"DO YOU THINK IF ALL of the candidates are equally shitty, I can pick none of them?" Delaney groans, shuffling application essays in her hands.

Since the Debate Club's victory at the regional championship competition two weeks ago, Delaney's prominence as the President has skyrocketed. Well, I'd call it prominence — she'd call it responsibilities and then mime a retch. The position initially struck me as very esteemed, one that comes with a lot of glory. But as I watch Delaney tear more of her hair out with each grammatical error and logical flaw, it becomes less and less appealing.

She had to speak in front of the whole student body at last week's assembly, and now Mr. Williams has called on her for another task. Every other member of the Debate Club wanting to rejoin usually applies with the newcomers next year, but those vying for the Presidency — once Delaney ends her three-year reign — have to express interest now.

It's only a five-hundred word short essay about why they believe they're the best pick. Mr. Williams, the Debate Club teacher chaperone, files them for next year, but he asks for Delaney's pick of the candidates before she graduates and leaves Carsonville for, hopefully, Chicago. Her voice is pitchy with emotion as she rants, "I suppose it's my fault. I do set high standards."

Callum scoffs beside us, lifting his head from his laptop. "You really love yourself, don't you?"

"Of course. Better than being you, with—"

"Well, it's good to have high standards but maybe not so early on in the selection process," I reason, interrupting a brewing quarrel. I swear Delaney will pick a fight with anyone. "Maybe you just need to take a break from scrutinising their mistakes. And actually try to look for some skill in their applications. And think about what you know about them. You seem a bit... harsh."

"Of course I'm being harsh on them! Do you know how much pressure it takes to turn dust into superstars? I need to light a fire under their asses strong enough to last the summer."

"See? It's not that hard to use metaphors that are actually scientifically possible," Callum quips, referencing the whole coal-into-blades metaphor. "Although, with the timeframe you have, you aren't getting superstars or fires this year. Just chill out."

Scowling in frustration, Delaney resumes reading the essays. "I swear each time I read these, my standards get lower. If I do that enough times, then someone has to be good enough."

It's quite amusing to watch Delaney panic, since nothing usually bothers her. Deep down, she clearly has a hard time letting go of the dynasty she spent three years building, slaving away for, defending it from Brittany's destructive clutches, loving and nurturing. Of course no-one seems good enough to do what she did; next to no-one could do what she did.

Callum and I would have enjoyed the moment longer, if the demands of AP English weren't calling us. I accepted my offer to Halston University, along with Callum, Quentin, and Riley, but I'm still undeclared in terms of my major.

Now that the rest of my life is practically knocking at the door, and I'm not prepared to welcome it in, I can see why Delaney is stressing out. She has one chance to leave high school with a bang, to leave her mark.

When Callum and I walk into Music, Mr. Quesnel is setting up a documentary on the Baroque era. As usual, finding the teaching method with the lowest energy cost. One of our final assessments, which I am dreading, is a written essay on the differences between Renaissance and Baroque music.

We've spent weeks doing written work and watching documentaries. For young musicians sitting in a room filled with instruments, the idea of sitting idly, watching people play and not being able to play myself sounds, frankly, painful. I just want to run over the piano and jam with the Unofficials.

Instead, as majestic opening music fills my ears, I settle into an irritable slouch, heavy head propped up on my elbows. Might as well lower the standards I had set for a good day.

Somewhere around where the narrator starts explaining why woodwinds are called woodwinds even though saxophones and flutes are made of metal, Derek moves closer, whispering to me under the teacher's hearing range. "This is so boring."

I'm surprised by the progress I've made with him.

The Monarch I have always been on the warmest terms with was Terrence, but Derek seems to be steadily catching up. I theorise that he's been so starved of genuine connection as Carsonville's resident hell-raiser that he will take the first opportunity that comes his way, even if he doesn't consciously know it. For me, it is the only explanation for his rapid personality switch.

How did he even manage to hide this light-hearted side of him? It's all I've been seeing of him lately, and after the stony facade he's held the whole year, a welcome if not unsettling change. I whisper back, "Not everyone is as prodigious as you are. I don't want a bad mark on my essay. Or the final exam." Even though that's two months away.

"That's not going to happen. You can study as much as you want, but I bet you, you'll be a nervous wreck once exams come around. As geeks are." My teeth tear at the insides of my cheeks. Derek is right, but all he is doing is making me even more anxious about my AP exams, choosing a major, leaving Carsonville so soon after arriving, losing touch with my newfound friends, and life in general.

He's making me anxious about everything with those smooth black eyes.

Despite my efforts to get him to trust me, I haven't learnt anything more with him by my side than I did watching him from across a sea of cafeteria tables and students. Combine Derek's guardedness with his unnerving demeanour, maybe that's why he had no friends outside of the Monarchy.

You know, if you ignore the leading theory about Brittany being a manipulating control freak who doesn't let her friends interact with others for fear of betrayal.

Derek misreads my silence for upset, and softens his voice into a tone of warmth, and comfort. "But you'll do fine. Don't worry."

"I'm not worrying about that." My eyes skim the darkened room, to see if anyone is listening in.

"What then?"

Obviously, I'm not going to tell him that I'm actually worrying about how I might not be able to wrestle any information out of him because he is too closed-off, so I fasten a hasty lie, and shoot it through my lips with an honest-sounding groan of exasperation. "College options. No idea what the rest of my life is going to be like."

"We're in the same sinking boat, then."

"Really? I thought you were going to do music after high school." After high school really means after the Monarchy is not around to stop you.

Derek clears his throat uncomfortably. "I'm not sure what I want to do yet." Now, a good friend would have left the conversation there, when resistance to talk about it pops up. But, it pains me to say, my intentions are not good for Derek. Am I really even his friend? "Are you only holding back from doing the things you truly want because of Brittany? Tell me the truth, please."

Silence. I try again, "Why don't you just leave if you want to?"

"Why would you think I want to leave? Fame has been good to me," Derek mumbles robotically.

"Anyone would assume that if you wanted to stay, Brittany wouldn't have to blackmail you. You can trust me."

Like he is listening to the devil on his shoulder, Derek sighs and turns to me with eyes a shade darker than before. "You're sure about that?"

"Yes." I knew that would be my answer because it's the only I can provide. But I didn't expect the flood of warm, thrumming conviction that pools in my stomach. Honestly, I expected guilt for lying. Except...

It doesn't feel like I'm lying. Derek can trust me. And I hope I can trust him, too.

"It's more than holding back. Brittany finds a soft spot of your heart, and then she grabs onto it and never lets go. She'll blackmail us with anything that we want to protect. The thing I want to protect won't disappear when I graduate."

"Which is?"

"The school I teach at; their music department relies a lot on donations. At least, bringing itinerary tutors in for the kids instead of requiring them to be taught externally does. I need that job to support my family. And my kids need me. I know a lot of those kids' families couldn't afford a private tutor outside of school. Right now, more than half of their funds come from the Stansons' bank account." That takes me by surprise. "If she withdraws her donations, then the school will have to fire some tutors to cut down on money, if not cut the music department completely. And if that happens, the least qualified will be the first to go."

"I can't let that happen, Sophie. I love playing music so much, and the kids are so great. It's a lifeline — financial, and otherwise. It's my escape from all the other bullshit in my life. I don't want to leave that."

If Derek leaves her, she will withdraw her money from the school and he will lose his job by being fired to keep the department running. "Wow. All of a sudden, I really regret telling you that. Holy crap, did I just— I mean, it's nothing personal, but— promise you won't tell anyone?"

"I promise." I really do.

"Then that's enough whining from me." I don't think it's whining. Derek has a right to be upset about blackmail and bullying, considering I got so upset about it that I started a revolution. "Let's just watch the documentary."

Our covert conversation killed only a few minutes of the documentary. I wouldn't have minded thirty minutes bleeding by while we talked, but I'll take the five. Just knowing his secret gives me hope. Hope for the other three, hope that the Monarchy can come to an end by graduation, hope that everyone I've met this year will be free.

His admission is one of four pieces that I have to collect, and then, everything will be so easy for us. I briefly acknowledge the chance that Derek is out-lying me, and just feeding me more of Brittany's stories. But then again, I met two of his students — Amish and Nella. The receptionist at the elementary school knew him. And I saw him play myself. There are limits to how paranoid I can be, and while I've previously done a brilliant job in testing those limits, for once, I believe Derek.

The light from the documentary is reflected in Derek's dark eyes, making them look like little stars. He looks so different from the angst-filled, bitter teenager who ran off with my bra on his motorcycle. Seeing this brighter version of him makes me decide that being bad never suited Derek.

He looks much better when he's good. Honest, caring and vulnerable.

Subtly, Derek curves his lips into a smile — I can just catch it in the darkness — like I just gave him a precious gift.

As if it wasn't the other way around.