Falling for My Elite Rival

CHAPTER TWO

Thirty-seven minutes until I'm supposed to be on stage.

The computer lab is silent except for the rapid clicking of Enzo's keyboard and my voice, rattling off statistics and policy arguments I've rehearsed so many times they're burned into my memory.

"The recidivism rate for individuals released without employment support is sixty-eight percent within three years," I say, pacing behind him. "But programs that provide job training and placement reduce that to forty-one percent. The graph shows the comparison—blue bars for standard release, green for supported reintegration."

"Got it." Enzo's fingers don't stop moving. "What's the source citation?"

"Bureau of Justice Statistics, 2021 report. The full citation is in my bibliography file but—" My stomach drops. "Which was also on the USB."

"We'll use simplified citations for now. BJS 2021 is enough for tonight. You can provide full documentation later if they request it." He glances up at me. "Next slide?"

I close my eyes, visualizing the presentation I've looked at hundreds of times. "Case study comparison. Three cities with different approaches to mental health crisis response. Seattle, Denver, and Eugene. I had photos of their mobile crisis teams and data tables showing outcomes."

"Describe the data structure."

"Three columns: city name, program model, and reduction in police use of force incidents. Seattle had a thirty-two percent reduction, Denver forty-five percent, Eugene sixty-one percent over two-year periods."

The keys click faster. "What did you conclude from the comparison?"

"That civilian-led crisis response teams with dedicated mental health professionals are more effective than police-only response in reducing violence and connecting people to ongoing care. The Eugene model—which completely removes police from initial response—had the best outcomes."

"Strong argument." Enzo's voice is focused, analytical. The same tone he uses during Academic Decathlon when we're drilling each other on practice questions. "But you'll get pushback on that. Probably from someone asking about safety concerns."

He's right. I've anticipated that exact question.

"I have a follow-up slide addressing safety protocols and the data showing crisis responders face fewer safety incidents than police responding to the same types of calls. The training is different, the approach is different, and the outcomes prove it works."

"Perfect. Tell me about the training protocols."

We work like this for twenty minutes—me pulling information from memory, him organizing it into coherent slides. It's strange how well we work together. We've been academic rivals for three years, but we've never actually collaborated on anything. I always assumed working with Enzo would be competitive, combative, a battle for whose ideas are better.

Instead, it's almost... easy.

He asks the right questions. Anticipates what information needs emphasis. Builds visual hierarchies that make sense. When I can't remember an exact statistic, he suggests a range or a phrase like "significantly higher" that's accurate without being misleading.

"Your introduction," he says, not looking away from the screen. "How did you open?"

I pause. The opening was personal. Vulnerable. The kind of thing I agonized over including because it reveals too much about where I come from.

"Mara?" Enzo finally looks up. "What was your opening?"

"It's... personal."

"The best research presentations are personal. That's what makes them matter." His eyes are steady on mine. "Tell me."

I take a breath. "I opened with a story about my Uncle Bento. He was arrested when I was twelve for driving with a broken taillight. Couldn't afford to fix it immediately because he'd just paid rent. Got pulled over, cop found out he had an outstanding fine from a parking ticket he couldn't afford to pay. Arrested him, impounded his car. The impound fees and the original fine and the new charges added up to more than three thousand dollars."

Enzo has stopped typing. He's listening with complete attention.

"He couldn't pay it," I continue quietly. "Lost his car. Lost his job because he couldn't get to work. Spent two months unemployed before my mother helped him get hired at the place she works. The whole thing started because he was too poor to fix a taillight."

"That's not a criminal justice problem," Enzo says slowly. "That's a poverty trap."

"Exactly." I meet his eyes. "That's my entire thesis. We call it criminal justice reform, but what we really need is to stop criminalizing poverty. My uncle isn't a criminal. He just didn't have sixty dollars at the right time, and the system punished him for it."

Enzo turns back to the laptop. "I'm putting that story on your opening slide. Just the outline—you'll tell it in your own words. But this is what's going to make the committee remember your presentation."

Something warm unfolds in my chest. He understood immediately. Didn't question whether personal narrative belongs in academic research, didn't suggest I sanitize it or make it less specific.

He just got it.

"Thank you," I say quietly.

"Don't thank me yet. We still have a hundred slides to build and twenty-three minutes to do it." But there's a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

We keep working. My section on bail reform and cash bond systems. The data on public defender caseloads. The comparative analysis of decriminalization policies in Portugal versus the United States.

With fifteen minutes left, we have a rough but functional presentation. Not as polished as my original—the graphics are basic, the transitions are simple—but the content is there. The argument is solid.

"Conclusion slide," Enzo says. "How did you end?"

"Call to action. Four specific policy recommendations with projected costs and outcomes." I rattle them off from memory.

His fingers fly across the keyboard one last time. Then he stops, sits back, and turns the laptop toward me.

"Done."

I stare at the screen. Forty-seven slides. Not identical to my original presentation, but close enough. The structure is right. The argument flows. The data supports the conclusions.

It's possible I might actually pull this off.

"Mara." Enzo's voice pulls my attention from the screen. "You need to practice it. You have twelve minutes before you need to be backstage. Run through it at least once."

"I've practiced the original version seventeen times—"

"This isn't the original version. The slides are in a slightly different order. The visuals are different. You need to practice with what you're actually going to present." He stands up, gestures to the laptop. "I'll sit in the back and listen. Pretend I'm the scholarship committee."

I want to argue that I don't have time, but he's right. Again.

I take his place at the computer, pull up the first slide, and begin.

"When I was twelve years old, my uncle was arrested for driving with a broken taillight..."

The words come easily because I've lived this research. But Enzo was right about the slides being different. Twice I expect a graphic that isn't there and have to adjust on the fly. Once I almost skip a section because the order has changed.

But I make it through. All forty-seven slides in just under eleven minutes.

When I finish, I look up at Enzo. He's leaning against the back wall, arms crossed, expression serious.

"Well?" I ask, hating how much I want his approval.

"You're rushing the data in the middle section. The comparison between the three cities—slow down there, let the numbers land. That's some of your strongest evidence."

I nod, making mental notes.

"And your conclusion is good, but you're underselling it. You have four specific, actionable policy recommendations with projected costs and measurable outcomes. That's not just research—that's a roadmap for actual change. Own that. Make them believe you're not just analyzing the problem, you're offering the solution."

He's right. About all of it.

"Anything else?" I ask.

Enzo pushes off from the wall and walks closer. "You're going to be amazing. The committee is going to see exactly what I see—someone who understands this issue personally and intellectually, someone who did months of rigorous research, someone who actually cares about making things better, not just getting a good grade."

The compliment catches me off guard. We don't do this—Enzo and I. We compete. We compare test scores and debate rankings and Academic Decathlon results. We don't compliment each other.

"Thank you," I say, and this time I mean it fully. "For all of this. For helping me. I don't know why you did, but—thank you."

Something shifts in his expression. Something I can't quite read.

"Mara—" He stops. Starts again. "I should tell you something. About tonight. About your USB—"

"Mara Ribeiro?" A voice calls from the hallway. One of the showcase coordinators appears in the doorway. "There you are! You're needed backstage now. You present in eight minutes."

My stomach drops. Eight minutes.

I grab the laptop, eject the USB Enzo used, clutch it like a lifeline.

"Go," Enzo says. "You've got this."

I should leave. Should run to the auditorium and get mic'd up and prepare to deliver the most important presentation of my life.

But I pause at the door, looking back at him.

"Enzo—what were you going to tell me?"

He shakes his head. "It can wait. Go. Don't let them start without you."

I don't have time to push, so I run.

Through the hallway, down the stairs, across campus to the auditorium. The coordinator rushes me backstage where a tech person attaches a microphone to my collar and another person takes the USB to load onto the presentation computer.

I can hear the audience on the other side of the curtain. Hundreds of people. Families, teachers, scholarship committees, university representatives.

My heart is pounding so hard I can barely breathe.

"You're on right after Valentina finishes," the stage manager whispers. "Are you ready?"

I'm not ready. I just spent forty-five minutes frantically rebuilding a presentation that was stolen from my locker. I'm running on pure adrenaline and panic.

But I nod anyway. "Ready."

Through the gap in the curtain, I can see Valentina on stage in a designer dress that probably costs more than my mother's monthly salary. She's presenting something about sustainable fashion. The slides are gorgeous—professional graphics, perfect transitions, clearly expensive software.

I look down at my own outfit. Secondhand blouse. Thrifted skirt. Shoes I've owned for two years.

For a moment, the old insecurity crashes over me: I don't belong here. These aren't my people. This isn't my world.

Then I think about Uncle Bento and three thousand dollars in fees he couldn't pay. About my mother working two jobs. About every person I interviewed for this research who got trapped by a system designed to punish poverty.

I belong here because I earned this. Because my research matters. Because someone needs to say these things, and it might as well be me.

Valentina finishes to enthusiastic applause. She walks off stage past me, and for just a second, our eyes meet.

She smiles. It doesn't reach her eyes.

"Good luck," she says, her voice honey-sweet and utterly cold.

Then she's gone, and the stage manager is giving me the signal, and I'm walking out into the lights.

The podium feels a thousand miles away. The audience is a dark mass beyond the stage lights. I can't see individual faces, which is probably good because if I could see the scholarship committee watching me, I might actually pass out.

I reach the podium. Grip the edges. Take a breath.

The first slide appears behind me: "Criminal Justice Reform and Socioeconomic Mobility: A Data-Driven Analysis. By Mara Estela Ribeiro."

And then I begin.

"When I was twelve years old, my uncle was arrested for driving with a broken taillight..."

Somewhere in the darkness of the auditorium, Enzo Tavares sits in the back row.

He's supposed to be backstage, preparing for his own presentation. But he stayed to watch her.

He needs to see her succeed. Needs to know that his help was enough. Needs to witness the moment Mara Ribeiro proves to everyone in this room what he's known for three years:

She's brilliant. She's fierce. And she absolutely belongs here.

Even if the reason he knows so much about her presentation crisis is more complicated than he could ever tell her.

Even if he's carrying a secret that might destroy the fragile thing that just formed between them in that computer lab.

Even if he should have told her the truth when she asked.

For now, he watches her present. Watches her command that stage like she was born to it. Watches the scholarship committee lean forward in their seats.

And he thinks: She's going to win this.

She's going to win everything.

Even if it means he loses her before they ever really had a chance to begin.