Freshman year elections in uni were nothing like the high school years before: I was a unknown among the candidates, the lone freshman. Refusing to be daunted, I stubbornly pursued the top position to the chagrin of my competitors.

"Stella, you're amazing and anyone would be lucky to know enough to vote you as prez," Warren had told me one day after the board meeting," but not many people know enough to recognize you. Only about half of the junior class knows your face, max."

"I'm sorry I'm not memorable enough for the other half," I apologized jokingly, knowing that it was true. However, I had connections through my friends, and the clique was quickly integrating itself into university circles.

"You are memorable," Warren corrected, smiling sadly. "So memorable that sometimes I think you--and only you--could pull something like this off."

And he was right. Less than a month later there were football jocks and basketball starters who'd wolf-whistle and jeer at me during lunch and groups of girls that would wave at me and break out into whispers as soon as I turned away. Suddenly the position of president was more than in reach--it was practically assured.

"I'd be lucky to get a single vote during the election," one of the other runners had joked during the last meeting the night before the election. We'd all laughed at his comment, but the next day's result shocked us all. Everyone got more than a single vote but then again, people had to have more than one friend to have the courage to run in the first place.

That's where I stop understanding Kimberly--I'm sure she has friends, but is she really memorable enough to get voted in?

---

March passed relatively quickly as finals slowly crept closer. Chad and Stacey made up quickly after Karen's intervention with my help, both swearing to put more effort into their relationship. Quinn and Time had started texting each other, although Quinn's been rather hushed about their relationship.

"Give it some time," Karen had told us one brunch when Quinn had been too absorbed in her phone to hear us. "They'll be dating in no time."

March also marked the start of spring, election season. I hadn't put much thought into Kimberly lately—it was her life—but lo and behold, I received a surprise visitor right after my expository writing class.

"Stella!" Kimberly shouted, waving enthusiastically. "Can I get you hear out my campaign pitch before I start? I wanted to ask in person since it's going to be verbal and all."

"Sure," I responded, impressed that she was so sure despite being new. Did she really think she knew the school well enough to immediately find a campaign pitch?. "Let's hear it."

"I was thinking we need diversity," she started excitedly, eyes gleaming. "Did you know that less than ten percent of our students get financial aid? That's really low compared to other universities. We're like a community for the rich, and that's not right."

To be honest, I almost burst out laughing. Did she really think that our student body wanted diversity in our circles? We'd applied to this institution because we'd wanted to be in a secluded community of the richest names—the top one percent of the world. That we had any scholarships was a surprise, and it struck me that Kimberly had to be among them.

"Kimberly," I started slowly, thinking carefully about my word choice. "I don't think many students would agree that our school needs more... 'diversity.'"

"Why not?" she asked, confused. "College is about preparing ourselves for the world—this school isn't really representing that very well."

How wrong she was—this was our world. Our families were the cream of the crop, and the connections we made would be the only connections we'd need in the future. Yes we'd perhaps miss a few individuals that rose here and there out of the ninety-nine percent, but it would be their job to seek out the established one percent.

"I suggest that you change your pitch," I said flatly, deciding that a direct approach would be best. "It's not very realistic and, to be honest, I think it's not well thought-out."

A flash of hurt shot across Kimberly's features, but she composed herself quickly.

"Thanks for your opinion," she said, taking her leave. "I really appreciate you taking the time to hear me out."

"No problem," I said, getting up as well. "Good luck with your campaign—don't hesitate to ask for anything!"

How empty those words were. That flash of hurt told me all I needed to know about how much she appreciated my time. I could only hope that—for her sake—that stab at her confidence would make her change her mind. It would be idiotic not to—she'd asked me for advice, and I'd given it.

She'd do well to listen.

---

The doorbell rang just as I was about to start writing my thesis onto a piece of scratch paper, and the thoughts immediately fled my head.

"Damn it!" I groaned in annoyance, trudging to my door and swinging it open. "How can I—Jordan?"

"Heya Stell," Jordan said, grinning sheepishly in his black leather jacket "Bad time?"

"Yes," I responded without missing a beat. "Why're you here? I'm busy."

"I'm taking you to dinner," he said simply, scanning my outfit. "Have you been studying?"

"Finishing an essay for English, but getting to that," I replied, sighing before giving him a stern look. "And no, I'm not available for you to drag around on a whim. Surely you've realized that I'm not one of those girls you can pick up and drop when you please?"

"Of course," he replied, welcoming himself in. "So how long 'til you're done?"

"Three weeks, so get out," I said, holding the door open for the uninvited guest. "And thanks, but I've already eaten."

"It's only five," Jordan noted, checking his watch. Plopping down on my couch, he crossed his feet on the coffee table. "How long does it take you to change?"

"Out, Brooks," I repeated exasperatedly, door still open. "I'm not going to waste time going out for dinner today—snacks are enough."

"Snacking does not a dinner make," he replied playfully, standing and walking towards me. "When will you be done?"

"At this rate? Never," I snapped, avoiding his arms and motioning towards the door. "Unlike you, I have to study for my grades."

"Six."

"What?"

"I'll be back at six, so finish up and get changed," Jordan said with finality. Pausing before he closed the door, he met my gaze with amused grey eyes. "By the way, nice pajamas."

"Eeyore is the realistic one of the bunch!" I shouted at the door that emanated chuckles. I opened the door and stuck my head out, intent on making a point. "And the cutest!"

"And grey," Samantha pointed out, staring dreamily at the black-clad biker as he revved up his motorcycle. "What I would do for a guy like that..."

"You can have him," I snarled, slamming the door behind me dramatically as Samantha laughed heartily. I had half a mind to ignore what just happened and call for a lock change and—

Rumbumble

But, my stomach thinks differently.

---

"I cannot believe that I'm letting you do this to me," I said, looking into amused grey eyes as I angrily slid on my flats.

"Believe it," Jordan replied with a smirk, looking appreciatively over my outfit. "Nice flats."

"We've been over this—they're from my mother," I said, locking the door behind me and slipping the key into my purse.

"And I told you—they compliment you," Jordan responded. I blushed, relieved that he was already heading down the stairs. I'd always thought the color grey too mature for me—it was my mother's color when she led business meetings and gave speeches, and it'd never occurred to me that I'd be able to pull off the color as well.

---

"—and then my dad was forced to get me front row tickets to the FIFA World Cup—nice trade, if I do say so myself," Jordan said, grinning. "But then again, it was his fault for doubting my intellectual prowess."

"Jordan, even I have a hard time believing that you could ace all your finals junior year," I said, shaking my head in wonder. "I'm guessing you didn't study much either?"

"Well, to be fair, I did put in a hour or two just to make sure I'd win," Jordan admitted merrily. "Doubting me? I can pull up my report card—or call my dad."

"I believe you," I assured him, smiling as I swirled the wine around my glass absentmindedly. "Your parents seem like amazing people—I'd like to meet them sometime."

"If you let me meet the famous grey-eyed life-lesson-spouter and the esteemed doctor that raised you," Jordan countered.

"We'll see what I can do," I said, smiling. "So, how's senior year? Any big future plans after you get that degree?"

"I'm thinking of taking a year off before setting into med school," Jordan admitted, taking a sip of his wine. "See the world, discover myself, find the girl of my dreams..."

"Sounds like a plan," I laughed, sampling my own glass—sweeter than I expected. "You prepared for med school though? I've heard that it's a real grind, though with your grades getting in wouldn't be a problem."

"I will be, after a year off," Jordan said, eyes averted. "I've already thought it out—general practitioner, specializing in oncology."

"Cancer? Why so specific already?" I asked, surprised.

Jordan looked at me somberly, grey eyes swimming with an emotion I couldn't pin down. Suddenly I felt like I crossed a line—the fine border between simple friendship and something more—but I was too transfixed to take my question back, too lost in those grey pools of feeling.

"My sister, Abigail," he started, and I knew the story, the loss. "Leukemia. We almost hit the one year remission mark, but it all went downhill so fast..."

"Oh Jordan, I'm so sorry," I said guiltily, setting my hand on his comfortingly. What was I thinking? Of course it was tragic—it was cancer!

"It's fine, thanks," Jordan said, and I felt a wave of relief when he didn't clam up and retreat into himself. "It was a long time ago, and I thought I could protect her from anything. I was wrong, but I'm not backing down. I'm going to make my own stand against cancer—if not for me, then for all the others out there that are fighting against this mindless monster."

"That's amazing," I said, tightening my grip on his hand for a moment before letting go. "I'm just a business major because I like it and my mother's well-connected."

"That's a reason too," Jordan said, meeting my gaze with smoky resolve. "Unlike you and Calum, I don't have parents that can pass down a legacy—just some money."

"Who said anything about Calum?" I asked, surprised at the turn in the conversation. "And while we may have companies and titles, you have ambition—raw, unequivocal willpower—and that's amazing in its own right."

"Is it?" Jordan asked, eyes a steely grey. "Is it really enough when all you can see is Calum and I'm not—"

"Jordan!" I hissed, shocked at his sudden burst. "You mean just as much to me as Calum and Quinn—it's just that I've known them longer, jumped over more hurdles with them."

"Is that all?" He asked with a derisive chuckle. "I just have to wait?"

"That's how trust is," I responded simply.

"What about love?"

"What?" I asked, reeling for a moment. Rolling unvoiced thoughts around my mouth, I decided to tell the truth. "Jordan, as attractive and truly kind as you are, you don't need me romantically. You have a slew of girls pining after you—Jordan Brooks, motorcycle-riding womanizer and all that."

Jordan gave me a blank look, eyes wide but flat, before he recovered himself with a lopsided smirk. "Then will you do this womanizer the honor of gracing his bedroom with your presence tonight?"

"Smooth words, but not a chance," I replied, laughing. "You've already hoarded enough of my study time today."

And it was true—almost three hours of the time I'd allotted to finishing my essay and starting on business law—although in my mind I noted that I'd probably take up his offer or go to the club more: Calum was entering a relationship.

---

Author's note:

Hello everyone! How're we holding up?

So chapters may or may not get shorter depending on if I can figure out more flashbacks for the beginnings of the chapter.

How do you all like those? Comment any parts of Stella's life you'd like to hear about! And a vote would be awesome ;)

As always, thanks for reading!

—Littlewhims