THE ROYALS ARE A FORMIDABLE football team, but by no means the best in the state.

From the one game I watched at the Homecoming Fair, it was clear that Reece Dormer carries the bulk of the team's athletic capabilities. And one shining star does not a constellation make. Everyone knew Carsonville High School wasn't going to take out the regionals of our division, but that didn't stop the school from clamouring about the playoffs for the third and fourth place, and the raging afterparty at Reece's house, come Monday.

I made it through AP Calculus and Music without letting the gossip get to me, choosing instead to focus on Benjamin, Leah, and the Unofficials as my company. When I walk into Home Ec., I notice three things. Firstly, the class is abuzz about the football game and how Reece will definitely be scouted. Secondly, Angela is absent — possibly with a cold, since the weather is dipping wildly of late. Thirdly, Terrence sits in her usual spot.

As with Derek and Madison, who were not originally in my Music Theory class — does Madison even play an instrument? — but were placed by Brittany on diligent guard about a week after I arrived at Carsonville, sharing a class with Terrence sucks. It used to suck because it was an immediate mood killer having to be in close proximity with petty and cruel classmates, but now it sucks because it's a reminder of Brittany crying.

Since last week, I've been trying to forget the encounter with Brittany. I didn't expect to dig so deep and drag such an emotional response from her, but I did. One part of me is glad I did because she's been avoiding all of my friends, likely out of embarrassment, and interfering less in other students' lives. One part of me regrets ever diving into her secrets because the harrowing encounter with Brittany has made me rethink what I supposedly know about the Monarchy.

Having Terrence so near makes it even worse. The last time I heard from him is the same as the last time we spoke. The last time we spoke, he asked me to get to know him better before writing off the idea of friendship. But write him off I did, until the last time I heard from him, when he and Reece revealed that Brittany makes them do a lot of things they don't want to do. Attending afterparties was the superficial example, but I can't help but wonder how much deeper it goes.

Now I question what things her four friends did of their own volition. Would Reece and Derek have walked away from fighting Ben and Drew if she wasn't there? Would Terrence have pulled that cruel dunk tank joke if he had no affiliation with her? Would Madison have ever bullied Faune if she was free from Brittany's influence?

I used to condemn all of them for making such hurtful choices, for deciding to bully others. Now I don't know who deserves condemnation. There are such things as evil actions and evil people, but how closely are they related, which is the cause and which is the effect?

Do bad people end up bullying — it's hard to imagine the people who were once Drew's friends always being bad — or does bullying make a person bad? I ponder these questions only because at least once a day, Brittany's single, glimmering tear flashes behind my eyelids. That only blurs the lines between good and bad which, especially so deep into the Revolution, is dangerous.

I drop my head to avoid Terrence's gaze, looking around for any other empty seat. I don't care who ends up being my partner, though it'll undoubtedly be awkward. Since Home Ec. is relatively practical, I've not made conversation with most of the other students in the class, and my reward is a dearth of close acquaintances to partner up with.

Turns out, Mrs. Fern has other plans for me.

"Sophie, please partner up with Terrence. Today's sewing task is a two-person job unless you want to stay through your lunch period."

Terrence, for once, listened to me.

At least, that is what it outwardly seems like as we begin the process of sewing two laptop covers together. 

He must have taken my words at the Halloween bonfire on board because he hasn't spoken a word to me since I sat down. Even when Mrs. Fern set a task that required communicating — divvying up the roles of chalking the pieces, cutting the patterns, and sewing the fabric together — Terrence refused to acknowledge me, giving his wordless answer by taking a seat at one of the sewing machines lining the perimeter of the classroom.

It's a strange hour due to Terrence's newfound silence, but also one full of revelations. He joked around and pestered me in all classes and detentions before this one, so I never learned anything more about him other than that he can be supremely annoying when he wants to be. When Terrence finally falls silent and ignores me, I find that I see more of him than I ever have. I could never tell if he was being genuine or not, with his wicked smiles, contrasting moods, and dubious morals, but he can't fake what he can't fake.

For example, I learn that he can follow instructions if he needs to. When we made biscuits together, he bypassed the recipe and started throwing random quantities of ingredients in. At the time I thought it was his perpetual carelessness, but now I think it's because he was fairly confident things wouldn't turn out that badly.

When I hand Terrence the pieces of fabric I cut out for one laptop case, a flash of concern passes through his eyes. I know because of that, he's not confident around a sewing machine. But instead of asking me or Mrs. Fern for guidance, he picks up the laminated instruction manual next to the machine. A lock of his hair falls into his eyes as he pores over it, tacitly teaching himself.

I also learn that he's crazily nimble — something I already gathered inklings of. I cast surreptitious sidelong glances at him as I work on pinning the next set of fabric pieces together, noticing that he threads the needle in one attempt, his long, steady fingers moving hitchlessly.

Then as Terrence works, I see care and consideration so at odds with his usual whispering, pranking, thieving, lock-picking, chocolate chip-throwing demeanour. He looks almost childlike, unsure, guiding the fabric along the needle with slow, precise movements.

Something twists in my chest at the end of the hour. We completed the task quicker than any other team, all without talking. Well, I spoke to Terrence once — when I noticed he was turning corners without driving the needle down first — but he never replied to me.

And as we walk out of class with no further goodbyes, I realise that in a different — but not too different — circumstance, I probably would have loved to be Terrence's friend.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

Leah drops three folded newspapers on the cafeteria, drawing my face up to hers at the sharp sound.

Drew and Benjamin also look up from their meals, meeting Leah's severe expression with a curious one of their own. With that stern frown hanging off the corners of her lips, I expect nothing but bad news, but past that, with the glint in her hazel eyes, Leah looks quite excited.

She takes her weight off her hand resting on the table and crosses her arms. "Read."

There's a slight pause, a second that stretches far longer than a second should before Benjamin clears his throat and bravely reaches for the first newspaper. The rustling of paper is all Drew, Benjamin and I hear for a moment, as we unfold and settle into them.

"Page six."

I know people are probably staring at the three people unorthodoxly reading newspapers in the middle of a school cafeteria. But there's a reason Leah wants us to read page six, and I'm going to find it.

Our school newspaper, the Carsonville Chronicle, has run for longer than I've been alive. During one of Delaney's many angry rants, she revealed how close to dying the Chronicle is. There's simply no demand for it anymore. "The collaboration between the newspaper and the Photography Club is the only thing that is stopping the school from cutting the funding since photography is getting pretty popular." Then, with a sidelong glance at me, "Well, it used to be the only thing."

I observe Benjamin reading, his eyes flitting from word to word like a rock being skimmed along a lake, before deciding I'll read it after getting some information.

"What's the newspaper for?" Drew asks me.

I remind him, "You remember, a while back, how we recruited? Delaney went to the newspaper editors and they only agreed to help us if she would be a columnist for the paper."

"Oh, yeah. That."

Leah says, "Delaney wrote her first column, and I thought you should read it before everyone else does. I've just come from the press room, and she told me the copies are going out now. By tomorrow—"

"Wait. Where is Delaney?" Drew asks.

"Being angry in the press room, or ripping out the editor's throat."

"What? Why would she do that?"

"Because, she thought the deal was one column each week, as an outside contributor. But apparently, they want her permanently on the team, like editing and interviewing and all," Leah sighs. "So now, she's trying to deal her way out of it. They said her writing could be the thing to save the newspaper. I was there with her, but once she started ripping up the newsprint, I left to show you guys."

"Is it even possible to make that much of a comeback?" I cut in, "Wyn told me it's on the verge of bankruptcy." She and I have had the occasional conversation online, ever since we became friends through the Revolution.

"True, but at three dollars a copy, and with Delaney's writing, they could make enough to secure its run next year."

"Then why wouldn't she want to do it?"

"I don't know. She clammed up and wouldn't say more than I don't want to."

"Hold up." Drew inquires, "What did she actually write?"

Leah itches uncomfortably in her sweater, and hands out the two remaining newspapers to Drew and me. Benjamin is still absorbed in the article, and all it does is make me more curious to read. From what Leah's said, it sounds promising. What it promises exactly, I'm not quite sure.

"I think it's best you just see for yourself," Leah mutters before shuffling her chair closer to the table and starting to eat.

Then I start reading, feeling my eyes widen with each word they devour.

Five minutes later, when we've finished reading, Drew observes, "She uses a lot of asterisks, doesn't she?"

Benjamin reasons, "I think the editor put those over her cussing."

I have no idea what to say. I think Delaney has said it all. For a few moments of contemplative silence, I just stare at the paper as if it could combust randomly. I don't know what I expected. Based on how Leah looked at the start of lunchtime, I thought there was something scandalous in Delaney's article. And, I guess it is a form of scandal — but one so compelling that it should be called truth instead. Either that or a damn good article.

"Honestly, Delaney Morrison is the name of her column," Leah says, clandestinely. We all nod. That is very accurate.

"Isn't that a bit, um, explicit to be published in a school newspaper?" I ask. "Is it okay to call out so many people? Even though she didn't name them outright." I don't really know who the editor is, but to let something like this into print? They really must be desperate, or inventive.

Not that the writing is bad in any way, shape, or form, because Delaney could write well after not sleeping for days. But it's harsh and confrontative — it's distinctly Delaney. The thing is, Delaney is not recommended for the general public.

"That's her plan, apparently. Scandal sells."

The Monarchy sits at their usual prestigious table. I half expect them to start glaring over here, aware of the attention on them, both in the article and from me. But they just sit proudly and continue eating. Terrence laughs across from Derek, while Reece courteously watches something Madison pointed out to him on her phone, Brittany excluded. They have no idea how much shit is going to hit them tomorrow.

I stand up, and charge off, ignoring the questions of my friends. I'm going to get some answers from the author herself. "Don't wait up for me, guys."

Inconspicuous is a damn good word to describe Wynter Antakova, the Photography Club president. It takes a minute of searching the cafeteria — assuming she even eats here — before I set sight on her messy bun and mismatched clothing at a discreet table nestled in a corner.

Wyn sits with a few people who I think had been in the photography room the time I went to visit them, during the recruits. I didn't actually talk to anyone other than Wyn, so their names are still mysteries. I get her attention with a soft tap on her shoulder. "Wyn."

"Hey, look, it's the cavalry," she drawls wryly, eyes warm. "Nice to see the Monarchy haven't driven you out of the school yet."

"It'll take more than a few death threats."

She chuckles and wipes her hands on her faded Capri pants. "Believe me, I know. What did you need?"

"You have a key to the press room, right?"

"Yeah, but I don't use it that much. Whenever we're delivering photos, the door is always open," she answers.

"Do you have it here?"

"I should. Don't know if I lost it though," Wyn mutters, looking through her bag. She pulls out a dark silver key on a ring and hands it to me. She adds, "I don't need to know what you plan on doing with it."

When I take the key, her lips curve into a rare smile, mirrored on my own.