Mae announces her candidacy the following morning.
“I think I'll run for Student Council President.” She tries to sound nonchalant, though her insides leap about.
“What? Why?” To stomach the taste of coffee, Shelby replaces half the dark liquid with cream and sugar, both ingredients forbidden in the Cho household. “That's social suicide.”
Taylor joins them at the bar. “What's social suicide?”
Stirring her coffee vigorously, Mae thinks she spots an office worker checking her out, though she can't be sure. Just in case, she pulls in her stomach and sends her shoulder blades toward her spine. Newly lengthened, she resumes stirring til tiny bubbles rise to the surface. “I think I could win.”
“Do colleges care if you're on student council?” Shelby knows the most about college. For instance, admissions officers want to see extracurriculars, but connected ones that show a cohesive story, not just a jumble of activities taken on to pad college applications. That's why she still plays in the orchestra despite loathing the violin. “I know you have a thing against Ethan, but...”
“I don't have a thing against Ethan.”
Shelby makes a vacant stare look sophisticated, an attribute Mae respects. “There are easier ways to get his attention, Mae.”
“I don't want to get his attention. I want to win.” Mae doesn't expect Shelby–who lives in a big house in Oak Farms and drives her own convertible and doesn't buy her clothes on sale–to understand. Shelby has nothing to prove.
“I don't know what you're trying to prove,” Shelby says, shrugging thin shoulders.
Back in the car, Taylor is full of suggestions. “You should announce that you're running during lunch. Everybody will be checking their feeds then.”
In the passenger seat, Mae turns around and grins. “That's genius, Taylor. Brilliant. There's a reason we keep you around.” She winks flirtatiously at her friend. Taylor's freckled face flushes pink. “I want the announcement to show that I'm not intimidated by Ethan, like I'm giving him the finger. Maybe I could literally give him the finger.”
Shelby applies more lip gloss. “There's an idea.”
“Ooh, I like it.” Taylor pulls out her phone. “Here, I'll take a picture of you giving the finger. This is good light. Look toward that window and then look at me, good.”
“Like this?” Mae mugs for the camera, lips twisted into a half smirk, her expression toeing the line between playful and sultry. She angles her middle finger, nail painted glittery gold, up to Taylor's phone. “How do I look?”
Taylor inspects her handiwork. “Perfect.” Shelby concentrates on pulling into the school parking lot.
Between third and fourth periods, Mae stands on her tiptoes to peer through the tiny window embedded into the assistant principal's office door.
“Come in,” calls Mr. Lemaire, a humorless beanpole of a man with a combover Mae hopes is at least partly ironic. (It's not.) “Ah, I had a feeling you'd be stopping by.”
Mae freezes. She hadn't cursed in the announcement, she'd been careful of that, though giving the middle finger online might be against school rules. It's impossible to keep track of all the rules in the student handbook. The dress code alone fills nine pages. “A feeling?”
Lemaire looks thinner than usual behind his massive desk. He has to rise to pull an envelope from a filing cabinet behind him. “Mr. Harrington himself stopped by to turn in his form, and he mentioned that he has a challenger this year.” He slides a photocopied sheet of paper across wood. “Just sign on the dotted line, Miss Mae.”
“That's all I have to do?” Mae signs, wondering why the assistant principal calls her by her first name while referring to Ethan by his last.
“You're all set.” Lemaire seals the signed sheet inside a manilla envelope. “This year, the election might actually be interesting.”