By Monday morning, Westbridge High had already decided who I was.
I found out the official way—called into the administration office before first period, escorted like a liability. Principal Howard wouldn’t meet my eyes. Neither would the counselor sitting beside him, fingers folded too neatly.
“Until the investigation concludes,” he said, voice clipped, rehearsed, “you’re temporarily removed from the honors program.”
Temporary. The word hit like a joke.
My schedule was slid across the desk. Honors English—gone. AP Calculus—gone.
“And effective immediately,” he continued, “you’re suspended from the cheer team.”
I laughed. I didn’t mean to—it just slipped out, sharp and hysterical.
“That’s not even related,” I said.
He sighed, as if I were exhausting him. “Perception matters, Ava.”
Perception. Not truth.
“And the recommendation letters?” I asked quietly.
The counselor shifted. “Frozen. All Ivy League communications are paused until further notice.”
Frozen. Like my future was something they could put on ice and forget.
I walked out ten minutes later no longer a queen, not even a suspect—just a warning sign.
By lunchtime, the whispers had turned surgical.
“She was always fake.”
“Rich girl finally caught.”
“Do you think her dad paid for everything?”
People I’d known for years avoided my eyes. Teachers hesitated before calling my name. Friends suddenly had somewhere else to be.
Except Madison.
She found me by the student union lockers, eyes red, voice soft. Perfect.
“I can’t believe they’re doing this to you,” she said, hugging me gently. “It’s so unfair.”
Her phone buzzed.
She glanced at it—just for a second—but it was enough.
Enough for me to see the student council group chat lighting up her screen.
Congratulations, Madison!
You deserve this.
Finally someone authentic.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She froze. Then smiled. “Oh—nothing. Just… things.”
Two hours later, the announcement hit.
Madison Blake—acting Student Council Presidential Candidate.
My replacement.
The bitter irony settled in slowly, like poison in water.
I left campus early, my cheer uniform still in my bag, useless. In the parking lot, my hands shook so badly I dropped my keys.
“System works fast, doesn’t it?”
I looked up.
Ethan Moore leaned against the concrete pillar, backpack slung over one shoulder. Expression unreadable.
“I didn’t ask for commentary,” I snapped.
He shrugged. “Didn’t offer sympathy.”
I glared. “Then why are you here?”
“Because I trace code for fun,” he said calmly. “And your anonymous exposé? Sloppy.”
My breath caught. “What do you mean?”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “The IP trail doesn’t point off-campus. Whoever posted it was inside the school network.”
My heart began to pound. “That’s not possible.”
“It is if you know what you’re doing.” His gaze sharpened. “Specifically—from the student council office.”
The world tilted.
I didn’t go home after that. Instead, I sat across from my mother in a sterile café, her manicured fingers wrapped tight around her mug.
“We’ll fix this,” Mrs. Carter said urgently. “Your father is making calls.”
I pulled my hand away. “No.”
She blinked. “Ava—”
“They want a scapegoat,” I said. “And I’m convenient.”
Outside the café window, students laughed, living lives that hadn’t collapsed overnight.
Madison’s name trended on Instagram an hour later.
Grace under pressure.
True leader.
The right kind of girl.
I stared at the screen until it stopped hurting.
They didn’t want the truth.
They wanted someone to blame.
And Westbridge High had already chosen me.