Falling for My Elite Rival

The thing about being a scholarship student at Westbridge Academy is that you're always five minutes away from proving everyone right. Right that you don't belong. Right that merit scholarships are charity dressed up as opportunity. Right that girls like me—girls who take the city bus forty-five minutes each way, girls whose mothers work two jobs, girls who shop at thrift stores and call it "curating"—should know our place. I've spent the last three years making sure no one at this school could question whether I deserve to be here. Perfect attendance. Perfect grades. Perfect behavior. I don't party. I don't cause drama. I don't give anyone a single reason to whisper that Mara Estela Ribeiro is taking up a spot that should've gone to someone whose family name is engraved on a building. My 4.0 GPA is not up for debate. My position as Debate Team Captain is earned, not given. My slot as a Kensington Merit Scholarship finalist is mine because I worked for it. Tonight's Academic Showcase is supposed to cement all of that. I check my reflection in the bathroom mirror one last time, smoothing down the white blouse I bought secondhand but had professionally pressed. My dark hair is twisted into a neat bun—professional, polished, not a strand out of place. The small gold cross from my Avó catches the fluorescent light. It's the only jewelry I'm wearing, the only piece I own that actually matters. In forty-five minutes, I'll walk onto that stage in the Westbridge auditorium and deliver the presentation that represents four months of my life: "Criminal Justice Reform and Socioeconomic Mobility: A Data-Driven Analysis." Four months of research. Four months of interviews with public defenders, formerly incarcerated individuals, policy experts. Four months of late nights in the library, of skipped lunches to work on data visualization, of revisions until my eyes burned and my mother had to physically take my laptop away so I'd sleep. My mother took an extra catering shift last weekend to buy me the professional portfolio folder waiting in my locker. My Avó lit a candle at Nossa Senhora Aparecida this morning and told me in Portuguese that I would make our family proud. My best friend Tally threatened to fight anyone who tried to sabotage me—which was sweet but unlikely to be necessary. I have this. The USB drive with my presentation is in my locker, exactly where I left it during lunch. My note cards are color-coded and organized in my bag. My outfit is ready. I've practiced my delivery seventeen times until every word, every pause, every emphasis is perfect. The Kensington Merit Scholarship committee will be in the audience tonight. Full-ride to any university in the country—tuition, room, board, books, even a stipend for living expenses. Columbia. Stanford. Georgetown. Schools I've dreamed about but never dared to assume I could afford. This presentation could change everything. I grip the edge of the sink, meeting my own dark eyes in the mirror. "You've got this," I whisper to my reflection. "You earned this." The bathroom door swings open. Karina Vasquez walks in, perfectly styled as always, her long dark hair falling in glossy waves that probably required an hour and expensive products I can't afford. "Mara! I was looking for you." She pulls out her phone, checking her makeup in the camera. "You're presenting soon, right? Are you nervous?" "Prepared," I correct, grabbing my bag. "Not nervous. Prepared." "Right. Of course you are." Karina applies another layer of lip gloss. "I saw the setup in the auditorium. It looks so official. Like, actual professors from the university are here. The pressure must be insane." "It's fine." "I'd be freaking out." She caps her lip gloss and turns to me, her expression something that might be concern or might be curiosity about how the scholarship girl handles stress. I can never quite tell with Karina. "But you're like, superhuman with this stuff. You never seem stressed." I am stressed. I'm always stressed. The difference is that I can't afford to show it. "I should get my materials from my locker," I say, moving toward the door. "Good luck with your presentation." "Oh, I'm not presenting. I'm just on the setup committee." She follows me out into the hallway. "Valentina's presenting though. Something about sustainable fashion and social responsibility. She's going right before you." Of course she is. Valentina Andrade—legacy student, social queen, the girl whose family donated enough money to get a building named after them. She's also Academic Decathlon alternate, which means if anything happened to me or my ranking, she'd move into the primary team position. Not that anything will happen to me. I wave goodbye to Karina and head toward my locker, weaving through the hallways that are starting to fill with students, families, faculty. The Academic Showcase is Westbridge's biggest event of the fall semester—a chance for the school to show off its brightest students to donors, scholarship committees, and university representatives. Sixty students were invited to submit research. Twelve were selected to present tonight. I'm number eleven on the program. Right after Valentina, right before Enzo Luciano Tavares. Enzo. The other 4.0 GPA. The other Kensington finalist. The boy who's been my primary academic competition for three years. I don't think about him. Or I try not to. But it's hard not to notice someone when you're constantly being compared to them. "Mara Ribeiro and Enzo Tavares are tied for the top ranking again." "Did you see the Decathlon scores? Ribeiro and Tavares both got perfect scores." "I heard the valedictorian might be co-valedictorians this year because Ribeiro and Tavares literally cannot be separated statistically." He's brilliant. I'll give him that. Annoying, but brilliant. We don't interact much outside of academic competitions. Different social circles, different worlds. He's legacy, I'm scholarship. He's soccer captain and student council VP, I'm debate captain and library aide. He drives a nice car that was probably a gift for his sixteenth birthday, I take the bus and consider it a good day when it's not late. The only thing we have in common is that we're both very, very good at school. And tonight, we're both presenting research that could determine our futures. I reach my locker and spin the combination lock. The familiar click and turn, the door swinging open. I reach for the USB drive that should be sitting on the top shelf, right next to my copy of Between the World and Me that I'm reading for English. My hand closes on nothing. I blink. Look again. The book is there. My emergency granola bar is there. The photo of my mother and Avó taped to the inside of the door is there. The USB drive is not there. A cold sensation starts in my stomach and spreads outward. I pull everything out of my locker. Textbooks, notebooks, my debate team folder, the sweater I keep for when the AC is too aggressive. I shake out my gym bag, check every pocket, rifle through papers. Nothing. No USB drive. "No, no, no, no..." I'm whispering now, hands shaking as I go through everything again. "It was here. I put it here this morning. I checked it at lunch." I dump my school bag on the floor, pawing through the contents even though I know it's not there. I always keep it in my locker specifically so I won't lose it, so it'll be safe. My presentation. Four months of work. Every slide, every citation, every carefully crafted argument. Gone. I check the floor around my locker. Check my pockets even though that makes no sense. Check my locker again, running my hands along every surface like the USB drive might be hiding. My phone says 6:47 PM. The showcase starts at 7:00 PM. I'm scheduled to go on at approximately 7:35 PM. Forty-eight minutes. I have forty-eight minutes to find my presentation or I walk onto that stage with nothing. "Think, Mara. Think." My voice sounds strange, high-pitched with panic I never allow myself to feel. Could I have taken it out and forgotten? No. I'm not careless. I checked it specifically at lunch, made sure it was there before afternoon classes. Could someone have taken it? My locker was locked. I didn't give anyone my combination. Could it have fallen out somehow? That doesn't make sense. USB drives don't just fall out of locked lockers. My breathing is coming faster now. The hallway feels too bright, too loud. Families streaming past toward the auditorium, students in their best clothes, teachers greeting parents. Everyone heading toward the showcase where I'm supposed to prove I belong. Without my presentation, I have nothing. Without my presentation, I fail. Without this presentation, the scholarship committee sees me panic and fall apart on stage, and every whisper about charity cases and affirmative action and "diversity admits" gets validated. I can't fail. I can't. But I don't have my presentation and I have forty-five minutes and I don't know what to do. I'm Mara Ribeiro. I always know what to do. I plan everything, prepare for everything, control every variable I can. But I can't control this. For the first time in three years at Westbridge Academy, I feel exactly like what everyone probably thinks I am: a girl who doesn't belong, scrambling to keep up, about to be exposed. My vision blurs. I think I might actually cry, which I never do at school. Never. "Mara?" I spin around. Enzo Tavares stands fifteen feet away, holding his own laptop bag, already dressed for his presentation in a white button-down and navy blazer that probably costs more than my entire outfit. His dark hair is styled perfectly, not a curl out of place. Those green-hazel eyes that shift color depending on the light are focused on me with an expression I can't read. He takes a step closer. "Are you okay?" "I'm fine." The lie comes automatically. "You don't look fine." Another step. "You look like something's really wrong." I should tell him to mind his business. We're not friends. We're barely civil to each other outside of forced academic interactions. He's my competition, the person standing between me and everything I want. But he's also the only person in this hallway right now, and I'm drowning. "My presentation." My voice cracks despite my best effort. "It's gone. The USB drive was in my locker and now it's not there and I present in—" I check my phone with shaking hands. "Forty-three minutes and I have nothing." I wait for him to look satisfied. To make some comment about how the competition just got easier for him. To walk away and let me spiral. Enzo does none of those things. Instead, he sets down his laptop bag and walks closer, his expression shifting to something that looks almost like concern. "When did you last see it?" "Lunch. I checked at lunch. It was there." "And your locker was locked?" "Yes. Always." He's quiet for a moment, thinking. Then: "Do you have it backed up anywhere? Cloud storage, email, another drive?" "Cloud storage, but the auditorium presenter room doesn't have WiFi and my laptop is at home because I didn't think I'd need it since I had the USB—" The words tumble out in a rush and I have to stop, press my hand against my locker door, try to breathe. This can't be happening. This cannot be happening. "Okay." Enzo's voice is calm, controlled. The same voice he uses during debates when he's three steps ahead of everyone else. "How much of your presentation do you remember? The structure, the main points, the data?" I look at him, confused. "What?" "If you had to recreate it right now, from memory, how much could you rebuild?" "I don't—I mean, most of it? All of it, probably, but I can't just make slides in forty minutes—" "Yes, you can." He picks up his laptop bag. "If I help you." I stare at him. This has to be a trick. Some elaborate setup where he offers to help and then sabotages me worse, or makes me look stupid, or— "Why would you help me?" The question comes out sharp, defensive. "You're presenting tonight too. You're competing for the same scholarship. If I fail, that's good for you." Something flickers across his face. Hurt, maybe, or frustration. He runs a hand through his hair, messing up the perfect styling. "Because this—" He gestures at my empty locker, my scattered belongings on the floor. "This isn't competition. This is sabotage. And I don't want to win because someone stole your work." "You don't even know if someone stole it. Maybe I lost it. Maybe I'm just careless—" "You're the least careless person I know, Mara." The way he says my name, like he's thought about it before, makes something flutter in my chest that I immediately crush. "You color-code your note cards. You have backup plans for your backup plans. You didn't lose that USB drive." He's right. I didn't. But hearing him say it, hearing him defend my competence, is disorienting. "We have forty-one minutes," Enzo continues, checking his watch. "There's an empty computer lab on the second floor. I have presentation software on my laptop. You tell me what you remember, I'll build the slides. We can do this." "Enzo, you don't have to—" "I know I don't have to." His eyes meet mine, intense and serious. "I want to. Let me help you. Please." The please is what breaks through my defenses. I have forty minutes to save four months of work. I can either stand here arguing about his motives or I can accept the only lifeline being offered. "Okay." The word feels like surrender and salvation at the same time. "Okay. Let's go." Enzo grabs my bag from the floor, hands it to me, and starts walking toward the stairs. I follow, my mind already racing through my presentation structure, trying to organize four months of research into something I can articulate clearly enough for him to recreate. We take the stairs two at a time. The second floor is quieter, most people already heading to the auditorium. The computer lab is dark but unlocked. Enzo flips on the lights and we head to the back corner, away from the windows. He pulls out his laptop, opens it, and looks at me expectantly. "Start with your thesis statement," he says. "We'll work backwards from there." I take a breath. Force my panic down. Become the version of myself that can do this—the Mara who doesn't break, who doesn't quit, who finds a way through impossible situations. "My thesis," I begin, and my voice is steadier now, stronger, "is that criminal justice reform cannot succeed without addressing the socioeconomic factors that criminalize poverty in the first place." Enzo's fingers start flying across the keyboard, and despite everything—the missing USB, the time pressure, the fact that my academic rival is currently saving me—I feel the smallest spark of hope. Maybe I can do this. Maybe we can do this. "Keep going," Enzo says, not looking up from the screen. "I'm listening." So I talk, and he types, and the clock counts down, and somewhere in the back of my mind I wonder why the boy who's supposed to want me to fail is the only person who showed up to make sure I don't.