It takes a while for his words to sink in. After everything that's happened, Blake's new mission was an impossible feat – or at least, it should have been – but somehow, through legal or illegal means, I'm not sure, he found a way.

"How?" I ask. "I mean–" my sentence trails off as I'm left truly speechless. "How?"

Blake tilts his head. Despite the fact his face screams total disinterest, I could swear in his eyes is a glimmer of triumph. "With a lot of effort."

I'm ready to scream from the rooftops that I'm back, but my conscience gets the better of me. "Blake, if you forged these signatures–"

"I didn't forge them, all right?'

"Then how did you do it?" But he doesn't answer. I lean forward now, staring into the depths of his eyes like I'm trying to see through them. They're not just dark, I realize; they're the color of coal in the seconds it takes to ignite. "I know you think I'm willing to do anything to win, but I'm not. If you did something unethical to get those signatures–"

The corner of his mouth twitches. He lifts his vape and, through a cloud of smoke, says, "Believe it or not, I have friends – some of which owe me favors."

I feel my shoulders physically relax, but not by much. Fanning the smoke back, I say, "That's bad for your health."

"So is being around you."

I'm too excited to care about his insult, so instead, I pull my hair into an I-mean-business bun and grin. If I didn't hate him so much, I would hug him right now. "This is amazing," I say, "it means the first hurdle is over, and we can focus on my campaign. I have so many–"

"Easy," he says, putting a hand up. "You told me to get signatures, and I did. Campaign work is going to cost you extra."

"Extra? I'm already paying you two hundred dollars."

"Time is money."

For about a second, I contemplate grabbing the nearest pillow and smothering him with it. Teeth gritted, I say, "Fine," and pass over my presidential scrapbook, which I've worked on for three solid years.

He doesn't take it. "You are the poster child for an obsessive overachiever."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is."

My defenses go up like a barbed-wire forcefield. If this were pre-spring break, a comment like that would be forgotten in a second. I think it was the good things in life that protected me, the knowledge that I was – or at least close to – perfect: I had good friends, morals, good grades. I'd look at Blake, at the judgment in his eyes and his over-the-top hatred for all things pleasant, and I'd feel sorry for him. But now, as I sit here, those things of mine gone, so is the protection they gave me. "Someone like you would think that."

His eyebrow arches. "Someone like me?"

I hold up my fingers and start to tick off his list of undesirable qualities, of which I am certain there are many. "No dreams, no hopes, no ambition." I expect a sign that my insults have stung him, but nothing I say affects him.

"I have dreams," he says, "they're just a little more realistic than yours. People like you thrive in high school because it's safe. The rules are clear, you don't have to think; you just have to follow. The working world doesn't operate that way: it's messy and unfair, and those who get to the top in this bullshit capitalist society have usually had to sacrifice something in return."

This conversation is off the rails and not in a good way. "I think it's ironic that someone who claims to hate capitalism is constantly on their phone."

His head snaps up to look at me properly. From the way his mouth curls, I've finally caught his attention. "Capitalism is an ideology, not a technology, and in a world where the average consumer needs technology to get by, the blame shouldn't be put on the consumers for buying into it, but the distributors."

For the second time this evening, I'm at a loss for words, which is so unlike me. But as wrong as I think Blake and his conspiracy theories are, there's something about the way he talks that causes my heart to thrum that little bit faster.

"What's your alternative?" I ask. "Let the government own the means of production and set all our prices? Economic freedom helps political freedom."

He leans back a little, watching me. "Maybe there's another way, but people are too set in their ways to bother looking. You want to know the one good thing my brother taught me?"

Despite wishing this conversation were over, I nod.

His eyes aren't just smoking embers anymore; they're alight. "Question everything."

It's the exact opposite of anything I was told growing up. My parents are very much play-by-the-rules, do-as-you're-told, and you'll prosper. Up until two weeks ago, this is exactly what I did. This is the playbook I breathed. But the truth is, maybe I was wrong. I played by the rules and did everything I should, and look where it got me: sitting in the basement of a burnout.

I fold my arms and try to look at anything but him. His gaze is still on me; I can feel it burning holes in my skin, setting the nerves on fire. "As fun as it is to debate our current climate, can we focus on my campaign?" I finally look up to nod at my campaign book.

He smirks. There's something he wants to say, I can tell, but he doesn't. He just picks up the book and flicks through it briefly with total disinterest. It's not like I'd expected a Wow, good job, or even a You made this? But the least he could do was look impressed. When he gets to the page where I've sketched out the outfit for my speech, he frowns.

"This isn't going to work," he says.

"The outfit? I can amend it slightly, but I've already bought the–"

He's wearing the expression of someone who thinks I am categorically insane. "Not the outfit, the whole thing."

I hesitate. "Why not?"

He tosses the book aside like it's garbage and not my most prized possession. "This was back when people liked you. None of this shit will fly now. It was hard enough getting those signatures for you."

Hearing this is worse than when he told me I was vapid. "Excuse me?"

He shrugs. Clearly, sparing my feelings is last on his checklist. "If you want to campaign, you need to change your image. People need to be able to relate to you."

"Are you saying I'm not relatable?"

He runs his gaze down my coordinated outfit. It's hard not to notice his disgust. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

I count to three, then again for good measure. "I've spent years working on this campaign." I say it like I'm speaking to someone with a low IQ. "You want me to scrap it, last-minute, and start again?"

"Hey–" he grins, "–you're getting it."

An insult lingers on the tip of my tongue, but the ping of his phone drowns it out. As he pulls it from his pocket, I wonder who's blowing up his phone, whether he has a girlfriend or something. I've never seen him with anyone at school, but he may have one outside of it. And then I shudder – the thought of being stuck listening to Blake's conspiracy theories must be torture.

With his attention elsewhere, I start to feel awkward. "Is it okay if I go to the bathroom?"

He doesn't look up from his phone as he says, "Upstairs, second door on the left."

I get to my feet and head up the creaking staircase. The house feels colder once I get to the top, as though it's been a long time since the heating was turned on. I navigate the narrow hallway, skimming the rest of the pictures as I walk before stopping at one of Blake. He's no more than five, standing beside a man who looks his spitting image. The pair are at a fishing spot, and Blake is holding up his catch while the man I assume is his dad smiles down at him.

I'm confused as to how he went from that picture-perfect image to living in this house alone. And even though he's high up on my list of people I can't stand, I can't help but feel sorry for him. Turning away, I head to the bathroom and close the door. Now that I'm away from Blake, it feels like I can think again. Like I can breathe. As grateful as I am that he's agreed to this plan, I can't ignore how much he unsettles me. The sooner this arrangement is over, the better.

Back in the basement, I sit on the sofa again as Blake taps away on his phone. He doesn't seem to notice as I reach for my campaign book or even when I subtly clear my throat. It's hard to tell who he's talking to, but based on the frown that's inhabited his features, he's not happy about their conversation.

"Something wrong?" I ask.

"Nah." He tucks his phone back into his pocket and gets to his feet. "My brother needs me to sort something out for him. Think about what you want to do with this–" he gestures to the book now squarely in my lap, "–and let me know."

I'm so glad for the chance to escape that I jump to my feet like the place is on fire. "Fine, I'll see you at school."

He doesn't answer, so I reach into my purse and get out the money I owe him before leaving it on the table. Then, after scooping up my things, I mumble a goodbye and get the hell out of dodge.

It's only once I'm back in my car that I can finally breathe again. Not just because I'm away from Blake, but because it truly sinks in that he did it, he actually did it; I've got my one hundred signatures.

The second I get home, my parents quiz me about my campaign. I lie and tell them it's going great, that people have forgotten what happened before the break, and I've collected all my signatures. They're so proud of me that the thought of them ever finding out that Blake O'Hare had to help me makes me guilty.

As soon as we've eaten, I head to my room, my heart still pounding from my encounter with Blake. I sit on my bed, presidency scrapbook in front of me, and flick through the pages, realizing Blake is right. This might have worked before that night, but it won't work now. People don't like me, let alone respect me, which means this book I've worked on, this campaign I spent years perfecting, was for nothing.

I'll have to start from scratch.

❤️