Sweet Romance13 min read
They wrote her into the lights — I kept score anyway
ButterPicks11 views
I have been asking the same small question for eighteen years: why does the world tilt whenever Gracelyn Rice walks into it?
"Why are you frowning?" Isla Riley whispered, leaning over my notebook.
"I'm not frowning," I said. "I'm counting."
"Counting what?"
"The ways the world moves for her." I tapped a margin where I'd scribbled the day's tally. "The bus, the teacher's eye, the extra chance—it's all the same pattern."
Isla looked at me like I had two heads. "You sound like you're reading a mystery."
"It feels like one." I closed the notebook. "Like the author wrote an extra wind for her when she walked through the school gate."
"Since when do you believe in authors?" Isla tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're the math person, Silvia. Not the dramatic one."
"I used to be the practical one," I said. "But watching things—I'm telling you, Isla—things keep happening that make everything easier for Gracelyn."
"Gracelyn?" She smiled in that sincere way that made her lips crease. "She doesn't mean harm. She just... has luck."
"Luck that eats other people's efforts." I set my pencil down because my hands wanted to be doing a thousand other things. "Like this test. Watch."
"Quiet!" Mr. Gabriel Smith banged a stack of papers onto the lectern, and the class was a quick, obedient ocean. "This is senior year! Do you think you can get to college by yelling and guessing?"
"You were on a roll, teacher," Elden Kelly muttered, rolling his eyes. The class snickered—Elden always had something to say. He loved to say it loud.
"Class, who wants to collect the exams?" Mr. Smith barked.
I stood because he looked in my direction. "I'll do it," I said.
"Silvia," he said with a tired smile. "You always know the steps. Come up and explain the last problem."
I went, because the routine was smaller than the noise. I broke a hard problem down into steps the class could follow. I had learned to do this: take complexity and make it simple. It had always been how I paid attention to the world. People liked clean steps; it made them breathe easier.
When I sat down, Elden was smirking. "How does she do it?" he murmured to the boy next to him.
"Practice," I heard the boy reply. "She's always practicing."
Mr. Smith clapped his hands and then said, offhanded, "By the way, the school has one guaranteed nomination for A University. If anyone's interested, talk to me after class. Silvia, Elijah, both of you, stay behind."
Elijah Karlsson slept at his desk with his chin on his hands. He always slept through lectures and still kept the top marks. He does not look like a person who worries about doors. He looks like someone the doors open for because they can't help it. He woke up at the mention of A University and blinked at us like someone who forgot a dream but liked the taste.
"Miss Rice? Miss Moller?" Mr. Smith asked.
"Yes," I said.
Elijah yawned and sat straighter. "I'll come talk," he said lazily.
After class, Mr. Smith took us into his office. "This nomination is usually a test of more than grades," he said. "There are other aspects—activities, letters of recommendation. But I want you two to consider it."
Gracelyn's voice squeaked when she walked in—a voice like a music box. "I want to try," she said fast. "But I don't think my grades are—"
"Don't underestimate yourself," Elijah said, and looked at her like he'd just lent her a small star to hold. She flushed and blinked and decided to try.
"You'll both have a one-month test supervised by me," Mr. Smith said. "Show improvement. If both of you get full marks on my test, we'll decide."
I didn't like how my teeth tightened. The composition of fairness in my head squinted at that plan. "If the goal is to measure growth," I heard myself say, "then let's test a month from now. No luck, no favors."
"Silvia," Gracelyn said, a little breathless. "I'm sorry if you think I took the birthday party last week—"
"You didn't invite me," Isla said, and Gracelyn's smile froze. "It's okay. We didn't mind."
Gracelyn blinked and said, "Oh, I thought I had—"
"You thought," Elden interrupted with a laugh. "You always think your luck will fix the guest list."
"Stop," I snapped. "We're here to take a fair test."
We went through the month. Gracelyn had someone tutoring her—Elijah offered because he liked to shift gravity. He came in like a warm wind, knocked aside questions with a shrug and presence, and somehow her answers grew like a plant that had been starving and found water.
I worked. I did problems. I wrote out steps and practiced late until my writings blurred. I taught little kids twice a week for money and used all of my spare hours to solve harder variants. One week I taught Katrina Bowling—she was loud and had a punk haircut and a claim to being unteachable. She tried to push me out the door the first day.
"What, you think you're better than me?" Katrina spat when I knocked and came in with a stack of problems.
"I'm here to help," I said softly, and she said, "You don't scare me," and then she couldn't hide the gap in her algebra.
By the end of our first day, she had hugged me once and called me "weird" twice. I walked home with pennies in my pocket and the tired kind of small happiness that comes from being useful.
On the test day, Mr. Smith presented two papers, and both had full marks. He held them like a problem he couldn't solve. "What do we do?" he asked the class.
"Elden said tryouts," somebody said. "Maybe Gracelyn worked hard."
"She had coaching," Elden muttered. "It isn't fair."
"Isn't life like that?" Isla whispered to me. "Sometimes hard work meets help."
When Mr. Smith read the results, the room formed a small mob of advice and opinions. Gracelyn had fans—students who liked her, who had been given cookies by her at tables, who liked her smile. They all stood and said she deserved the spot. Elijah, who had pulled himself out of nap mode, kept his face calm like the sea.
I sat down. "If fairness means measuring the best overall result, then both of us qualify," I told the class. "If fairness means who needs it most, that's not mine to decide."
Elden rolled his eyes. "She always makes everything sound noble," he said. "Typical."
"I will not ask anyone to kneel before luck," I said, "but luck should not erase effort."
They voted. Gracelyn received a flood of support. I got a quiet nod from those who had actually seen my notes. Mr. Smith looked torn. The school finally called A University and said, "We can increase the number to two." The world gave her extra space, as if the story had grown to fit both of us.
"See?" Gracelyn breathed when the announcement came. "I told you sometimes things work out."
I watched the clapping around her, the way hands reached for selfies, the way people pushed forward to touch her coat like a charm. I let the applause pass over me like wind.
"I don't want a charity spot," I told Mr. Smith later. "I'll take exams, I'll work. I will not ride on a margin of luck."
"You already won a place," he said. "You can take a break if you need."
I thought about taking the job Mr. Smith offered: three hours every Saturday tutoring a girl named Katrina who hated algebra, so her brother Callen Danielsson—he was polite, with an old-fashioned seriousness—could have help. He met me at his house at three and poured an orange juice.
"You can do this?" he asked after I'd explained my plan.
"I can," I said.
The first time I met Katrina, she sneered, "What, another model student? You're so soft."
"I'm not soft," I said. "I'm stubborn."
"That is worse," she said, and locked me out. She opened the door later on purpose, like she was testing me. After three hours, she said, "Okay. Whatever. You can stay."
Callen watched us with the kind of guarded smile that slowly becomes trust. As I taught Katrina, I studied her mistakes like a puzzle to be unfastened. Sometimes she stormed in with music blasting and a stare that said, You will not change me. Other times she left the room and then knocked five minutes later with a page full of corrections. People beget change slowly, and I learned to be patient.
Then the big contest came: the national math team, which billed itself as a team and, cruelly, diluted a top individual's glory into group ranking. Our team of five was loaded with pressure. I trained like a machine because my school ranking depended on those combined numbers.
We left the day before, the bus moving smoothly until—"Sir, traffic ahead is stopped," the driver muttered. A three-lane jam. Mr. Smith panicked and called the logistics man. The bus idled. Twenty minutes later, a motorcycle appeared outside the bus window—Elijah's face under a helmet. Gracelyn leaned out with a squeal.
"Elijah!" she shouted. "You saved the day!"
He shrugged. "Come on, get down. I can take you."
She hopped down like a bird. The driver said, "I'll wait here." She looked back as if to say, Are you coming? The bus went on. I stood on the side and told myself not to run; the city's pulse felt like it was pulling at some invisible script.
"I can run," I said when I decided not to get on the waiting bus.
"Run six kilometers? You can't," someone from the team said.
"I can," I said. "I will be fine."
Two teammates stayed on the bus. "We should stay," they said. "Traffic will clear."
"I'll run," I said. I ran because I did not want my work to be stolen by coincidence. I ran because sometimes effort had to be louder than the world's favoritism.
Halfway there, a bicycle loomed out of nowhere. I didn't have time to dodge. I hit the pavement hard. My knees exploded in pain and my right hand—my writing hand—was crushed under a steel wheel.
I tasted copper and smelled dust. Someone grabbed my backpack. "Silvia! Silvia! Are you okay?" a voice called.
I pulled myself up because the test would start soon. I dusted blood off my palms and walked like someone pretending they were fine. A teacher at the exam site looked at me—my jeans glued to my wounds—and said, "You shouldn't enter. Go to the hospital."
"Then I will forfeit," I heard myself say.
"Please," he said. "It's only twenty minutes after official time."
I walked in anyway. "I will take the paper," I said hoarsely, and the proctor let me. I sat down in the room and tried to write. My right hand convulsed at the sight of the pencil. It wouldn't hold. My left hand trembled around the pen like a clumsy bird, and I had to coax my answers out of the ink. I wrote quickly, skipping steps. I sacrificed beauty for clarity, clear answers over the delicate choreography of proofs.
Halfway through, the pain became easier to ignore because I was busy, because thinking raced faster than my left hand could translate. I turned the questions in like a person who had stolen time.
After the exam they saw my hands and braided bandages and the way I walked. Gracelyn's people—there were many—kept asking whether I was alright, but their glances landed on her like sunlight.
I went to the hospital alone. Callen sat with me in the waiting room because he said it was the right thing to do for the person tutoring his sister. "You pushed yourself too hard," he said. "Why didn't you let the bus go?"
"Because I wanted to show that I can," I said. "I wanted to show that effort isn't erased."
He listened like a man who had seen both luck and labor. When I left the hospital he drove me to the train. He insisted on paying for the extra stitches and then refused payment for the week I'd tutored Katrina.
People talked. Elden—who had been loud about me—started to post snide comments. He used humor like a dull blade. "Typical," he'd type. "She'll turn injuries into honor."
A week later at school, a rumor leaked: someone said I had cheated on the test by bringing notes. It spread because Elden laughed loudly and because people who wanted easy stories repeated it.
"Did you do this?" I asked him in the empty math room after class. The fluorescent lights hummed.
"What?" He looked up like a man surprised that speech required sound. "Do what?"
"Start a rumor," I said.
He shrugged. "Everyone loves a story. You showed up late, hurt, miraculous left-hand writing—people make plots."
"You started it," I said. "I can prove I didn't cheat. Why do this?"
"Why not?" He smiled like a boy. "It's funny. The class gets to be dramatic."
"This is about people's lives," I said. "You know that, Elden."
He laughed and threw a paper at the board. "You can't be the only tragedy the class applauds." He spoke sharp and low so anyone passing by could pretend not to hear.
That night I made a choice. The rumor could be a pin on a bulletin board that slowly deflates me behind my back, or it could be a leak I plug where others could see. I would not let a rumor be the final word.
At the morning assembly I asked Mr. Smith if I could speak. "Assembly?" he said. "What for?"
"For a clarification," I said. "And to ask for a small fairness."
They led me to the stage. The gym smelled like polished wood and sweat and old noise. Students filled the bleachers and leaned forward because assembly was where stories changed faces.
I looked down at Elden sitting somewhere near the front. He was already smirking, certain of the crowd.
"I want to tell you what I know," I said, and my voice surprisingly carried. "Not to make pity, but because the truth matters here."
"You want attention," Elden called.
"Attention that names the facts," I said. "When the rumor started, someone posted a photo of a torn examination paper on a social feed. The angle selectively showed handwriting similar to mine. The problem is this: the lighting, the zoom, and the timing were altered."
He stood up, and the gym rustled. "You can't—"
"I can," I said. "Because I kept records. When tests were handed back, I photographed my paper. I have the time-stamped files, the left-to-right stroke order, and the original scan of the paper before it was cropped. I also have witnesses: Mr. Smith, who saw me run into the exam room and recorded my late arrival; the proctor, who signed the log; and Callen Danielsson, who can attest I was bandaged from the injury and left-handed for the exam."
Mr. Smith blinked. Callen, standing in the front row because he said he wanted to see, raised his hand and said, "I can confirm."
Elijah stood and simply said, "I saw her run. She looked like someone who had fought the city and won."
The bleachers went quiet. Elden's smile thinned into a line.
"Who else knows?" I asked.
"People who love a tale," Elden muttered.
"Then let's test the tale. Elden, you posted that photo with a caption about cheating. Do you admit you posted it?" I asked.
He looked at the crowd and then at me. "Yes. I thought it'd be funny."
"Did you alter it?" I asked.
"No," he said, and that was the first small lie.
I pulled out my phone and played a small clip. It was from a teacher's handheld camera—time-stamped the day of the exam. The clip showed me arrive, disheveled, holding my bandaged hand, asked politely to enter, and seated. It showed the proctor record my late entrance. It showed the point where I took the paper and wrote with my left hand. The clip was quiet and honest.
The bleachers started murmuring.
"Then why did you post that cropped photo?" I asked Elden. "Why remove the context and let the feed say I cheated?"
He shifted like he had been splashed cold water. "It got clicks," he said. "Everybody talks."
"Is that worth hurting someone?" I asked.
"I'm sorry if it looked like that," he said, but his voice sounded small. The room sensed it. He had made the rumor because it amused him, because he liked the tiny spike of being the cause.
I held my phone up so everyone could see the original image—uncropped, with my name and the proctor's signature in the corner. "If you have to laugh at people's mistakes, laugh at something less destructive," I said. "We are behind each other; stories can build or burn."
A girl in the second row shouted, "He’s always been mean about you!" Another student, who had posted the cropped image, put his head down.
Elden's face changed. He started with a flush that said he was caught. Then the flush become denial. "That's not fair!" he shouted. "She can't act like she's above us."
"You're the one who posted," I said. "You started it."
"Okay, fine," he said. "I posted it. So what?"
"So," I said, "you will stand here, tell everyone you posted a cropped photo that made an accusation, apologize, and take responsibility. You will also retract the post publicly and offer to help me run one of the free math clinics I organize—so your actions repair, not just hurt."
He laughed once, a thin laugh. "You want me to do that on stage?"
"Yes," I said.
He surprised everyone. He stood up straighter and swallowed. "Fine," he said. "I'm sorry I posted the picture."
"You will tell why," I said. "Own the reason."
He turned to the crowd. "I did it because it's easier to laugh at someone else's drama than to look at my own jokes. I'm sorry. I didn't think how much it could hurt."
The gym hummed with the sound of students rewiring what they had thought. Some clapped softly. Others looked away. Elden's gestures lost their bravado and took on the stiffness of someone learning to be honest in public.
"Now publicly retract the post," I said.
He fumbled with his phone, hands shaking, and deleted. Then he posted a message that read: "I posted a cropped image that implicated Silvia in cheating. That was wrong. I apologize publicly. I will help run the math clinic and post all my steps publicly so this kind of rumor can't spread from me again."
It was more than empty words. He had to sit later with the girl's math team and listen to what it takes to teach a kid like Katrina. He had to explain, in front of others, why he did it. He had to watch the class shift from mocking to curious. The punishment wasn't a private humiliation; it was public work and owning a mistake in a place that mattered—where most people could see.
The gym emptied slower that day, and the crowd had a different weight when it left. Elden's face was pale. He stayed after them, to help clean up, to sign up for the clinic, to apologize to people he'd hurt.
"That was brave," Isla said when we walked out together.
"It was necessary," I said. "If a lie spreads in a cafeteria, it grows roots where we sit."
We went back to our lives: the national contest returned the papers. My left-hand writing had given me a decent placement; I had not gotten the single brightest crown I wanted, but I had shown up and that mattered in the ledger of my life. Gracelyn did well too—she had the sun at her back and a talent polished by help. Elijah went back to his sleepy ways with new letters arriving in his mailbox from universities.
Weeks later, at the small community clinic I organized, Elden showed up, begrudgingly and then more willingly. He sat next to Katrina one quiet Saturday and helped her with fractions. He apologized again, not because I asked, but because being in a room where people needed help changed him.
"You changed him," Callen said once, smiling when he dropped Katrina off. "Not because you yelled, but because you refused to let the story end badly."
"I just refused to lose the facts," I said.
"In the end," Callen said, "you made the story fair for everyone."
The world did not tilt less when Gracelyn walked through it. Sometimes the wind still found her first. But I learned that if the air was unfair, you could crack a window and let your own breath in. If you kept count and kept working, your sums added up.
That night before the next contest, I wrote in my notebook: "I will not hide in the shadow of someone else's light. I will make my own. Even if the author prefers other colors, I will hold my pen steady."
"Are you counting again?" Isla asked when she saw me later.
"I always count," I said, and she smiled like she understood that counting is hope dressed as numbers.
"Then count me in," she said, and put her hand on top of mine.
"Deal," I said.
We went on, and the world kept tilting, and sometimes it even tilted toward me.
The End
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