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The betting pool for Rosalie Mason and Samuel Griffin was up to $354.56 and climbing by the time senior year kicked off. 

Sami was, perhaps, the single most sought-after fella in their grade, but due to the bets, and the obvious uncertainty about A) his sexuality and B) his relationship status, not many girls (or guys, for that matter) had the guts to say so.

Rosalie saw how people could swing one way or the other if they observed the Mason-Griffin Shenanigans from afar. Rosalie was undecided considering she was raised hand-in-hand with the guy—they even spent their diaper days together. It was hard to look at Sami's face and forget what he looked like in his mother's makeup and a tutu (debatably Rosalie's fault, but she was the only witness).

It was difficult for people to believe that they were only friends, and that if they were just friends, she'd be condemned as an idiot for not taking that chance. Her soccer team gave up long ago trying to badger her into asking about Sami in that sort of way. At the start of freshmen year, the amount of phone numbers she threw in the trash was ridiculous. As if she would encourage their behavior by passing them on to Sami. He was just too nice of a guy to do the throwing-away himself.

Sami didn't contribute much to the conversation of their betting pool, mostly because there were other bets to be concerned about, like the ones he actually contributed to. His avid interest in school gossip was what connected him and Rosalie's co-captain of the soccer team, Ray Hartley, together. His gossiping streak ended at the line involving the bets on the two of them, and started with everything to do with the art department.

Rosalie's mind, on the other hand, had everything to do with soccer as she considered her workout clothes strewn over her bed, and her school uniform beside it.

It was around that time in the morning when Rosalie's ringtone went off. It buzzed from where it sat framed by her cat's twitching tail. Khoshekh flicked his tail at Rosalie as she lifted the phone to see the smiling face on her screen—the one and only Sami Griffin.

"You've got a ride to school, right? Your mom didn't forget? I've been worrying about it all night 'cause I know we talked about it and—" Sami started in a panic as Rosalie switched him to speaker and dropped the phone on the bed beside Khoshekh.

Rosalie scratched the white patch on Khoshekh's otherwise black forehead. The back of her hand was scribbled in black ink—notes to remember her schedule for that day. She used it to tug the pair of navy pants out from beneath Khoshkeh, thoroughly frazzling him in the process. He scurried away, tail flicking furiously as she held them up to her waist and frowned. Despite her reservations about the size, she yanked them up by the belt loops.

"Yeah, I heard my mom go down the hall earlier. I'm sure she remembered," Rosalie reassured him.

"That doesn't sound like you know 100% is a thing that happened and is happening."

"You're being ridiculous. Didn't you say you wanted to sleep in today anyway?" she said, sighing at the sight of her pants. They stopped at her ass, and so she stood in the mirror, arms hanging, pouting at the sight.

"Yeah, but I lost a lot of sleep just being anxious so that's where I'm at right now," he said. "Still in no shape to deal with Whitney, though..."

Rosalie sighed again, with enough gusto to prompt Sami to ask what was wrong.

"I think I did too many squats at camp," she whined, turning around. She twisted her head back to scowl at the obvious sight of her Wonder Woman boy shorts.

"What makes you think that?"

"My pants don't fit anymore," she mumbled, pushing the pants down.

"Your what don't fit?"

She jumped on one foot to yank them off her muscled calves. She screeched as she fell back on her bed, brown curls splaying.

"My pants," she cried, chucking them in the corner with all her other non-athletic pants. "My calves are too big, and my ass is too fat! I have nothing else to wear."

"Well, you better figure it out because Whitney will skin you alive to uncover my deep dark secrets," Sami warned.

"And what might those be?"

"That I've replaced all your organs with the beans they put in stuffed animals." Rosalie threw her hands over her eyes, smile straining against her cheeks. "Just go for a skirt—you can't go wrong with that. It's not the end of the world."

Rosalie sat up from her bed, slumping forward. She lumbered over to the forbidden box in the corner of her closet where her unused school uniforms sat. Most of them were out-dated, or hand-me-downs from relatives who didn't know her size or style. She plucked up a grey, pinstripe skirt and held it up to her waist, only to frown at herself in the mirror.

Distantly, she heard her mom calling from the foyer for her to hurry up. Rosalie shouted, "Five more minutes!" though she knew her mother was likely fretting about getting to the office despite already resigning to being late. Most school days, Rosalie hitched a ride with Sami, but first day of school meant a meeting with the Student Council President, Whitney Vasquez.

"I've gotta go. Text me when you get to school," she said, and hung up a moment later.

Practice. She needed her athletic bag.

She cursed, lunging for it. She threw in her workout clothes, her shoes, and topped it off with her camera waiting to capture the first day of her senior year. She zipped up her backpack and slung it over her shoulders on her way to the kitchen. The house was already empty, all except for the black cat perched by the door, just waiting for an escape. She gave him a scratch on the head and a kiss on his scruffy neck.

"Wish me luck, Khoshekh," she said, but was promptly bombarded by Khoshekh attempting a getaway the instant Rosalie opened the front door. She squeezed past the crack in the screen door, and pulled it shut before Khoshekh could even think to put a paw there to stop it.

Fumbling for her keys, she locked the door and booked it to her mother's car, already out on the street. Her mother gave her an incredulous look, but Rosalie pointed to the time on the dash. A perfect seven o' clock.

"I'm on time," she declared, pride in her smile. Her mother rolled her eyes. "What? Not all of us can be five-minutes-early-all-the-time like you."

Rosalie leaned over to blast the AC and the radio to fill the five mile gap between Maple Grove and Bradshaw. She hadn't thought about being nervous about her first day of senior year until now. It was just so common to worry about this annual endeavor that by senior year, she was numb to it.

There were few things Rosalie's mother sucked at, but the majority of them fell under the category of chitchat. At the front steps of Bradshaw, Rosalie turned to her mother, not quite sure what to expect. Her mother pursed her lips, appearing to be in the same boat as Rosalie.

"Have a... nice day at school," she decided, and Rosalie rolled her eyes.

"Will do. Have fun at work..." she teased back. She slipped out of the passenger's seat as her mother muttered something colorful under her breath.

Rosalie began the hike up the stairs, checking the time on her phone to ensure that she would make it to her meeting with Whitney on time.

Whitney Vasquez, Student Council President—or, more accurately, the bane of Rosalie and Sami's existence—was the sort of person who "didn't like" the betting wars and "refused to participate" due to "certain moral standards" that she felt the rest of the student body should "abide by." Sami was adamant on letting the woman know just how much of a stick in the mud she was whenever he interjected Stud.Co. meetings to badger Rosalie. Really, though, Rosalie was just convinced that Whitney's inability to talk straight around Sami had a little something to do with a crush. Besides, she only ever stuttered around Sami, which meant that she was only able to express her fury directly to Rosalie when Sami wasn't around.

I can't believe I'm power-walking for that bitch, she thought, pumping her arms as she hiked up her athletic bag and tugged her skirt a little lower. She could have sworn the skirt reached her knees two years ago, but alas.

Rosalie jogged up the steps whilst juggling her backpack and soccer duffle. There were already several students waiting out the first bell on the building steps. She recognized Kim Simons sitting patiently on the center statue platform on the stairs. It was a miracle that Rosalie even managed that, considering all she'd seen were pictures from Kim's file in the Coach's office.

"Kim Simons?" she said, raising a meager wave.

Kim perked up, hopping off the ledge. "Hey! Are you...?"

"Soccer Captain. Rosalie Mason," she said, reaching a hand out. Kim accepted the handshake and Rosalie gave it a firm tug despite Kim's noodle arm. "I imagine you're nervous. It's not easy transferring sophomore year."

"Yeah, well, I'm happy to be here—definitely a step up from Stone Ridge. You all have an awesome reputation. I just hope I'm good enough," she said, clutching at the tie on her uniform. "What're you doing here so early?"

"I have a meeting with the Stud.Co. President," Rosalie explained. "I'm probably showing newbies around."

Kim was technically a newbie. Despite having toured Bradshaw plenty of times over the summer, she hadn't met anyone outside of Coach Maguire.

"You should come with me," Rosalie suggested, and hope flared up in Kim, who was smiling before long. "I mean, you probably know this place like the back of your hand, but I can give you some pointers Coach probably didn't."

"Yes! That'd be great. Thank you!" she cried, and hurriedly gathered up her bags. She hitched her duffel under one arm and trudged up the remaining steps beside Rosalie. "Are there really three thousand kids that go here?"

"Yeah. Doesn't look like it right now, huh?" Rosalie said, holding open the door. Her voice carried through the foyer atrium, all decorated in blue and white. The banner that stood front and center over the north academic wing was a broad-shouldered knight on one knee, sword braced before it. The foyer was filled with trophy cases, and she would have paused to look at last year's successes were it not for the fact that Coach likely already did that with Kim. "It'll fill up by seven-thirty. We've got another half hour of calm."

Rosalie checked the back of her left hand as they slowed by the first hall of lockers. She was in the west wing—most of the seniors were—and hesitated when she realized her penmanship smudged overnight. At least it didn't wind up all over my face, she thought as she tried to decode the numbers.

"I think... this is me," she said, and walked up to locker number 354. "Ray's gonna get a kick out of that," she said, pointing to the number.

"What's so funny about it?"

"You'll hear soon enough," she sighed, glancing down the semi-vacant hall. She unlocked the locker and stuffed her bags inside, all except her phone which she stuck into the breast pocket of her blazer.

It buzzed a moment later as she produced a pen from her backpack and slammed her locker door shut. She hesitated to answer it, and instead turned to Kim. "If you ever need anything, you can find me here, or text me, or slip a note in my locker. Alright?"

"Okay. Will do," she promised. She lifted her hand up, and Rosalie did the honors of marking her number on the inside of Kim's wrist.

Someone's throat cleared nearby, and Rosalie looked up over Kim's curly black bun to find Whitney raising one perfectly manicured eyebrow at her. Rosalie straightened as if confronted by a military officer.

"Whitney! How was your summer?"

"It was fine," she huffed, and Rosalie had the good sense the grimace. "If people put all their betting money towards raising funds for Stud.Co... I'd definitely be happier."

"I know. I heard," Rosalie said, still grimacing as if in pain. "I swear I had nothing to do with the—"

"Of course you did. The bet's about you, isn't it?"

"Technically it's about Sami—"

"It's basically all the same, isn't it!" she cried, flinging her hands up. She pinched the bridge of her nose. "And then there's people betting on you taking my place as President."

"I know I—Wait, what? No, no, no, I'm not even putting my name on the ballet," she insisted, heart stuttering. Who even thought she was capable of running the student body? The same one that bet that Dylan Cox could punt a football and dislodge Principle O'Gallagher's toupee with it! She could barely handle the soccer team and their shenanigans—

Wait.

"Are you sure it's me that they're betting on? What about prom queen?" Rosalie offered, aware that Kim was now looking frantically between them in confusion.

Whitney huffed, crossing her arms in annoyance. "Same thing, right?"

"What? No, I wasn't prom queen. It was that other girl—I forget her name."

"Rose Jason?"

"Yes! Yeah, that chick!" she cried, snapping her fingers. "Unfortunate coincidence. Not me at all. Rosalie Mason, Rose Jason—you see the difference." The amount of times Rosalie had to correct that little misnomer was sorely the fault of both their names being far too basic to be attending a school of three thousand students. "Rose" encompassed an insane percentage of the student body. So much for having a title meant to be independent from every other uniformed high school student.

"Still! That means people are trying to vote me out of Stud.Co.!" Whitney went on whining. She leant her head against the lockers and slumped. "What will I do with all my time..."

"You're thinking too far ahead," Rosalie insisted. She looked wide-eyed at Kim, who was just as lost as Rosalie. Hesitantly, she gave Whitney an awkward pat on the shoulder. "I'll vote for you again this year."

"Will you?" she sniffed. "Even though you know I hate you?"

"I mean, sure. Not everyone can be unbiased," Rosalie offered, and that cheered her up to a degree. Whitney pat her cheeks with the back of her hands and gave a reassuring sigh. "So... meeting over?"

Whitney blinked in surprise. "Of course not. That wasn't even the meeting. There's a new transfer student waiting for you in the office."

Whitney fixed her hair up and walked off, leaving Rosalie and Kim to recover in her wake. Whitney's heels clicked all the way down the hall, announcing their arrival long before they even reached the doors to the Stud.Co. office.

Rosalie wasn't exactly an avid Student Council advocate, but it helped keep her on better terms with some of her teachers, and on better terms with her college applications. After three years of this, she was starting to get sick of seeing the inside of that godawful office.

It was strewn with posters from past theatre plays, Christmas lights, and far, far too many trinkets from events past. The sheer amount of clutter sent Rosalie's anxiety skyrocketing. How could they keep the place in such a disarray? How did they find anything in here? Even as she walked in, she straightened a stack of papers on a filing cabinet just beside the door, and pushed away someone's backpack from the entrance. Whitney strode in without a care while Rosalie contemplated how the place could have gotten messier over the break.

It took a moment for her to even process the fourth individual in the room, sat backwards in Arthur Hendrix's chair. The sheer amount of shit and color in the room nearly drowned out this girl's fiery red hair. But, of course, it was a little hard to miss it, or the fact that she looked like she'd just stepped out of a punk rock magazine full of musicians and artists.

Whitney gave a sweep of her hands in the stranger's direction. The girl stood up as Whitney said, bored, "Joanna Spencer, meet the esteemed Rosalie Mason."

n/a: I made some edits here and there :)