Chapter 36 The Next Candidate
“Candidate Melanie Penrose, step forward.”
The shift in the hall was subtle but immediate. Where Marcus had inspired awkward discomfort and pity, Melanie drew something sharper, curiosity edged with suspicion. She walked to the chair beneath the light with measured steps, chin lifted, posture composed. If her hands trembled, they did so faintly, controlled, hidden against the dark fabric of her sleeves.
The light isolated her just as it had Marcus.
Mr. Roger did not circle her immediately. Instead, he remained still, studying her as one might examine a finished painting, admiring the surface before probing for cracks.
“Melanie Penrose,” he began. “Ranked first in your year since admission. Perfect academic record. Outstanding analytical reasoning. Exceptional performance across all disciplines.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the hall.
Melanie inclined her head slightly, accepting the praise without visible pride.
“Tell us,” Mr. Roger continued, “how you achieve such consistency.”
Melanie answered smoothly. “Discipline. Time management. And focus.”
“Impressive,” Mr. Roger said. “Do you enjoy it?”
She blinked. “Enjoy… what, sir?”
“Your excellence.”
The question hung oddly in the air.
Melanie hesitated, just a fraction too long. “I believe achievement is necessary.”
“That was not the question,” Mr. Roger replied calmly. “What joy do you derive from your A’s?”
The hall leaned forward.
Melanie’s lips parted, then closed. Her gaze dropped to the floor beneath the chair. “Joy is… irrelevant.”
Mr. Roger tilted his head. “Is it?”
Her fingers curled into her palm. “Grades are a measure of worth here.”
“And what of satisfaction?” he pressed. “Fulfillment?”
Silence.
I felt it, the subtle fracture. Melanie had answers for everything except that.
“I—” Melanie exhaled softly. “I suppose… they keep me safe.”
A murmur passed through the students.
Mr. Roger nodded once, as though he had expected this. He stepped closer. “Let us discuss assistance.”
Melanie’s head snapped up.
“You have not achieved this alone,” he said. Not a question.
Her breath caught. “I… beg your pardon?”
“You have been helping someone,” Mr. Roger continued evenly. “Someone within proximity to the student council.”
The hall stirred.
My breath hitched. How did they really find out all these? I searched the audience for Professor Ashcroft or Oliver, but it was too dark to see. These people might probably find out I went to the restricted area in the library… and took the manuscript.
Melanie’s eyes flicked, quickly, involuntarily, to the front row.
Evander stiffened.
“How,” Melanie said carefully, “would you know that?”
Mr. Roger did not answer. He simply waited.
“Name them,” he said.
Her jaw tightened. “I receive…. support from my parents. And from myself.”
That was a lie.
Mr. Roger turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting to Principal Greaves above. The Principal’s expression did not change, but the silence between them spoke.
“Very well,” Mr. Roger said. “Then let us continue.”
Melanie’s shoulders relaxed marginally, too soon.
“Were you manipulated,” Mr. Roger asked, “by a council member to ensure the failure of a specific candidate during the earlier trials?”
The question struck like a blade.
Melanie’s composure faltered.
Her eyes moved, slowly this time.
First to Evander.
Then to Kaitlyn.
The hall inhaled as one.
Mr. Roger followed her gaze. “That,” he said quietly, “is an answer.”
Melanie’s breathing became shallow. She stared straight ahead now, refusing to look at anyone.
My thoughts aligned sharply. So I was right.
The avoidance. The hesitation. The half-answers. Melanie had never been uncertain, she had been divided.
“Tell us,” Mr. Roger continued, his voice precise, “is Evander Kingston…” finally he mentioned his name, “The only boy you have ever admired?”
A collective hush fell.
Evander’s pulse was visible at his throat.
Melanie’s lips trembled. She swallowed. “No.”
The word came out too fast.
Mr. Roger regarded her for a long moment. “You may step down.”
The light dimmed.
Melanie rose, legs stiff, face pale. She did not look at Evander. She did not look at Kaitlyn. She didn’t look at me either.
She walked into the shadows of the audience.
Mr. Roger turned toward the podium.
“Finally,” he announced, “Lexie Lambert, and we’re done.”
The hall shifted again, anticipation sharp, electric.
My heart hammered my ribs.
I hesitated for a while, my eyes scanning through the crowd I can’t see clearly. Finally, I took the bold step, slowly I stepped forward.
The hall did not laugh. It did not murmur, but it waited.
I took the chair beneath the light, feeling its weight settle around me. From the corner of my vision, I could see the audience faces blurred into shadow, but certain presences anchored her. Oliver, seated among the students, rigid and unsmiling. Julian farther back, half-hidden, watching with an unreadable calm. Adrian near the aisle, his gaze fixed on me with quiet concern.
Kaitlyn sat in the front row.
Straight-backed and leg-crosed.
Mr. Roger did not waste time.
“Lexie Lambert,” he said, his voice measured. “Tell us how you felt the first day you stepped into Gravenmoor Academy.”
The question was deceptively gentle.
I inhaled slowly. “Quite inferior.”
The word landed softly.
“I felt smaller,” I continued, choosing honesty over grace. “I believed everyone here was smarter than me. That I wouldn’t keep up. That I would fall behind.”
Mr. Roger nodded. “And why did you believe the students of Gravenmoor were so intelligent?”
I hesitated.
Then I answered, simply, “Because of my friend.”
“And who is this friend of yours?” He asked. “Oliver.”
The hall stirred.
Oliver’s breath caught sharply. His hand tightened where it rested on his knee. The anger he had been holding, carefully, stubbornly, fractured into something else entirely.
“Explain.”
“He was confident,” I said. “Effortless. He understood things quickly. He never made it look hard. I thought… if this is normal here, then I’m not.”
Oliver’s jaw clenched. Not in anger.
In recognition.
“Do you trust your friends, Lexie Lambert?” Mr. Roger asked.
The shift in question was deliberate.
I frowned slightly, thinking. “Yes.”
“And would that trust extend to Oliver?”
The name changed the air.