Checkmate

19| Cheater

I manage to avoid Blake until the day of my speech. My alarm goes off early – five-thirty on the dot – and I allow myself a brief moment in the shower to replay that night in his basement. The way his lips felt – fleeting but warm – his body under mine as I sat on his lap, and then, even though I have tried to forget it, the way he rejected me.

Still, the last twenty-four hours apart have allowed me to see my indiscretion for what it was, and I'm ready to focus my energy on speech day, which is finally, terrifyingly, here.

As soon as I've showered, I spend a little extra time on styling my hair, curling the ends until it falls in perfect waves. My outfit of choice is a simple cream blouse and fitted black jeans that show I mean business. It's not the same outfit I'd picked out last year, but a toned-down version to make me more relatable. Approachable.

My makeup goes last, and as I sit at the vanity table, applying and reapplying my lipgloss, I tell myself things with Blake don't have to be awkward. It's not like we kissed, so what is there to be embarrassed about? He challenged my spontaneity, and I proved him wrong. That's it. The end. Game over.

With a final look in the mirror, I head to the kitchen for breakfast. My parents spend most of it talking about how great I'll be today and how certain they are that I'll win. Even though they're just trying to support me, it makes me feel worse. What if I'm not great? What if I get up there on that stage and mess it all up? What if this was all for nothing?

"Remember to stand up straight," Mom says as she sips her coffee, "and make eye contact with your audience. Take pauses when speaking so your speech doesn't sound rehearsed."

I nod through the rest of my breakfast while eating my yogurt and berries. I'm not even hungry – if anything, I feel an intense wave of nausea – but as my mother reminds me, the day ahead is only as good as the breakfast you ate that morning.

When I'm ready, I say goodbye to my parents and grab my keys before sliding into the driver's seat of my car. Despite the nerves, I turn up the music and roll down the windows, focusing on breathing in the crisp spring air. But no amount of breathing relaxes me. My body is on high alert, not at the thought of my speech but at seeing Blake. It's ridiculous; one person should not have this effect on me, but he does. He does, and I hate it.

It's hardly been five minutes when the rain starts. It's light at first, a gentle, soothing patter on the windows, but soon it comes harder, forcing me to roll up the window and turn on the wipers. If Pathetic Fallacy were real, this would be an omen.

By the time I pull into the parking lot, my game face is on. My outfit isn't exactly appropriate for the weather, so I grab my bag, hold it over my head to protect my curled hair, and dash across the lawn to the bikesheds. As much as I'd like to avoid Blake forever, he is my campaign captain, and I need to tell him which classroom we were assigned to liaise in before my speech.

He's not there. The day of my speech – the most crucial part of this process thus far – and he's AWOL. I clench my jaw and turn to the school. Of course he isn't here. Why would he be? He doesn't care about this campaign or me. He made that clear from the start.

I push down the disappointment and make my way into school, where the hallways are buzzing with excitement. Principal Mackley likes to make speech day an anticipated affair by offering refreshments and dedicating the entire afternoon to the spirit of our campaigns; in other words, free period.

When the bell rings, I smooth down my hair in my locker's mirror and head to first period. Blake is already in his seat – early for once – and I freeze. I'd already mentally accepted his absence, which means his presence is twice as shocking. His eyes drag to mine as I clutch my bag harder. I pull back my shoulders, head held high as I walk through the tables to get to my own. After slipping into the seat beside him, I spend the next few minutes organizing the pencils on my desk.