RUNNING ON MY MOTIVATION IT takes less than a minute to race through the empty corridors to the print room.

My pace automatically quickens when I hear shouting; a female voice that sounds unmistakably like Delaney, and a more masculine one.

It's locked, as expected. I mean, who'd leave the press room open for reckless kids to scan pictures of their butts? The old, incorrigible Terrence runs through my mind, for a split second, and I shudder. Hastily I turn the key, swinging open the door on a warmly lit room smelling of ink, machinery, and newsprint.

"I don't care what you think, Kyler! It's my decision and you're not going to guilt-trip me into agreeing."

Delaney is screaming directly into a boy's face, who has a senior's experienced look about him, from the way his arms are crossed, staunch posture, and unimpressed expression. Delaney bossed around Debate Club members starting in her sophomore year, so I can't imagine anyone younger holding their own so solidly against her right now.

His blonde hair sweeps dramatically to one side, a close undercut drawing a lot of attention to the corners of his angular jawline. On his pale face is a suspiciously fresh-looking red mark, like someone slapped him. That settles it. no-one is ever letting Delaney out of their sights again.

After recognising me, she quickly glances away before I can use her face to guess what the fuck was going through her mind when she wrote that article. The boy barely acknowledges me and only the fact that he makes direct eye contact tells me he knows I'm here.

"Look, Laney. Can I call you Laney?" Delaney looks on the verge of hitting him again. "Okay, Duh-laney, we really need you. Not that I'm comfortable begging you," he quickly amends his statement after Delaney steps closer to him, "—and I mean that in the nicest way possible. But our newspaper is sinking and we want to save it. I'm sure you understand wanting to fight for something you believe in."

I know he's struck the right nerve as soon as Delaney falters, and her shoulders relax a little. Apparently, he knows it, too, and takes the moment to divert focus to me. "Sophie, right? The original revolutionary."

"Um. Sure." The prestigious title he bestowed on me is wholly unfamiliar, much too grand, and I shift uncomfortably on my toes. "And who are you?"

"Kyler Valentin. Newspaper editor. Delaney's told me a lot about you."

"Shut up, Valentin," Delaney growls, "I only told you what was necessary."

"True. But I found out the rest." Kyler gives me a seamless wink, then says to Delaney, "Look, think about it, and when you have an answer, get back to me. Remember to lock up after yourselves." And he brushes past me on the way out, leaving behind a tense silence and a trace of his aftershave.

Then it's just me and Delaney.

I finally take my first good look around the print room. It's much larger than the photography room and definitely bigger than the Book Club's room. But I suppose it's only logical, to accommodate the three print machines. They're bulky machines, with coils of blank newsprint wound up around a metal press. Only one is actually working, whirring softly and emitting faint clunks occasionally as the inkjets adjust, white paper rolling slowly.

I'm guessing the newspaper editors are the ones who have to fold and deliver the newspapers. Leading off from the main print room are smaller working areas. One space is purely designated for computers, rows of them set up with swivel chairs. It must be for all the column writers they don't yet have. All of the computers are shut off, sleeping under a dusty blanket.

I'm intrigued by Kyler Valentin. I have some sympathy for him because he was nothing but polite to me, if not strong-handed with Delaney. Some part of me completely understands his fixation with saving the Chronicle, because slim chances are still chances, after all. Kyler would rather sink with his crew than jump ship because he loves it too damn much. It's stupid and honourable, and frankly, exactly what I'd do for the Revolution.

Delaney has now taken a seat in one of the swivel chairs, her knees bent and pushing her from side to side. I walk over to her, my shoes dragging on the floor. "Could you explain what the hell— no, why did you write that?" Her article took a hypothetical, fictional stance, but every student — every senior, at least — knows exactly which people she's talking about. The article lists the top ten worst things they've ever done, censoring names but nothing else.

I don't disagree with what Delaney wrote, but I'm worried about her. When Drew and I hijacked the assembly, there was chaos. Knowing that Brittany and Delaney have clashed in the past about Debate Club, resulting in sabotage, competition, and heartache, I don't know if it was wise poking a dragon with a flaming pitchfork. Not even anonymously, either.

Delaney's slender fingers are undulating over and over again on the computer's mouse, and she looks to have ignored me. "Come on. Talk."

Delaney swings left to right a few more times before she sighs, "I don't know why. I just sat down to write one of the computers and as soon as the first word came, I just got lost in it. What you read was a first, uncensored draft."

"You basically called out the Monarchy in their own territory. And we're not strong enough to counter them so soon. What if they find out we've been recruiting? They'll shut it down before we can even fully convince our recruits. A lot of them are still so scared of being—"

"I know."

There are a thousand more things waiting to be said, stretching off the tip of my tongue. I think of how the school newspaper is immediately implicated because of her article. I think of Book Club's trepidation, and the power Brittany has to get extracurriculars defunded.

But I hear the steely frustration in Delaney's voice, and all my worries and questions evaporate. She's always had pale skin, but now her face is almost sallow, with heavy purple bags under her eyes that seem to be weighing her eyelids down. Shoulders tensed up, caging her in, Delaney looks utterly exhausted. Her eyes, stormy silver, are dullened, too — like knives that have gone too long since their last honing.

"I should have worded it better," she agrees. "But that doesn't change the fact that I think they completely deserved it. I meant to publish that."

"It was a bit... subjective. But they really had it coming. Now, what's this about joining the press team?"

"They need writers. More editors. A complete new hook to get people reading the Chronicle again. So when they saw the chance to blackmail me into writing for them, they took it."

"And why wouldn't you want to do it?"

Her voice is nearly inaudible. "Because, I've put so much effort into some things, only for them to be wastes of time. I'm done trying to resurrect dead flowers and rearrange ashes into trees. Can't be done."

"Maybe you could do the impossible. After all, you once told me Brittany didn't have emotions. And you know what I made her do last week?"

She stops picking at the skin on her finger for a second, to gaze curiously at me, "What? You made her cry?"

"Hell, yeah. And you can totally recreate the Chronicle."

So Delaney sinks back into deep thought, stringing her thoughts out until a smirk strings itself onto her face. "Valentin! Get back here. I know you're eavesdropping."

The door clicks open immediately, Kyler's head coming from outside, all eager and expectant. "Have we got a new columnist or do I need to break out the pity champagne?"

"You're underage," Delaney points out. "But no, you don't need to do that."

Kyler's face looks positively radiant as he says, "Yes! We'll need you to come in after school. Your column will be weekly, but you get free control over it. If we need you for anything else, we'll tell you but for now, enjoy your writing, Laney."

"Duh-laney," she reminds him.

Kyler replies regardless, "Thanks, Laney."

Delaney grumbles something about already regretting this — but she's already on her way to being more lively than ever. She gets up to leave, punching Kyler's shoulder on the way out. However, he anticipates this and dodges out of the way smirking, "Violence is not appreciated in the workplace."

Kyler watches Delaney flip him off, then disappear out the door. "Thanks for convincing her, Sophie."

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬

When I walk into school the next morning, I happen to notice the newspaper racks for the first time.

Or rather, I notice how most of them are empty, despite being sure Kyler stocked them up with new editions of the Chronicle just yesterday, after school. Dare I admit it, the only reason I haven't completely ignored the newspaper racks is that I've been introduced to Kyler and his undying passion for the Chronicle.

I really don't know why people have suddenly jumped on the newspaper bandwagon, since only two days ago, in the eyes of Carsonville High students, the Chronicle was worth less than toilet paper. Because, at least toilet paper can be used, right?

Maybe someone found Delaney's writing impossible to ignore, and word spread. Though, I only know of a handful of people who've read Delaney's column, all of whom I know personally.

I glimpse Brittany and Madison leaning against the lockers when I pass them in the hallway, holding my breath and anticipating one of them to lash out at me. With every copy of the Chronicle gone — meaning people have read Delaney's scathing article about the Monarchy — well, she must be aware of an uprising. Except, peachy-cheeked and gracefully held, Brittany looks as calm and innocent as ever, even if she is neither underneath the facade.

I notice one of the more popular senior boys whispering something into Brittany's ear, before he lofts down the hallway. Was that simply flirting or something more sinister? From the vaguely thankful smirk in the direction of the boy and the fact that she retrieves her phone and starts typing rapidly, I think the latter. I try not to jump to conclusions but can't help feeling unsettled.

Being around Brittany feels like the edge of a knife running down the back of my neck, feather-light but omnipresent. It doesn't hurt, but it's a warning. Move the wrong way and I'll get cut. The odd sensation continues through all my classes, lunch period, and beyond.

"Wyn!" I'm rushing out of class, in an attempt to catch her before she darts around the corridor. After she turns around, I release a relieved sigh and draw out the keys for the press room. "Thanks for lending them to me."

"No problem," she murmurs, pocketing them swiftly. "See you later."

As I make my way out of school, I happily count the donation boxes fixed next to the newspaper racks. There's not much in them, only a few notes and coins, but better than nothing. A boy with a familiar half-shaved hairstyle is huddled around the next donation box I pass, and I immediately walk up to him with growing intrigue. The boxes only release the locking mechanism if the correct change is deposited, spitting out one newspaper for every payment.

"Kyler. What are you doing?"

His hand gestures me closer, then he murmurs quietly, "The newspaper is kicking off."

"Yeah, I know." Then, noticing how cautious he looks, I ask, "Isn't that a good thing?

"If Brittany sees the money, and realises we're profiting again, she'll try to shut us down as she did before. She's left us alone so far because she doesn't think we're a threat."

"Oh."

"Come here, I need your help for something."

Kyler glances around and repositions us so that we're facing the wall more than the people. "We just need to get all the donations before any of the Monarchy sees. Because then, Brittany will definitely hear about it."

I shrug my shoulders. I have nowhere to be until Luke finishes soccer two hours from now, so I readily decide to help out. Moving swiftly, Kyler uses his key to unlock the side of the donation box, and after pulling out a worn canvas sack, sweeps all the money into it. The whole matter is over in mere seconds. Kyler lets the sack drop into my hands, the material smooth and worn on my palm. "Here. You're bag holder."

Kyler rises from his kneeled position, gesturing for me to follow as he marches toward the next donation box. We're working our way further away from the entrance. Along the way, Kyler tells me how the editorial team used to print five hundred copies a week, but now, the number has dwindled to less than one hundred.

"Most of our resources have been cut off so the arrangement with the photography kids is really quite convenient because we can share funds and equipment. Wyn and the other students take all the photos we need. Sometimes, if we're especially struggling, some kids from the photography club will manage the graphics of the newspaper; layout, article design, images, and such."

After all traces of the Chronicle's newfound success have been erased from the school, Kyler and I head back to the print room. The door is open, and Wyn is sitting atop a wooden bench littered with cut-outs of people, places, and food. She raises her eyebrows warmly when she sees me again, not an hour after I handed the print room key back to her after the last period ended. Delaney is on a swivel chair again but this time, she is typing on a desktop, her fingers moving almost as quickly as her tongue does.

Wyn looks back to the scissors and paper in her hands. "Hey. Did you get all of it?"

"Yeah, thanks to Sophie for helping," Kyler replies; where helping is just me obediently trailing after him with a canvas sack in my hand. He says it with such gratitude as if I've actually contributed to the newspaper — which I feel entirely undeserving of.

"Good," she murmurs, "I was scared when you didn't get back in the first twenty minutes."

"Delaney, how's your piece going?" Kyler nods in her direction.

Delaney answers, without stopping her typing or looking up from the screen, "It's not me ranting angrily if that's what you're asking." Kyler rolls his eyes. "I saw that."

I walk over to the bench where Wyn is sitting, one leg under her and the other swinging freely. Using my money bag, I clear away some space among the pictures and start counting it out into a tin box, which Kyler gave me upon our arrival.

"How much did we make?"

"Eight, nine, nine-twenty-five..." I mumble under my breath, "One hundred and eighty-nine dollars, twenty-five cents."

Everyone pauses what they're doing. Even Delaney, whose fingers stop moving so suddenly, it's like the whole room is suddenly muted and paused. "Really?" Kyler asks, his mouth stammering silently.

"How much do you usually make in a week?"

Delaney turns to me and holds up her hand, bent into a circle. Zero, she mouths. Oh. That explains a lot.

"We made a profit! Yes!" Kyler screams.

The shock on Wyn and Delaney's faces slowly thaws, breaking into clear smiles like a freshly-cleaned mirror. Soon enough, they join in the celebration, cheering and hugging and jumping on each other. It warms my heart to see how happy this makes them. 

Because if I was unsure about Kyler's demands of her before, this has made me believe Delaney definitely made the right choice to join the newspaper.