investigation.''

I scoffed. ''I'm so pleased that worked out for her.''

As far as I knew, the administration's investigation yielded no concrete discoveries. They didn't have the resources to uncover who created the survey and didn't have a compelling enough incentive to obtain them. Besides, Cannondale had very little power to regulate what was said and allegedly done by its students online. That was why I'd come to accept the idea that we wouldn't ever know who created the surveys or posted on the message board...until now.

''So, when did you tell Gianna that you knew about the letter?'' I asked.

''The next day." Win's gaze dropped to his tie, still flopped over his shoulder. He righted it with a little grimace. "And when I did, she didn't try to cover anything up and answered every question I had. That doesn't make it right, but it makes her honest.''

''Being honest when you're caught doesn't make you an honest person. It just makes you a bad liar.''

I spoke with more venom than intended. Regret seized me by the throat. I didn't want Win to see me like this. It could come back to torment me.

"I'm not trying to defend her, and I'm not trying to convince you to forgive her." Win's gaze dropped to his tie, still flung over one shoulder. He righted it with a little grimace. "That's not my job or prerogative."

''Then what?''

''I'd hate to see you make this worse.''

Something detonated inside me.

''How the hell would I make this worse, Win?'' I demanded.

My sharp voice didn't seem to faze him. His composure only set me off more. I had to fold my arms to hide my trembling hands.

''By blaming yourself." Win wasn't that much taller than me, but he managed to look down at me like I was a small, delicate child. "You let Gianna into your life when you didn't have to, and that's not exactly something you have a reputation for doing.''

As infuriated as I was with Win, he was right and had already diagnosed the worst part of my reaction. His ability to do that rendered me speechless.

''Macallan can win this election," Win continued, still annoyingly even-keeled. "If I didn't believe that, I wouldn't be running her campaign. I would've stayed out of this because why take on the risk of Chandler England hating me or worse.''

''Or worse?'' I hated that I kept echoing him, but clarifying what he meant felt like the only way to avoid catapulting myself down a rabbit hole of overthinking.

''We need to get going,'' Win deflected, ushering me forward with a nod.

I reluctantly took his cue, and we continued down the walkway. As we did, I realized this might be the only time I could pry for straightforward answers.

"Why was Gianna in the office?"

''I saw her on my way over," Win said, and heaved out a sigh. He sounded tired, more tired than I'd ever seen him. "She was...well, you saw her, and I couldn't just leave her. Anyway, she said couldn't watch Macallan talk about the survey and the message board. Not when she feels responsible for it.''

''Good," I huffed out. "That's exactly how she should feel.''

We slowed our pace as we approached the auditorium. The Cannondale student body was gradually filing into the building, and we had no choice but to join them.

''One last thing." Win took a pause as we joined the queue. In the harsh light, his green eyes almost seemed translucent. "I'm sorry, Chandler.''

I swallowed hard and looked down at the neatly penned note cards in my hand. I knew if I approached Macallan, I'd fail to put on a brave face. She would instantly know that something was wrong, and I would need to lie to her to ensure she made it through the debate without having to stomach this betrayal.

"You should give Macallan her note cards," I told him, my voice quiet beneath the weight of defeat. Win arched an eyebrow as I handed them over to him, and I offered an explanation he didn't deserve. "You're her campaign manager, Win. Do your job."

✘ ✘ ✘

10 chapters left (plus an epligue). buckle up and brace for impact

01/04/23 revision: epligue? i meant EPILOGUE. i wrote this note while speed walking through a tube station so i'm giving myself some grace but good grief