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Brett getting suspended is the single most shocking thing that’s occurred this year.
And given that this year has been absolute chaos, that’s saying something.
All curled up in the school library, I sink into the bright orange bean bag that’s almost scathing to the eyes. After a few seconds, an incredulous gust of air escapes my lips.
He really got suspended. Brett is the type of person to command all attention within a four-mile radius, to be heard over the most rampant storm. So, his absence is potent the day after he gets suspended, alongside a quarter of the school’s lacrosse team.
Tucking a curl behind my ear, I inhale the atmosphere, almost trying to soak up as much peace as I can.
Interestingly enough, Tyler Thompson got off with a three-day-suspension and some cafeteria work. I’m guessing it’s due to his lack of direct involvement in the whole thing.
Trilling my lips, I tilt my head to the side. But still, he was there, and he did nothing to stop them.
Brett and the rest of the team didn’t get it as easy as Thomspon. What they got was a solid week of suspension.
Ms. Anderson had called a short assembly, vaguely stating that violence of any kind wasn’t tolerated at Elkwood and didn’t respect our values.
She never actually explained the incident.
But honestly, it doesn’t matter, because the incident and the suspensions that it resulted in have been spreading like wildfire.
I purse my lips, eyes flicking up to the ceiling.
I wasn’t even the first to know. After having gone back to class, Laura had grilled me about the events that took place in Ms. Anderson’s room, and I’d finally filled her in during lunch.
The next evening, I’d been propped onto my bed when I received all-caps text messages from one Yasmine Abadi. They went something like: Did you hear? Brett got suspended. He got suspended. This is crazy, I-
Moreover, Yasmine’s frantic messages summed up everything that had taken place. Emory had texted to say that the school would be paying for his treatment, the burns that were gradually getting better, and Laura had sent me recordings primarily featuring her hysterical laughter.
“Amina!”
With the sound of my name, my eyes dart around the library. Mahogany, books that smell like leaves and musk, the tap tap tap of the librarian typing on her laptop. And finally, my eyes settle on Laura Johnson.
“Laura,” I call out, returning her grin solely because her grins are contagious like that.
She flops down next to me, the beanbag sinking as she glances over at me.
“You don’t know how satisfying it is to see Brett—God forbid—held accountable,” she grabs hold of my shoulders, silver and fabric bracelets clinking as she does so, “the whole thing was surreal, Amina.”
I shake my head, smile still unfailing, “honestly.”
“If you ask me,” Laura starts, lips pursed as she gives me a brief glance, “he should’ve gotten expelled.” A shrug. “Personally, I’d take it to court.”
A laugh slides from my lips. “You definitely would.”
“What can I say?” She asks, lips quirking upwards as her dark hair presses against the plush. “I don’t know when to stop fighting.”
She exhales a melodic chuckle, flicking at my forehead. “You know that.”
Rubbing my forehead, I roll my eyes somewhat teasingly. “Don’t I know it.”
“It’s served me,” she says, nodding solemnly, eyes taking over a vacant expression. “Did it serve me well? That’s the question.”
“Top ten unsolved mysteries,” I mutter, as Laura chuckles again, the sound slightly raspy and yet sprinkled with genuine amusement.
“Something like that,” she says, one of her feet nudging against mine as the other taps on the carpeted flooring.
“All dressed up for election day, I see,” I say, Laura’s eyes brightening.
“I should give you, like, a mini fashion show,” she says, rising to her feet as she adjusts the gray blazer necessary for her speech today, dark combat boots tapping against the ground.
Her dark combat boots are most likely going to irritate some teachers. Because despite the fact that it technically doesn’t commit any transgressions against the oh-so-mighty dress code, it is narrowly tolerated.
It might look too ‘punk’ to them, or ‘trashy’. I can’t be certain what vocabulary they’re likely to use in this case. But seeing as Laura has never been one to utterly co-exist with order, it won’t have much of an effect, anyway.
Meanwhile, the rest of her outfit consists of the dark kilt, pale dress shirt and gray and red tie, hair cascading down her shoulders as she practices a politician-esque smile at me as she gives a twirl.
“This is perfect,” I let out a chuckle as Laura laughs, sliding into the seat she was in before.
“Kind of anxious,” she says, lips pursed, “but, we’ll see how things turn out.”
“Just remember to breathe,” I say, her hand outstretched, ready to shake mine as though we’re two business partners who have completed a major deal. Our hands meet like two old friends, and Laura nods in response.
Her lips quirk upwards into something teasing. “Keep the oxygen coming in. Got it.”
***
As we all usher towards the auditorium, I’m pressed against the sides of bustling students, eyebrows flying upwards once I feel a tap on my shoulder.
Sure enough, it’s Yasmine, Emory not too far behind as they fall into step with me.
“How’re your burns?” I ask, Emory glancing down at me with a half-grin.
“Doing alright,” he says, grin still only halfway there.
“And your parents?” Yasmine asks from my other side, the three of us brushing against each other as we make our way down the hall. Emory trills his lips, runs a hand through dark curls.
“Could be better,” he finally says as we turn a corner. “They’re still a bit shaken up about the whole thing. They’re not too sure about keeping me in school when Brett’s going to return.”
His words puncture the air.
“Are you moving?” Yasmine asks, voice softening.
“I honestly don’t know,” Emory runs a hand through his curls once more. “Like, you can’t just pack up your stuff and leave. My parents were born and raised here, and so was I.” An easy shrug. “Plus, moving means another job in another state. But you know, maybe that’s the better option.” He rolls his shoulders back, eyebrows knitting together. “That being said, it honestly feels kind of gross to be run out of the town by racists. Like they’ve won or something.”
He glances between the two of us, eyes searching our faces. “As of now, there are a lot of emails being sent, and safety precautions being instilled in my mind. Incessantly. Personally, I think they’re a bit over the top, but...” he trails off.
“It’s safer,” I say quietly, almost as though reminding myself.
“Yeah,” his eyes catch onto mine before he continues, “and I mean, I don’t have anything as serious as third degree burns or anything.” Extreme second degree burns are still damaging, I think, but choose not to say.
Emory plows on, “I’m pretty sure that my mom thinks I have some major trauma from the whole thing.”
“Do you?” Yasmine asks, dark eyes inquisitive as we make our way through open doors, Emory slapping the top of the doorway on our way through.
“Listen, I don’t know.” He exhales. “All I know is I’d like the last of these,” he gestures over slight bruises on his chin and covered arms, “to be gone.”
“Understandable,” I say, as we pull into the auditorium, finding seats towards the center. We plop down onto the velvet seats, our eyes finding the stage where a lone podium stands.
“And yeah,” he says, lips pursing as he analyzes the outside of his hand. “Skin grafting isn’t all that fun. Luckily, everything else just needed antibiotic cream.”
There’s a silence, then Yasmine runs an exhausted hand over her forehead. “What they did was disgusting. I’m sorry.”
“Well, Brett had to drop out of the race. That has to count for something,” Emory says, shrugging easily.
Before anything else can be said, the assembly kicks off and Ms. Anderson makes her way to the podium, clasping her hands together as the auditorium quiets.
Her introduction is neutral, tone calm as she lists the candidates. What started out as four has shrunk down to two. From the front row, Laura purses her lips, turning back and shooting a grin once she finds us.
The introduction comes to a brisk end, people murmuring as Walt makes his way onto the stage, blazer and dress pants gleaming underneath the bright lights.
And then he starts. It’s simple words, calm words. He seems more put-together than I’ve ever seen him, a fact that is remarkable given that most people in the auditorium are more stressed than I’ve ever seen them.
He glances up, eyes flicking from person to person behind the thick lenses of his glasses. He makes light promises, thinks out loud, exhales some gentle attempts at humor, closes with an easy nod that almost contradicts his feet tapping incessantly on the stage floor.
And with an easy transition, Laura steps forward, eyes firm and expression serene.
Of course, she does amazingly. She speaks like a river, a steady flow of a current. She has nothing to prove, and she knows it. She only lightly touches on the suspension note, opening herself up as she briefly touches on her story. People exchange glances, almost as though trying to weigh whether or not it matters at this point.
After all, Brett’s been suspended, too.
Not that it matters, though. Especially seeing as there are only two options, and the student body has to lean to either Walter Cohen or Laura Johnson. And both candidates are attempting to cross the gaping bridge separating themselves from the rest of the student body.
Who’s crossed the bridge? We’ll know soon enough.
Once Laura wraps up her speech, she strolls offstage, settling down in the seat next to Walter, both of whom shake each other’s hands before their gazes return to the front.
With that, the ballots are sent to us, the pinging of the notifications showing up on school-designated devices. And with that, we take note of both options on the ballot.
WALTER COHEN.
LAURA JOHNSON.
There’s a write-in option on the ballot, but my eyes skip over it. Without much thought, I click the check next to Laura’s name, mentally sending good vibes to Walter as I do so. Setting my phone aside, I glance about the room. Some people don’t even have their devices out, Leslie and Amber standing out within the midst of the throng.
Amber dropped out too early in the race. By the time that Brett was forced to drop out, it was too late for her to restart her campaign. Deadlines had passed, people had moved on. Something that she’s obviously still irritated about.
Leslie had wanted us to beat Brett on Amber’s behalf. And now that we’ve somehow done that—or more so, Brett did that himself (with the help of the Thompsons, of course)—there’s no reason for her to care about the race.
Despite myself, a dry laugh escapes my lips. Not surprising in the least bit.
I glance over at Emory and Yasmine, who’ve wasted no time filling out the ballots and submitting them. All I’m hoping is that enough people care enough to vote.
The voting process has always been short in the school. After all, some people have already voted, given that the window opened yesterday. That being said, there are a solid number of teachers in the IT room, making sure nothing sketchy went on.
Once the votes are collected, the option to vote is locked. And now, we wait. Leaving the auditorium, our classes bleed by. The day inches by, and Laura is uncharacteristically quiet throughout, the only sign of emotion being her tapping feet on the marble flooring.
And finally, finally, the assembly arrives. The one that has wrought chaos and suspensions and stress. Anxiety, too. But now is the time that our apprehension gets lifted, either to give way to neutrality or slight relief.
Or disappointment.
But given that people have essentially guessed which candidate to pick—in the same way most of them utilise the faultless strategy of eeny meeny miny moe on their multiple choice tests— this election could truly go to either person.
All I’m hoping is that I did something right in managing. Otherwise all the heightened stress might not be worth it. The effort, the emails, and the posters might not be worth it.
But, I shake the thoughts from my mind as quickly as they arrive. What we’ve done here—president or not— has caused more than a ripple. Our success shouldn’t hang on Laura’s win.
That being said, I know Laura has a multitude of ideas. I know she’s invested. I know she’s nervous, given her silence throughout the entire day.
While I don’t know what the election results will bring, I know one thing for sure. I exhale a dry laugh as I make my way into the auditorium with the flurry of students, making a solid promise to myself.
I am never going into politics again.
Soon enough, I’m in the auditorium, all the expectant faces pointed towards the stage as Ms. Anderson makes her way back to the podium, an envelope in hand.
“And, your new Stu-Co member is...” She opens the envelope, slips the paper out of it. Her eyes squint as she takes in the sheet.
Trying to gauge the expressions of the students, I mentally will them to remember everything. To remember the way Laura inspired them that way in the cafeteria. The way she reached out to them, talked to them instead of at them,
I hope they remember.
I hope they remember the way I crawled out of the shadows and put my life into this campaign, because somewhere deep inside of me, I wanted a change.
I wanted Elkwood to change. And I wanted to be the one who orchestrated that change.
Ms. Anderson raises the paper to her face, eyes scanning over it.
Her lips move.
The auditorium sucks in a collective breath.
“Walter Cohen.”
Walter blinks from his seat in the front, Ms. Anderson squints once more. My chest squeezes, both tentatively supportive of Walter but devastated that Laura hasn’t won.
Ms. Anderson’s lips move as she continues, “as your vice president, second in command.”
The world seems deafening in that moment as my mind tries to process what that means. Applause rises around me, but all I seem to hear is the atmosphere screaming and euphoria threatening to seep from my chest.
Laura doesn’t move, doesn’t even blink.
Ms. Anderson pauses. “Making Laura Johnson Stu-Co president.”
The auditorium rumbles in confusion, people shouting, eyes flicking to each person.
Ms. Anderson hushes the crowd.
She plows on. “The two were also very close in votes.”
Ms. Anderson just shakes her head as the auditorium quiets. “This year, your student council will hopefully look more like a co-presidency,” she says, her voice thin. “This is a very unique year in Elkwood history. But given the situation, the administration has decided to try something new.” An exhaled breath. “Would Walter Cohen and Laura Johnson please join me onstage?”
There are slight murmurs as they rise to their feet, applause rumbling in the air.
The two make their way onstage, expressions semi-amused if not slightly bemused as Ms. Anderson brings them to the front and shakes their hands.
Walt seems nearly breathless, Ms. Anderson passive as Laura reaches over to shake his hands. There’s a smile in her eyes that is reflected by him, and I start to think that maybe this Stu-Co presidency will be something new. Something better.
And with the crowd erupting around me, my world seems just a bit brighter. Somehow, Laura’s eyes find me from where she stands onstage.
There’s a nod, and then she sends me a grin that shatters universes. In return, I send her one that elicits supernovas.
“
.
