The next few minutes are chaotic. Faculty members swan around with boxes and clipboards while Mr. Charter rehearses his speech. I convince myself the pre-ballot preparations give me more time to relax, but it's the opposite. I sit at my table, half-hidden by the billowing stage curtains, and anxiously tap my foot. If Blake were here, he'd no doubt have something encouraging to say to make me feel better, but all I have is me.

You'll be fine, Rose. Losing isn't the end of the world – not even close – and making it this far is an achievement. It's the same thing I'd say to my family or friends if they were in this situation, and I'd believe every word, but somehow, it's harder to accept when it's you.

Finally, Mr. Charters is ready to put me out of my misery. He gathers us together – not just Libby and me, but all the faculty members – and goes through this morning's expectations. I hold my breath as he takes out his handkerchief and briefly cleans his glasses before scanning the room.

"Before we start, I'd like to congratulate our two candidates for making it this far in the election. Running for senior class president is no easy feat, and while there have been a few hiccups along the way, you both stuck this out until the end, which is commendable."

The other faculty members offer a little clap that ricochets backstage. Mr. Charter continues, outlining our commitment and dedication to the election, but all I can think about is how Blake should be here to act as my campaign captain, how he should be here, period.

How much I miss him.

"Right," Mr. Charter says, "let's get started."

How this is supposed to work is the campaign captains help the faculty members to count the votes, but with both of our campaign captains currently suspended, it's up to the faculty members to do it. Mr. Charter leads us back through the curtains and onto the stage, where we get a good look at the auditorium.

On the front row of seats, there are four neatly-presented black boxes. Inside are the ballots the faculty members would have spent all morning collecting, the amount of which will decide next year's class president. I'm so desperate to learn of the results that I briefly imagine scrambling off the stage and ripping the lids off myself, but that would be unprofessional.

Instead, I listen intently as Mr. Charter explains to the faculty members which box they'll take to count. With four boxes and five faculty members for each, it shouldn't take long to count up each box, and if they're as efficient as last year, we'll know who's won by lunch.

It's a hard pillow to swallow. While Libby and I will be left in the dark until the winner is announced, we still get access to the counting process. It means I'll get a rough idea of who voted for who without knowing for sure, which makes this ten times worse.

"Candidates," Mr. Charter says, turning to us, "while you're allowed to witness the process, I'd like to remind you that you cannot touch or count the ballots yourselves."

Libby and I nod as the faculty members reach for their boxes before spreading out across the auditorium. Heart pounding, I hover near the closest group and watch them remove the lid. There are more ballots inside than I'd expected, and I already feel that familiar pressure building inside my chest. Mr. Charter roams the auditorium to look authoritative like he's monitoring the results, but he's as desperate to see the outcome as I am.

I turn to my group and exhale as I fight to appear calm, but I'll admit, I'm struggling. Miss Hardy, the lead faculty member for this group, takes her sweet time removing the first ballot. I tap my foot, resisting the urge to tear it from her hands, and watch as she slowly opens it. Mrs. Halliwell waits beside us with her clipboard, ready to tally the results. I bite my lip as the first ballot is laid on the table beside us.

Libby.

The word cuts through me, which is ridiculous. It's the first ballot out of hundreds and doesn't mean anything, but I can't help but feel like it's a sign. Mrs. Halliwell offers a pitiful glance before making a mark on her tally. I smile to show them I'm fine and wait for the next ballot.

Libby.

Despite my best effort, my face falls. The pounding of my heart fills the silence that follows. I briefly imagine tipping the box open and finding all Libby's – not a single Rose.

"Try not to think anything of it," Miss Hardy says. "We could have a box of Libby's, but another box might be all Rose's. It's just the luck of the draw."

I wave my hand to tell them it's okay and get to my feet. Sitting here watching each ballot won't distract me, so I think about what happens next instead: once they've counted the votes, Libby and I will head backstage while the rest of the school takes their seats in the auditorium. After giving some speech about how committed we are, Mr. Charter will announce the ballot winner, and that candidate will be announced as president. They'll give their speech, and there will be time at the end for the non-winning candidate to give a speech too. I spend the next few minutes rehearsing each one, hoping against hope that it's the winning speech I'll use and not the latter.

After a few minutes, I can't look away any longer. I sit with my group, watching intently as each folded ballot is pulled from the box and placed with the others on the table. Rose, Libby, Libby, Rose, Rose, Libby. It goes on and on, our names a blur as they're pulled back and forth from the box. Looking at Mrs. Halliwell's tally shows it's impossible to decipher who's coming out on top, but I've got a strong feeling it's Libby.

I force myself to look away and over to Libby's group. They're working fast to pull out the ballots, and when Libby smiles gleefully, I know she's winning her ballot box too. "It's too hot in here," I say, getting to my feet, "I'm going outside to get a little air."

Mrs. Halliwell nods. I hurry out of the auditorium, through the empty halls, and out the back door toward the bikeshed. It wasn't exactly my plan to end up there, but that's where I go, if only for a moment to gather my bearings in silence.

If Blake were here, he'd say something like there's no point worrying until the ballots are counted, so I close my eyes and clear my head, listening to the flutter of my breathing. The faint smell of Cherry still lingers in the air, taking me back to every moment I'd spent here with Blake.

In some ways, I still can't believe it. He's my opposite in every way, the last person I'd ever have thought I'd feel comfortable with, yet I do. I feel more comfortable with him – whether it's here or in his basement – than I've ever felt with any boy, which makes this all the harder.

Still, right now, I refuse to be sad about what happened and focus on the good. Blake helped to get me here, supported me through every stressful inch of this campaign, and regardless of what happens, I'll never forget it. If I win, it's his win too.

I give it another few minutes before heading back to the auditorium. The cold spring air gave me a little time to think, and now as I stroll back into the room, it feels like it's with a new perspective. So what if Libby appears to have more ballots than I do? So what if she wins? I made it this far without giving into doubt, and I'm not about to let myself down now.

"How's it going?" I ask my team as I take my position beside them.

Miss Hardy looks over and smiles. "It's hard to say. You've both done so well; I really think it could be a close call."

I roam my eyes over the ballots as they pile up on the table. There's got to be at least 450 students in our year, and assuming that most of them vote, I'll need 200+ ballots, all with my name on. Still, regardless of what happens or how many votes I get, I'm determined to be happy there were people in this school who believed in my campaign – not just the campaign, but me too.

"All right," Mr. Charter says eventually. "All teams have calculated their results. Faculty members, if we could please gather around to share our findings? Candidates, please head backstage until a member comes to get you. We'll start preparing to get the other students into the hall ready for the announcements in just a moment." He smiles now, and the relief behind his eyes suggests he can't wait for this to end.

You and me both.

Libby and I head backstage without talking and sit at our respective tables. It all feels too quiet as we wait for the results, and I can't help but think how much better this would feel if I had my campaign captain. I get out my phone and send Blake a message to tell him the ballots have been counted. Part of me wants to hear from him regardless of the campaign, but as I stare at my phone screen, waiting for his response, I don't get one.

"You like him, don't you?"

I glance over my shoulder at Libby. She's leaning on the table, propped up by her elbows, and watching me curiously. I'm about to deny it – giving Libby information is the last thing I want – but then I think, who cares? I do like Blake, that's the one thing I'm sure of, and I refuse to let her make that a bad thing.

"Yeah," I say, "I do."

But forgiving is a different story.

Before she can answer, the stage curtains rustle as Miss Hardy walks in. "All right, girls," she says. "Students are beginning to make their way into the auditorium, and everyone should be ready in about ten minutes. Mr. Charter will introduce the election with a short speech, then call you on stage to hear the final results. After that, the winner called will head up to the podium to give their speech. Do you have any questions?"

My mind goes blank as I stare at Libby. If I did have any questions, they're long gone now, replaced with a sharp intake of terror. In less than ten minutes, we'll be pulled up on stage, and this whole thing will be over.

"No," Libby says with a reassuring look at me, "I think we'll be okay."

Miss Hardy nods before inching toward the curtain. The next few minutes are torture as we wait for our year to take their positions in the auditorium. Liv, Freddie, and Kenny will be out there somewhere, cheering me on in their Vote For Rose t-shirts, and even though Blake can't be there to cheer with them, just knowing they're out there is comforting.

"All right, everyone is settled," Miss Hardy says with a glance over. "Mr. Charter has started his introduction. Get ready to go out on stage."

My throat tightens as I straighten out my outfit. Despite the fact I've been out there before, facing all those students, it never gets any less daunting. I take a deep breath, then another, as I fan out my hair. It's the moment that all of this comes to a head: I've won or lost. In the next few minutes, I'll know which.

"Okay, now," Miss Hardy says, pointing to the curtain, and Libby and I walk on stage.

My legs shake as I move in front of one of the two podiums, blinded by the overhead lights. Mr. Charter's voice echoes bright and spirited through the auditorium, but despite his best efforts to drum up encouragement, I don't hear a word.

I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this. Losing in front of this crowd would be torture, something I could never live down, and I'm half ready to walk back out of this room when I think of Liv and the others. I can't let them down, not after all of their support, and I can't let myself down, either.

Shoulders back, I rest my hands on the ridge of the podium and stare into the crowd. I can see a little clearer now that my eyes have adjusted, and I scan each of the faces as Mr. Charter continues, hoping to find Liv, but I don't. Instead, I find Blake standing over by the fire exit, holding a banner with my name on.

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