Chapter 2
MOST POPULAR
That girl really has a way of getting under my skin.
The logical part of my brain knows that she wasn’t standing in the middle of the hallway that long, and I know I could have easily walked around her. But one look at her, and I lost it.
Her normally straight blonde hair was curling at the ends. Her pale skin flushed. Her posture relaxed. It was in such contrast to her normal nerdy girl vibe. She looked truly happy—and I know why.
After three long years of going back and forth with Ella Adams for valedictorian, I’ve lost. There’s nothing I can do. And I mean nothing. I could get perfect scores in all of my classes this year, and there’s still no chance of me getting past her 4.6. All because she fights dirty.
Ella convinced Dr. Freck to let her take an online AP class that wasn’t even offered at Citrus Prep—something no one in school history has done.
When I realized what she was doing, it was too late to sign up.
And guess who had a change of heart and decided no one should be allowed to take special AP classes this year? Our dear ol’ headmaster.
So, yeah. I’ll be coming in as the salutatorian.
Most people would be proud of that accomplishment. Heck, most parents would be proud of that accomplishment, but not mine. Every one of my siblings before me has been valedictorian. It’s an expectation that has been beaten into our heads from those first days of kindergarten.
I’ll be the first not to do it.
And after what her dad did to our family business, losing to Ella will make it worse. It will be another instance of the Williamses getting robbed by an Adams—this time in the form of the Citrus Scholar. My mom might have a literal mental breakdown.
As I stand on the perimeter of the auditorium, I know I’m expected to sit in the front row with the rest of the student government. It’s meant to send a message to the rest of the student body: Look at how the students you elected into leadership roles love school. You should love school, too.
I didn’t even want the role; I just didn’t want Ella to get it.
The only reason I hung posters and made a speech full of empty promises was because I found out she was running, and I knew I could beat her.
That, and Ava, the girl running for vice president, is cute.
I thought working with her senior year might not be so bad.
Then we met over summer break, and I realized just how seriously Ava takes student government. She has a color-coded binder full of all the policy changes she hopes to accomplish this year. I don’t have the energy to pretend that any of her resolutions are going to get anywhere.
I sigh and run my hand through my hair. Then I see Hardy walk into the auditorium. Regardless of his friendship with the Devil’s daughter, we’re also friends. We play lacrosse together, and he’s a great attacker. Sitting with him is a much better option than next to Ava.
“Wanna grab a seat back here?” I ask. There are a few empty ones in the middle of the row we’re standing by.
“Sure, but you don’t need to be up there?” He jerks his chin toward the front row.
“Nah, I’m good.”
“Look at Mr. President slumming it with the regular students.”
I shrug my shoulders. “What can I say, I’m a man of the people.”
We push past others who are sitting on the outside of the row. I flash them a smile as I squeeze by, and everyone quickly moves their feet and bags as I side-shuffle through the aisle.
Hardy trails behind me “Glad to see the position hasn’t gone to your head,”
I look over my shoulder at him. “Can’t let it get too big for my helmet if we plan to make it to state this year.”
Hardy laughs loudly as we find two empty seats and sit down. “We’ve got to win this year. The girls’ soccer team is becoming insufferable.”
“For real.” I set my backpack at my feet. “The clanking in the halls is deafening.”
Every time they win the state championship, the girls’ soccer team comes to school with all of their medals around their necks. They’ve won the last three years, and the sound of the awards hitting against each other as they walk the halls is a taunt to every other sports team at Citrus Prep.
“At least you have that little competition with Ella to fall back on if we don’t win in lacrosse,” Hardy says.
“Yeah.” I force a laugh and hope he doesn't hear how hollow it is over the sound of everyone else talking. I know Hardy means well, but he doesn't know that I’m not even in the running anymore or that it was never a “little competition” to me.
It was everything.
Hardy takes advantage of my one-word response and starts talking to the guy in front of us, another lacrosse player. “What do you think? We going to state this year?”
They talk about our rival school briefly before comparing summer vacations.
I’m content to sit and listen when I feel my phone buzz in my pocket.
I pull it out and see I have a text from Ava asking where I am.
I don’t want to encourage her clinginess, but I still send back a reply almost immediately.
Decided to sit with some of the lacrosse players.
A text bubble appears, disappears, then appears again.
No text comes through, but when I spot her in the front row, she’s turned in her seat scanning the auditorium. Her head tilts when she finds me as she tries to puzzle out why I’m way back here. She turns back around and my phone buzzes again.
You should be up here in the front. That’s where the president is supposed to sit. Right next to the vice president.
I sigh loudly.
It’s not like we have to do anything for this assembly. Just sit there and look pretty.
It’s more than that, and you know it. We need to be a unified front for the rest of the student body. It’s the best way to lead them.
I shove my phone in my backpack after reading her text. I’m not interested in being a unified front, and I don’t want to read anything else she has to say about it.
Hardy turns to me, his eyes going to my bag and back to my face. “You good?”
I lean back in my chair. “Let’s just say I’m ready to get this assembly over with.”
As if on cue, the lights in the auditorium lower, and a large screen on the stage illuminates with our school logo.
Our headmaster walks out with a microphone in hand.
He’s a lean man in his fifties with thick-rimmed glasses and an unnatural love for bowties.
Today, he is wearing a bright orange one that is surely a nod to our mascot.
An actual orange.
The school is saturated with the color, and any branded item coming out of Citrus High is a bright hue that is completely unflattering for most of the student body. Dr. Freck might be the only one who actually enjoys wearing it.
His voice carries over the speakers as he welcomes us. “Good morning, and thank you for coming to the start-of-school assembly.”
“As if we had a choice,” someone behind me remarks. It’s followed by a snicker.
“We are so excited for another year here at Citrus High. As you know, we pride ourselves in innovation and always pushing ourselves to be better.”
Dr. Freck points a small remote at the screen, and a picture of our football team comes into view. He talks about our athletics program and starts rattling off stats of how many students from Citrus High receive athletic scholarships.
The soccer girls cheer loudly.
Hardy leans over. “I’m shocked they’re not running up to the stage.”
I snort and pull out a piece of gum. After putting the stick in my mouth, I fold the wrapper in a fan pattern.
All the while, our headmaster drones on about the usual: community service, clubs, fine arts.
I’m barely listening when Dr. Freck shifts his focus to academics.
I know all about our rigorous curriculum and how we score higher than average on standardized tests like the ACT and SAT.
I’ve almost tuned out completely and have started twisting the wrapper into a ring shape when Dr. Freck starts into the part about Citrus Scholar.
Something about his tone captures my attention.
“As you all know, the Citrus Scholar was created in 1998. This special endowment allows us to send one student from each graduating class to their dream school without having to worry about finances. It covers tuition, books, room and board. Traditionally, this award has gone to our valedictorian,” Dr. Freck pauses.
“We have viewed this as a reward for the student who has spent their high school days focusing on academics.”
Traditionally? We have? My fingers still on the gum wrapper, I sit up in my seat, suddenly very interested in what he has to say.
Dr. Freck points his remote at the screen, and the image changes to a graph with a red line moving in an increasingly upward direction. The kind of thing you’d see in a cheesy ad about maximizing profits or something.
“Our test scores look great. In fact, they seem to be higher than ever. But the administration has noticed a spike in something else on our campus.” He sighs heavily into the microphone.
“There’s a mental health crisis affecting teens in our nation, affecting students here at Citrus High.
According to our counselors, anxiety and depression are at an all-time high.
When asked what might be causing this, the answer is the fight for valedictorian.
We’re seeing an uptick in students looking for extra credit if their grade falls below a 95, they’re constantly monitoring their GPA, they’re dropping out of sports and clubs if they think it will take away from their classes. ”
“My mom says she thinks it’s social media,” Hardy whispers from beside me, but I barely register his words. I’m too focused on what Dr. Freck is saying. There’s a shift in the air. Something big is about to happen.
“We’ve spent the summer in meetings trying to determine how to fight against this crisis. We want to better serve the student population and have determined that Citrus High needs graduates who are well-rounded and better prepared for going into a world that includes more than grades.”
I hold my breath as I lean forward in my seat.
“We’ve decided to do away with class rank.” Dr Freck straightens his bowtie. “We will not have a valedictorian or a salutatorian from here on out. That means Citrus Scholar will be determined differently this year.”
There’s a strangled cry from behind me. I don’t need to turn around to know who it was. A smile touches my lips. Things just got interesting.