Chapter 39 First Council Meeting
I stood before the towering doors of the Student Council Chamber, the engraved emblem of the academy glinting faintly above the frame. My wristwatch read 11:10 a.m.
Late. I exhaled once, steadying myself. Figures. My palm hovered near the door for a beat before resolve pushed it forward. The oak groaned under my touch as it swung inward, heavy, deliberate, like crossing a threshold I had always imagined but never believed I’d reach.
The scent reached me first, lavender, parchment, and ink, layered like an old secret dressed in perfume. A long table stretched before me, polished to a mirror sheen, more like a ceremonial feast table than a meeting desk.
At its head sat Kaitlyn.
She leaned back, posture regal, arms crossed, chin lifted just enough to remind the room who commanded it. Evander occupied the seat at her left, relaxed but watchful. Naomi sat at her right, composed, legs aligned, hands folded neatly on her lap. Four other members filled the remaining seats, but my breath stalled when I saw Emily, sitting among them without the slightest trace of concealment.
Emily. Melissa’s girlfriend.
She smiled openly at me, warm, radiant, unmistakably genuine. She recognized me. And judging by the way her eyes softened in greeting, she didn’t just recognize me, she welcomed me.
The chamber door rumbled shut behind me.
“You’re late,” Naomi stated. Her authority came from stillness, from the way she carried the sentence like a rule already written. “Lateness will not be tolerated in the council.”
My shoulders tightened. “I’m… sorry,” I said, the words tasting foreign, reluctant.
“You better be, because—”
“Naomi.”
Kaitlyn snapped the name like a whip cracking air. She leaned forward, palms flat against the table, a smile curving her lips, pleasant, practiced, unreadable. “Instead of attacking our new member, why not offer her a seat and educate her on the rules first?”
Naomi dropped her gaze to her knees, fingers curling slightly over the fabric. “Sorry, President,” she murmured, voice brittle, clipped with embarrassment.
Kaitlyn turned to me. “Lexie?”
I blinked, startled that she spoke my name with something close to courtesy. “Yes?”
“Take the seat next to Evan,” she instructed, gesturing toward the chair beside Evander.
But the seat wasn’t empty. A boy sat there, slender frame, uniform was clean, shoulders drawn inward as though trying not to take up space. His eyes flicked between me and the President, confused.
Kaitlyn tilted her head toward him. “What are you waiting for? We have a new secretary.”
“Oh!” The boy shot up, nearly knocking the chair. His stance trembled, not fear, exactly. More like instinctive obedience, the reflex of someone unaccustomed to conflict. He stepped aside quickly, gaze fixed somewhere safe on the floor.
I moved forward, taking the warm seat he had vacated. Evander watched me settle in, unreadable, but his pulse betrayed him, a vein thudded faintly at his throat.
“Welcome to the Student Council, Lexie,” Kaitlyn announced, resuming her seat. “Everyone, this is Lexie Lambert, scholarship student, newly appointed Secretary.”
“Scholarship?”
The question sliced across the silence.
A girl sat opposite me, beside Emily and Naomi. Light skin. Sleek black bob. Dark eyes sharp enough to cut paper. She looked like someone who could weaponize words without raising her voice.
Kaitlyn leaned forward again, cupping her cheek with her palm, eyes narrowing slightly, not offended, but inviting anger. “And tell me, Sam,” she said slowly, “what’s wrong with her being a scholarship student?”
Sam swallowed. “It’s rare,” she admitted. “I mean… the Student Council, for generations, has never had a scholarship kid…”
Kaitlyn slammed both palms down. The sound echoed once, cavernous.
I flinched. So did half the room.
Emily leaned toward her, lips barely moving. “Apologize, Sam,” she whispered.
Sam shot her a glare, fast, razor-quick, emotional. But even she knew when a battle was already lost.
“I’m—I’m sorry, President,” she said at last, voice low, controlled, eyes on the table.
Kaitlyn smirked. Not forgiveness or rejection. Just a mark to show the apology had been heard, not necessarily accepted.
I kept silent. Best to learn the currents before stepping into the tide.
Kaitlyn leaned back once more, clasping her hands loosely. “We’re out of time. Wednesday meetings are not usually long. Today was for introductions and preliminary planning.”
She gestured toward the room, voice shifting into an official intonation. “We must also begin preparations for the Annual Gala, held every Fourth of July.”
“The gala is in three weeks,” Evander added, arms resting on the table now, open, deliberate, as though reclaiming stability.
“And it must be grand,” Naomi concluded, sitting taller.
Kaitlyn nodded. “Council members, introduce yourselves to our new Secretary, and specify how you wish to be addressed.”
The boy who had vacated my seat earlier cleared his throat, standing again, this time confident, shoulders squared, voice steady. The earlier timidity had melted into something more familiar, performance, maybe, or the comfort of speaking when permitted.
“I’m Stephen Lowell, the Scholar Warden,” he began, voice earnest, rising into formality. “I oversee strictly academic affairs. You may address me as Scholar, Warden, or Stephen, whichever you pr—”
“That’s enough. Take your seat,” Kaitlyn cut in sharply, rubbing her temples as though his voice itself had worsened the ache behind her eyes.
Stephen’s head dipped immediately, posture collapsing inward like a wilted quill. “Okay,” he muttered under his breath, lowering himself back into the chair, eyes fixed obediently on the table grain.
The next voice carried more ease, practiced and soft at the edges. “I’m Reverie Sam, final-year student and Welfare Warden. Reverie is my given name, but everyone calls me Sam.”
Naomi’s brow arched slightly. Kaitlyn didn’t react. Sam’s introduction passed without incident.
Then Emily.
“I’m Emily Laurent,” she said with a warm confidence, hands resting lightly before her, posture open and composed. “Final year, Event Coordinator. You may simply call me Emily.”
Event Coordinator. The title clicked in my mind like a lock turning. She would inevitably work closely with Evander, side by side, planning logistics, orchestrating events, navigating schedules, partners in execution, even if not in sentiment.
Only one member remained.
He sat beside me, cheek resting on his palm, eyes distant, gaze unfocused, adrift in some interior world louder than the hall itself. The silence pooled around him like an unfinished sentence. Everyone waited.
Stephen leaned toward him, head lowered. “Hey… Reis,” he whispered.
No response.
Stephen nudged his thigh. Firmer. “Reis.”
Reis blinked, snapping back into himself. Stephen gestured subtly with his eyes toward the table. Pay attention.
“Oh.” Reis straightened abruptly, smoothing his uniform with both palms, spine aligning like someone resetting a ruler. “My sincere apologies.” He cleared his throat. “I am Reis Easton, Disciplinary Enforcer, final-year council member, and—”
“Aright, that’s enough,” Kaitlyn groaned, cutting him off before his title could fully bloom. Her patience had run bone-thin. She inhaled once, composing her voice back into President-mode. “Emily. Evander. Ensure all necessary items for the Gala are prepared and accounted for before next week.”
“Yes, President,” they replied in unison.
She began gathering her file. “As we round up—”
I seized the moment before instinct could stop me. “Round up?” I echoed.
The room froze.