The Halo Effect

40 | friendly fire

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.