The Geek Revolution ✓

48 | confide

"DO YOU THINK IF ALL of the candidates are equally shitty, I can pick none of them?" Delaney groans, shuffling application essays in her hands.

Since the Debate Club's victory at the regional championship competition two weeks ago, Delaney's prominence as the President has skyrocketed. Well, I'd call it prominence — she'd call it responsibilities and then mime a retch. The position initially struck me as very esteemed, one that comes with a lot of glory. But as I watch Delaney tear more of her hair out with each grammatical error and logical flaw, it becomes less and less appealing.

She had to speak in front of the whole student body at last week's assembly, and now Mr. Williams has called on her for another task. Every other member of the Debate Club wanting to rejoin usually applies with the newcomers next year, but those vying for the Presidency — once Delaney ends her three-year reign — have to express interest now.

It's only a five-hundred word short essay about why they believe they're the best pick. Mr. Williams, the Debate Club teacher chaperone, files them for next year, but he asks for Delaney's pick of the candidates before she graduates and leaves Carsonville for, hopefully, Chicago. Her voice is pitchy with emotion as she rants, "I suppose it's my fault. I do set high standards."

Callum scoffs beside us, lifting his head from his laptop. "You really love yourself, don't you?"

"Of course. Better than being you, with—"

"Well, it's good to have high standards but maybe not so early on in the selection process," I reason, interrupting a brewing quarrel. I swear Delaney will pick a fight with anyone. "Maybe you just need to take a break from scrutinising their mistakes. And actually try to look for some skill in their applications. And think about what you know about them. You seem a bit... harsh."

"Of course I'm being harsh on them! Do you know how much pressure it takes to turn dust into superstars? I need to light a fire under their asses strong enough to last the summer."

"See? It's not that hard to use metaphors that are actually scientifically possible," Callum quips, referencing the whole coal-into-blades metaphor. "Although, with the timeframe you have, you aren't getting superstars or fires this year. Just chill out."

Scowling in frustration, Delaney resumes reading the essays. "I swear each time I read these, my standards get lower. If I do that enough times, then someone has to be good enough."

It's quite amusing to watch Delaney panic, since nothing usually bothers her. Deep down, she clearly has a hard time letting go of the dynasty she spent three years building, slaving away for, defending it from Brittany's destructive clutches, loving and nurturing. Of course no-one seems good enough to do what she did; next to no-one could do what she did.

Callum and I would have enjoyed the moment longer, if the demands of AP English weren't calling us. I accepted my offer to Halston University, along with Callum, Quentin, and Riley, but I'm still undeclared in terms of my major.

Now that the rest of my life is practically knocking at the door, and I'm not prepared to welcome it in, I can see why Delaney is stressing out. She has one chance to leave high school with a bang, to leave her mark.

When Callum and I walk into Music, Mr. Quesnel is setting up a documentary on the Baroque era. As usual, finding the teaching method with the lowest energy cost. One of our final assessments, which I am dreading, is a written essay on the differences between Renaissance and Baroque music.

We've spent weeks doing written work and watching documentaries. For young musicians sitting in a room filled with instruments, the idea of sitting idly, watching people play and not being able to play myself sounds, frankly, painful. I just want to run over the piano and jam with the Unofficials.