Chapter 41

Chapter 41
Amelia's POV

"Someone posted again!"

I opened the link Evelyn had sent me.

The campus forum already had dozens of posts questioning Samuel and me. I scrolled through that noisy chaos and found it—a new, brief post with a timestamp showing three minutes ago, username n_smith_reads.

Since the first week of the semester, I've been in the same economics class as Amelia Grey. She's talked through many problems with me, pointed out two errors in my notes, and this was at a time when half the class was still coming to me asking about assignments. I don't think someone with her abilities needs anyone's connections to make the cheerleading squad.

The account name was three words: n_smith_reads.

The forum recognized this account before I did, and almost immediately someone replied—Wait, is this Naomi Smith?—and within minutes a second person confirmed: Yes, it's her. She studies fourteen hours a day and doesn't post casually.

This mattered, because Naomi's reputation wasn't gentle, wasn't likable, wasn't the lightweight kind. But it was something harder to refute: credibility.

Then a student I'd never spoken to posted saying she had also been at that tryout. She had heard with her own ears Brooke publicly questioning my academic record, but she had also seen with her own eyes the note I handed to Cassidy—written proof signed personally by Professor Scott, certifying that my grades were completely authentic and met the requirements.

She already provided evidence as Brooke demanded, she wrote. She followed the rules.

Then Susan appeared. I recognized her profile picture immediately—that photo of her round face beaming with a smile. She uploaded three training photos: my position in the formation, a shot of me mid-leap (a move that took me nearly a week to learn to land), and a blurry candid of me crouching on the gym floor beside her, apparently demonstrating a transition move I'd figured out myself and taught her.

She came to every single practice, never missed once, Susan wrote. And she taught me this move. Some of you are talking like she just wandered in off the street.

A veteran squad member—someone who'd been on the team before I joined—posted a short message. She said she'd seen many people walk into tryouts with impressive résumés and stiff shoulders, and that I was the fastest learner she could remember. After our first training session together, I talked to Cassidy about her, she wrote. Cassidy picked a good one.

I read it twice.

Then Cassidy posted. Her real name, her real account. She attached the application form I'd submitted—dates, grades, some written records—along with a video clip pulled from the official training facility surveillance, showing how I had memorized an entire routine after watching the demonstration just once during a practice session.

Cassidy's final sentence wasn't written for me.

When you watch this video and look at these photos, without considering her name, without listening to those rumors, without the circus—tell me honestly: don't you think she's exactly the kind of girl who belongs on the sidelines cheering? Isn't that eye-catching enough?

I placed my phone screen-down on my knee, pressed the back of my hand against my mouth, and buried my head against my knees, sitting there in the silence outside the housing office like an ostrich with its head tucked in, feeling a particular kind of ache—being defended by a group of people who owed me nothing.

I hadn't asked any of them for anything, but they had still shown up. I didn't ask anyone for special treatment or privileges; I only hoped someone would tell the truth, and they did, at a time when the crowd wasn't on my side.

"Seriously," a voice drawled slowly.

The housing office door opened, and Naomi walked out with a folder tucked under her arm, having just finished her paperwork, phone in hand, looking like she'd just taken a moment to post. "If I had only seen you from a distance at the orientation ceremony—you stood on that stage for thirty seconds before someone led you away—I would have been skeptical of you and kept my distance. But now it's different. Do you know why?"

I waited silently for her answer.

"Because I've had multiple meals and conversations with you, I've watched you do homework, you've never mocked me or put on airs in front of me, and I'm certain that my feelings and experiences are real."

"It's the same for others. Most people on this campus have only seen you from afar, but there are always some who have actually watched you attend class seriously, so you should have some confidence in yourself and in our intelligence as normal people."

"Anyone with a brain won't just blindly follow the crowd."

She turned to look at me.

"The situation is far from as bad as you've calculated it to be."

I almost laughed—calculated—because the word was accurate to the point of being almost rude.

"And haven't you noticed," she added, her tone carrying a trace of subtle satisfaction, "Aria didn't come to class today."

I paused. She was right—I really hadn't noticed.

"Second absence," Naomi said. "I suspect she might have dropped the course. Even if she hasn't—the person sitting next to her noticed she couldn't write her assignments anymore. So even if people don't want to offend her, they've quietly stopped competing to sit beside her."

She stood up, straightened the front of her jacket, and tucked the folder more securely under her arm.

"This is good news—the classroom will be much quieter," she said, turning toward the library. "We can move into the new double room this Saturday, remember to pack your things." She paused. "See you tomorrow."

Twenty minutes later, Evelyn found me.

We occupied an empty classroom on the second floor of the Arts and Sciences building—the kind that remained unlocked on Tuesday afternoons and had been forgotten, with half the chairs stacked against the back wall. Evelyn claimed the good chair by the window, opened her laptop, and began refreshing the forum with the focused intensity of someone monitoring an evolving situation.

"It's moving. Slowly, but it's moving. The nature of the comments has changed. More people are asking questions rather than just—" she made a gesture encompassing all the previous discussion, "—making loud assertions."

I opened my economics notes. The afternoon sunlight came through the window at a low angle, casting a pale rectangular shadow on the floor.

"Your reputation is rising again," Evelyn said without looking up. "Third time, if we're keeping track. You're like a stock that keeps bouncing back."

"That's a terrible metaphor."

"That's an accurate metaphor." She typed something, paused, then continued typing. "Cassidy's post alone turned at least forty comments around. And that video—Amelia, that video is really good. You looked—"

"Don't."

"Very capable," she finished, affecting an exaggerated innocent expression. "I was going to say very capable all along."

I looked up at her from above my notebook.

She looked back at me, completely straightforward.

I looked back down at my notes.

We stayed like that for a while—she alternating between her work and refreshing the forum, occasionally reporting updates, while I buried myself in problem sets.

The quiet in the room was the particular kind that belonged to borrowed spaces. Someone had left a coffee cup on the windowsill so long ago that it was no longer anyone's responsibility.

"It'll be okay," Evelyn said at some point without looking up. "I know you know this. But I'm going to say it anyway."

"I know."

"Good."

This harmonious atmosphere continued until the phone on the table rang.

I looked at the screen.

Joseph.