It's been said there are three core values a future class president must always uphold: honesty, integrity, and professionalism. I failed on all counts on that dreadful day last week; it feels like I've been failing ever since.

Hands folded, I stare at the five-foot-long banner across Archbury High's entrance. Your school needs you, it reads. Applications for Senior Class President closing this week.

While most kids might dream of winning the lottery or making it big, my goal has always been to become Class President, and up until now, my three-year plan has gone by without a hitch: I'd been elected Treasurer during Freshmen year, Secretary my sophomore year, and spent most of last summer perfecting my campaign, all in preparation for this: my chance to shine. But then spring break happened.

Mom kills the engine before turning to face me. People like to tell us we look alike: same dark hair and ivory skin, but her face has this sharpness that mine has always lacked, a fierceness I have never quite mastered. Behind her dark eyes, which impatiently wait for some kind of acknowledgment, is an air ofdisapproval.

"There's no reason you can't still campaign," she says. "If you drop out of the running, it will only get people talking again. You're not a quitter, Rose."

I pull down the sun visor to triple-check myself in the mirror. Maybe she's right; I should walk into school as if I'm the same Rose Matthews hellbent on becoming Senior Class President. The same Rose who always sees a goal through. I didn't win Student Of The Year two years running by sitting on my laurels, but then I spot them in the distance, exiting Libby's black Tesla, and my confidence waivers.

The trio falls into line as they head toward the entrance of Archbury High. Before spring break, I'd have been at their side, marching toward school with that same quiet confidence, but now I slump lower in the hopes they don't see me – a wilting rose.

They reach the arched pathway, where Jess flicks back her long, dark curls and flashes Libby a smile. Georgia's face remains bored – her trademark expression – and the three of them cross the immaculate lawns arm in arm. They join our other friends at one of the tables in the courtyard – our usual spot – only this time, my seat is vacant.

At the same time, Chase Ridgerton pulls into the parking lot in his black BMW, the tinted windows rolled down to reveal his two friends, Adam and Tristan, in the back. My manicured hands quickly form into fists, the nails digging into my palm. It's been exactly one week since he ruined my life, but I still have this urge to run into his arms; I'm weak like that.

"You don't need him," Mom says, and at first, I think she means emotionally, "there's still time to find another campaign captain."

"I know," I say, but I'm hardly listening. I'm looking at my mother, at the resolve in her eyes, and I can't help but think back to a moment last week.

It was right in the middle of spring break. I'd finally roused myself out of bed to get a drink when I'd looked out the window and spotted my mother wildly snipping at the rosebush. Dad had planted the roses seventeen years ago to commemorate my birth – a rose bush for a Rose – and there she was tearing it down.

There wasn't a moment to think. I threw open the doors that led onto the patio, stepped out barefoot, and hurried down the winding path. What are you doing? I'd wanted to scream. That's mine and Dad's rose bush! But instead, I stood next to her, staring at the thorn-infested roses.

"Rose Rosette," she said finally. "There's no cure. They'll die within a year." And she carried on sheening, snipping away at the once perfect roses and letting them fall to the ground. This is my mother: pragmatic, unsentimental ­– deep down, she wishes I were the same.

"You should get going," Mom says. "You don't want to be late on your first day back."

"You're right," but I don't move. I wait until the last possible second when Mom grows impatient and opens my door for me. I grab my bag, the same lilac shade as my cashmere sweater, and carefully climb out. If there is one thing I've learned from having the mayor as my mother, it's that image is everything.

A gentle breeze blows my perfectly curled hair back and forth. It's typical weather for Archbury, Massachusetts, but somehow it feels like an omen. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to close the door behind me and peel strands of hair off my lipgloss. Maybe I'm wrong; maybe their silence doesn't mean much at all – maybe they've been busy.

Shoulders back, I push through the crowd toward them, ignoring the several snide looks. I am still Rose Matthews. I am still Rose Matthews. They all look up when they hear me approach, and that confidence I felt only moments ago fades to nothing. Despite the fact I'd convinced myself otherwise, they were never my friends; they were his. I was nobody before him, the kind of girl who spoke to everyone but had no real friends. The moment Chase took notice of me, so did everybody else. The moment he dropped me, it seems they did too.

Libby – my best friend and Chase's twin – is the first to stand up, holding my gaze in the silence. It's only been a week, but she looks different: her blonde hair is lighter, sun-kissed at the ends from laying by the pool, and her skin a shade or two browner. But it's not just the sun that's transformed her appearance. She's a little more polished, her makeup more precise like she's been watching tutorials, and when I glance at her hands, I know why. Clutched in her palm is a badge of her face, the words VOTE LIBBY on the front: she's campaigning for Senior Class President.

Her eyes follow mine to the badge in her hands. She almost looks embarrassed. "It was a last-minute decision."

I nod curtly, but the weight of this moment is suffocating. "You just never showed an interest in running," I say. I'm trying to stay calm, but with the others all watching this moment unfold, I'm on the verge of unraveling. "You always said being on the council was enough for you."

"Yeah, well, things change," she says.

My cheeks feel hot, and I can feel people staring. It doesn't take a genius to work out that Chase made her campaign as a way to get back at me. As captain of the basketball team, he doesn't have time to be Senior Class President, but if Libby campaigns, he will likely be her campaign captain.

Despite his already apparent betrayal, it's this that hurts the most. We'd spent most of last summer discussing my candidacy, and he'd vowed to do whatever he could to help me realize my dreams; now, he's taking them away.

My voice is low and shaky when I speak. "I get that he's your brother, but are you really going to take his side over mine? You know me, Libby. You know I'd never do any of that stuff. Chase said those things to get back at me."

For a moment, as she stares at me, something passes between us. It's hard to tell whether it's empathy or uncertainty or downright pity, but whatever it is, it's something soft and apologetic, something human. And then, just as quickly, it's gone. "All I know is that I need to get to class."

The others get up, and they all start to leave before Libby stops again to look over her shoulder. "Look, I'm not running to hurt you if that's what you think."

"No, he has you running to hurt me."

Her eyes soften. I hate it. "Come on, Rose. You know my parents have been on me to take on more of a leadership role, and Chase thinks this is a good way to get them off my case. Besides–" she pauses, "–it's not like anyone would vote for you now."

I want to argue, but she's right. I've spent my life being perfect, preaching about the importance of grades and morals and being our best selves. Who would vote for perfect Rose Matthews after what Chase told them? Who would take me seriously?

The tears are on the verge of spilling over. Libby turns, shifting her bag to her other arm before hurrying up the steps. I wait until she's out of sight before moving again, ambling down a side path. I don't stop running until I'm zipping through the bike sheds and around a side building, where I run chest first into Blake O'Hare.

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