Chapter 86
[Rose's POV]
Monday morning arrived with the weight of countdown clocks. Four days until the next round of American Dream Star.
I hadn't even reached my desk when Emily intercepted me. The class president clutched a physics exam paper like it was a treasure map. Her eyes shone with the kind of fervor I'd seen in young scientists during the Manhattan Project.
"Miss Evans!" She waved the paper in my face. "Look! Ninety-two percent! I used your method for the trajectory problem, and it just... clicked!"
David materialized at her shoulder, brandishing his own test. "Ninety-five percent. The calculus shortcut you showed me last week—Professor Patricia actually wrote 'innovative approach' in the margin."
Sarah pushed between them, her SAT prep book bristling with color-coded tabs. "Rose, you have to help me with the physics section. Everyone says you can explain quantum mechanics in under five minutes."
The classroom buzzed with a new energy. Students who'd previously spent mornings scrolling through social media now huddled over problem sets. Even the chronically late arrivals appeared early, competing for desk space near the whiteboard where I occasionally worked through problems before class.
I set down my bag carefully, aware of too many eyes tracking my movements. "I'm glad the methods helped. But remember—understanding matters more than scores."
"Easy for you to say when you ace everything," Emily laughed. "Come on, just ten minutes before homeroom? Please?"
The bell saved me. I slipped into my seat, already calculating the day's training schedule in my head.
Eighty repetitions of Bailando. That was the minimum. One hundred would be ideal, but with classes and homework, eighty was the realistic target. I'd mapped out every ten-minute break, every lunch period, every spare moment between obligations.
My phone vibrated in my pocket. Once. Twice. A dozen times in rapid succession.
I ignored it.
The morning classes crawled by. Chemistry. English Literature. American History. Through it all, my phone continued its insistent buzzing against my hip. The team group chat, undoubtedly. Complaints about yesterday's training session, probably. Excuses about why they couldn't practice as much as I'd asked.
I'd deal with it later.
The first bell released us into the hallway chaos. While other students headed for the cafeteria or courtyard, I climbed the stairwell to the rooftop access door. The lock had been broken for months—a secret known only to students who preferred solitude over socializing.
The concrete expanse stretched empty under the October sky. Perfect.
I pulled up the Bailando track on my phone, positioned it against the air conditioning unit, and began. The Latin rhythm pulsed through the speakers as I launched into the choreography. Step-ball-change, hip rotation, arm extension. The movements felt mechanical at first, my muscles still remembering yesterday's exhaustion.
By the fifth repetition, the stiffness began to fade. By the tenth, I'd found the rhythm. The rooftop disappeared. There was only the music, the movement, the relentless drive to achieve perfection.
My phone buzzed continuously on the concrete, ignored.
Ten minutes. Fifteen. The warning bell rang distantly below. I finished the current run-through, grabbed my phone without checking the messages, and sprinted back to class.
Lunch period found me in an abandoned practice room on the third floor. Empty energy bar wrappers accumulated in my bag as I pushed through repetition after repetition. My legs screamed. My throat burned from singing the same verses over and over. Sweat soaked through my uniform blouse.
The phone continued its digital tantrum. The notification counter had climbed past two hundred.
Let them complain, I thought grimly, executing another turn sequence.
The afternoon classes blurred together. Between periods, I found empty stairwells, unused hallways, forgotten corners of the building. Anywhere I could squeeze in another five minutes, another three run-throughs. My notebook sat open in every class, but instead of lecture notes, I'd drawn a grid: eighty boxes to check off as I completed each repetition.
By sixth period, I'd checked off sixty-three boxes. My body moved on autopilot now, muscle memory overriding exhaustion. Just seventeen more to go.
The final bell released me into the golden autumn afternoon. Most students flooded toward the parking lot or sports fields. I headed back to the rooftop.
Seventy-eight. Seventy-nine. My vision blurred at the edges. The phone had fallen silent sometime during last period—either the battery had died, or the team had given up on reaching me.
Eighty.
I collapsed against the air conditioning unit, chest heaving. My legs trembled. Every muscle screamed protest. But the grid in my notebook showed eighty neat checkmarks, and that was what mattered.
Finally, I pulled out my phone. The battery indicator showed three percent. The group chat notification read: 247 unread messages.
I opened it.
The messages scrolled past in an overwhelming flood. Ava's name appeared most frequently, followed by Sophia and Tyler. I scrolled to the beginning of the day and started reading.
Ava: Rose, are you alive? We need to talk about yesterday's practice.
Sophia: My legs are so sore I can barely walk. Is this normal?
Tyler: How are we supposed to do eighty reps when we have homework and jobs?
Ava: Rose? Hello?
Sophia: Maybe she's busy...
Tyler: Or maybe she doesn't care that we're dying.
The complaints escalated through the afternoon. By three o'clock, the tone had shifted from frustration to anger.
Ava: Rose, are you a demon? I can barely walk after thirty reps yesterday.
Sophia: This is too brutal. I'm exhausted.
Tyler: So hard. I can't take it anymore.
I typed out my response with shaking fingers: Those who endure hardship rise above others.
The chat fell silent for thirty seconds. Then Ava's response appeared.
Ava: But those who only know suffering will suffer forever. Shouldn't we work smarter, not just harder?
I stared at the screen. The words cut through my exhaustion with unexpected clarity.
I looked at my reflection in the phone's dark screen. What was I doing? These weren't wartime scientists racing against Nazi Germany. They were teenagers preparing for a singing competition.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard. Before I could type a response, the rooftop door creaked open.
Three girls stepped out, tenth-graders by their uniform modifications. They froze when they saw me, then broke into wide smiles.
"Miss Evans!" The tallest one rushed forward. "We've been looking everywhere for you!"
I stood slowly, muscles protesting. "Can I help you?"
"We started a fan group for you!" She pulled out her phone, showing me an Instagram page. "The Rose Revolution! We have twenty members now, and we're working on getting more. We want to organize a cheering section for your next performance!"
The other two girls nodded enthusiastically. "You're so amazing," one of them gushed. "The way you handled that interview, and your singing, and everyone says you're like a genius in class—"
"Stop." My voice came out sharper than intended. All three girls flinched. I softened my tone, but kept it firm. "A fan group? At Boston Prep?"
"We just wanted to support you," the tall girl said, her enthusiasm dimming. "Like, show school spirit and stuff."
I looked at them—really looked. They couldn't be more than fifteen years old. Young enough to think celebrity worship was harmless fun. Old enough to be forming habits that would shape their futures.
"This school is for academic excellence, not celebrity worship," I said quietly. "If you respect me, focus on your studies."
"But we can do both—"
"No." I moved closer, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "You cannot serve two masters well. Right now, your master should be your education. When you get into Harvard because you studied instead of chasing celebrities, you'll thank me."
The tall girl's eyes welled with tears. "We weren't trying to be disrespectful. We just thought—"
"I know what you thought." I gentled my voice, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "And I appreciate the sentiment. Truly. But the best way to honor someone you admire isn't to worship them—it's to embody their values. Do you know what I value most?"
The three girls shook their heads.
"Knowledge. Growth. Using your mind to its fullest potential." I gestured toward the door. "Go back to your classes. Study hard. Achieve excellence. That's how you support me."
The girls looked at each other, then back at me. Slowly, the tall one nodded. "You really mean it, don't you?"
"Every word."
"Okay." She wiped her eyes. "We'll... we'll dissolve the fan group. And focus on our SAT prep instead."
"Good." I smiled, and their faces brightened slightly. "Now get off the roof before a teacher catches you up here."