CHAPTER 39
The classroom was filled with a thick, expectant silence as Mr. Peterson prepared to announce the final details for the upcoming inter-class competition.
"Alright, settle down," he called out, dropping a stack of papers onto his desk. "Here are the rules. Each class is represented by a leader of their selection, and I will once again inform you who the leaders are: Victor from Class A, Ashley from Class B, Luke from Class C, and Ray from Class D".
The teacher then dropped a bombshell: "Our school is going to conduct student council elections."
Heather, always quick to question the system, raised her hand. "Sir, so are they going to select the president by this tournament?".
Mr. Peterson shook his head, looking over his spectacles at the class. "No. It doesn't matter if you lose or you win; the selection is based on our principal's wish. Any questions?".
The class remained silent, the gravity of the upcoming weeks finally sinking in.
I shifted closer to Zack, the warmth of his leg beneath my hand the only thing keeping me grounded as Mr. Peterson's voice droned on. The classroom felt smaller, the air thick with the sudden realization that this competition was far bigger than any of us had imagined.
"Hey, Zacky boy," I whispered. I watched his profile, seeing the way his jaw tightened.
He turned his head just a fraction, those green eyes searching mine. "What?"
"I'm going to call you 'Zacky boy,'" I said, my voice barely a breath.
"Why?" he asked, looking genuinely lost.
I didn't give him a verbal answer. Instead, I let my fingers press firmer against his thigh, moving my hand in a slow, steady rhythm. I wanted him to know I was right there with him, no matter how much the nomination of Luke had shaken things up. A small, soft smile finally broke across his face—the first real one I'd seen all morning. "Okay, Jane," he murmured.
The moment was shattered by Mr. Peterson tapping his pointer against the board.
"Listen up! Our school will select certain games for the tournament—football, basketball, and much more."
I saw Rafiyal Don't hand shoot up before the teacher could even finish. "Sir, is there only sports involved?"
"Don't worry, bookworm," Mr. Peterson replied with a dry chuckle. "There is much more. Academics are heavily involved as well. It's a test of the whole student."
I felt Zack's muscle tense again under my palm. Christopher leaned forward, his voice tight with anxiety. "Are all third years only participating?"
The room went deathly quiet. Since Victor, Ashley, Ray, Luke, and I were all in our third year, we had assumed this was our final showdown. Mr. Peterson looked over his spectacles, his expression chillingly neutral.
"No," he said firmly. "The whole school is going to participate."
My heart dropped. The whole school? That meant every grade level. A wave of shocked whispers erupted around us. I had put Luke in charge of Class C to stand up to the "royalty" of our own year, but now we were all being thrown into a meat grinder against the entire student body.
I squeezed Zack's leg instinctively. This wasn't just a third-year rivalry anymore. This was a total war.
I stayed focused on the heat of Zack's leg beneath my palm, trying to ignore the way my own heart was starting to race. The classroom felt like it was shrinking with every word Mr. Peterson spoke.
"Since this involves the entire student body," the teacher continued, a slow, almost predatory smile spreading across his face, "you aren't expected to do this alone. You are allowed to seek help from the juniors."
The room erupted in a low murmur of relief, but I felt Zack stiffen again. He wasn't buying it. He looked up, his gaze locking onto the teacher with sharp intensity.
"There's a catch, isn't there?" Zack asked, his voice cutting through the chatter.
Mr. Peterson's smile widened, and he actually gave a small nod of approval. "Sharp as always, Zack. Yes, there is a catch." He leaned over his desk, looking at us like we were pieces on a board. "You don't get to choose your allies. To keep things 'balanced,' your class will only be receiving help from Second Year Class A and First Year Class C."
My stomach did a slow flip. Second Year Class A? They were notorious for being as elitist and cutthroat as Victor's group. And First Year Class C? They were a total wildcard—young, inexperienced, and likely to be more of a liability than a help in a school-wide war.
I squeezed Zack's thigh, my mind racing. We were third years, the supposed leaders of the school, but we were being tethered to specific underclassmen who might have their own agendas. It wasn't a helping hand; it was a leash.
"Great," I muttered under my breath so only Zack could hear. "They aren't just giving us teammates. They're giving us more people to protect—or more people to watch our backs for a knife."
The classroom felt like it was tilting on its axis. Every new sentence from Mr. Peterson was another weight being dropped onto our shoulders.
"And this is important," he said, his voice dropping an octave as he surveyed our stunned faces. "Every single student is required to participate in this event. Furthermore, you can only use one person for one kind of sport. No overlapping."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "What?"
The word escaped me before I could stop it. In my shock, I reflexively pulled my hand away from Zack's thigh, the sudden loss of contact making the air between us feel cold.
Mr. Peterson's eyes locked onto mine immediately. "Why are you so surprised, Jane?"
"There are only thirty-five of us!" I blurted out, leaning forward. "How are we supposed to cover every single event—sports, academics, everything—without repeating people? We'll be spread so thin we'll break."
"I will explain, Jane. Please, be seated," he said, waving a hand dismissively.
I sank back into my chair, my mind racing. If we couldn't use our best athletes for multiple sports or our top students for multiple academic trials, we were practically being set up to fail. Class A probably had a roster of specialists, but we were a class of misfits.
Mr. Peterson continued, "The rule stands, with the exception of the class leader and a few other exceptional cases. Those individuals may be allowed to bridge multiple categories."
I looked at the back of Luke's head. As the leader I had chosen, he was now the most overworked person in the building. He was our only safety net. I glanced at Zack; he looked like he was already calculating the odds, his jaw set in that familiar, stubborn line.
We weren't just playing a game anymore. We were being forced into a strategic nightmare where one wrong placement could cost us everything.
I stayed still, the sudden absence of Zack's warmth against my palm making me feel strangely exposed. The room was buzzing with the implications of the "one person, one sport" rule, but Mr. Peterson wasn't looking at me anymore.
He turned his gaze slowly toward the center of the room, his eyes locking onto Luke. The weight of the entire class—and now the second and first-year allies—seemed to settle visibly on Luke's shoulders.
"Luke," Mr. Peterson said, his voice dropping the clinical tone and replacing it with something heavy and demanding. "As the leader of Class C, the burden of strategy falls to you. You are the exception to the rules, the one who must fill the gaps."
Luke didn't flinch, but I saw his knuckles whiten as he gripped the edge of his desk. He looked every bit the "royalty" he was supposed to be, but I knew the pressure I'd put him under by nominating him.
"You shall make this class victorious," the teacher added, his voice ringing like a final decree.
I watched Luke's back, seeing the way his shoulders squared as he absorbed the weight of Mr. Peterson's command. The silence in the room was suffocating. I looked over at Victor and Ashley; they were already wearing masks of cold calculation, their minds likely already sorting through their rosters of athletes and geniuses. They had the numbers and the influence. We had a class of only thirty-five and a leader who was still an outsider to half of them.
The teacher's gaze lingered on Luke for a moment longer, a challenge hanging in the air that seemed to dare us to fail.
"The strategy is yours, Luke," Mr. Peterson added, his voice cutting through the tension. "Don't disappoint the expectations placed upon you."
I glanced back at Zack. He was staring at the chalkboard, his jaw set in that stubborn, familiar line. I knew he was thinking about the impossible math—thirty-five students, dozens of events, and no repeats. We weren't just playing a game; we were being forced into a meat grinder where every single one of us had to be a weapon.
I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the air conditioning. The "Meaning of Life" had felt like a distant, philosophical question this morning, something to ponder while the rain tapped against the windows. Now, sitting in this room, the meaning of our lives had been narrowed down to a single, brutal objective: win, or be erased by the royalty of the school.
I watched the back of the teacher's head as he gathered his papers. The air in the room was still vibrating from the bombshell he'd just dropped.
"After the break," Mr. Peterson announced, checking his watch, "you may go and meet your allies from the first and second years. Use your time wisely." He didn't wait for a response; a faculty meeting was calling, and he disappeared out the door, leaving us in a vacuum of stunned silence that quickly shattered into frantic whispering.
The classroom erupted. Everyone was talking at once, voices rising in a panicked hum about sports rosters and academic trials. I looked at Zack. He was still tense, his mind clearly working through the impossible logistics of our thirty-five-person limit.
"Hey, Zacky," I said softly, leaning into his space to get his attention.
He blinked, turning toward me. "What is it, Jane?"
"Well, you know Larry Rose," I said, nodding toward where Larry sat. "That guy knows every piece of drama and every secret around this school. If we're going to be forced to work with underclassmen we don't know, it's better if we ask him what we're actually dealing with."
Zack considered this for a second, his green eyes scanning the room before settling on me with a nod. "Okay, Jane. Let's ask him."
Heather, who had been hovering nearby and eavesdropping with her usual intensity, immediately slid over to join us. "Count me in. If we're walking into a trap with these Second Years, I want to know how big the jaws are."
The three of us approached Larry's desk. He looked up, looking like he'd been waiting for someone to come to him for the 'real' story.
"Larry," I said, cutting straight to the point. "Tell us about Second Year Class A. Who are they, and why did the school pair them with us?"
Larry leaned back, a smug, knowing grin spreading across his face as he tapped a pen against his chin. He looked between me and Zack, his eyes gleaming with the kind of hunger only a gossip-monger has.
"I'll tell you," Larry said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But there is a condition."
I felt a prickle of annoyance. "What is it?"
Larry's grin widened. "Are you both dating?"
The silence that followed was heavy and agonizingly awkward. I felt the heat rush to my cheeks, and I instinctively looked at the floor, my mind racing. Beside me, I could feel Zack's posture stiffen. Almost in unison, we both shook our heads and stammered out denials.
"No," I said, a bit too quickly. "It's not like that."
Larry's expression soured instantly. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked away. "Then I won't tell you. Information this good isn't free, and I want the truth."
"Larry, come on," I pleaded, leaning over his desk. "This is about the whole class. We need to know who we're working with."
But Larry remained stubborn, closing his notebook and staring out the window. We tried to push him, offering other favors, but he just shook his head, enjoying the power he held over us.
Finally, Heather snapped. She had been standing behind us, her patience wearing thinner by the second. Before I could stop her, she reached out and grabbed Larry by his collar, hauling him forward until they were nose-to-nose.
"Listen here, you little rat," she hissed, her voice low and dangerous. "We don't have time for your games. Talk, or I'll make sure you have plenty of 'drama' to report about your own dental records."
Larry turned pale, his eyes wide with genuine fear. He looked toward Zack, searching for an out.
Zack let out a long, heavy sigh. He looked at me for a fleeting second—a look I couldn't quite read—and then turned his steady green eyes back to Larry.
"Fine," Zack said, his voice firm and clear enough to stop Heather's hand. "Yes. I date Jane. Now talk."
The air seemed to leave my lungs. My heart hammered against my ribs so loudly I was sure everyone in the room could hear it. I didn't dare look at Heather, and I definitely didn't dare look at the rest of the class. I just kept my eyes locked on Larry, waiting for him to deliver the secrets we needed.
Larry leaned in closer, his eyes darting toward the classroom door as if he expected someone to be listening. Now that Zack had "confirmed" our status, Larry was practically vibrating with the need to spill.
"A deal is a deal," Larry whispered, his voice dropping to a low hiss. "The leader of Second Year Class A is a guy named Irfan. He's hard to miss—pale skin, tall, and skinny as a rail. He looks like he'd blow away in a stiff breeze, but don't let that fool you. He's the undisputed leader of that class."
Zack leaned forward, his green eyes narrowing. "What's the catch with him? There's always a catch with guys like that."
Larry smirked. "The rumors are... interesting. See, word is that Irfan used to be exactly like Luke. A total nightmare. He spent his first year as a relentless bully, making life a living hell for anyone he thought was beneath him. But then, something happened over the summer. Nobody knows what, but he came back completely changed. Now he's the one keeping his class in line, acting like some kind of reformed saint."
Heather let out a sharp, sarcastic laugh, crossing her arms. "Yeah, right. A bully suddenly finding his conscience? That's a crazy rumor, Larry. People don't just flip a switch like that."
"Maybe not," Larry countered, "but his class follows him like he's a prophet. And here's the part that's going to make the tournament difficult for you guys: his class is lopsided. They only have 15 boys and 24 girls."
I felt a knot form in my stomach. "Wait, if the rule is 'one person per sport,' and we only have fifteen boys from their class to help us, we're going to run out of male athletes almost immediately for the heavy-contact sports."
"Exactly," Larry said, tapping his nose. "Irfan has learned to use his female students for everything—strategy, speed, endurance. If you guys try to run Class C like a traditional sports team, you're going to get crushed. You have to play by Irfan's rules, or he'll let you drown."
Zack looked toward the door, his jaw set. "A reformed bully leading a class of specialists. This just keeps getting better."
I looked at Zack, then at Heather. We were about to meet a guy who used to be a monster, and we had to trust him to help us win a war. I just hoped Larry's rumors about him "changing" were actually true.
Larry's voice dropped even lower, and he leaned so far across the desk that his forehead almost touched mine. The smugness from earlier was gone, replaced by a genuine, twitchy unease.
"There's something else," Larry whispered. "There's a civil war going on in that class."
I blinked, my hand tightening on the edge of my seat. "A civil war? What do you mean?"
"Irfan might be the leader, but he doesn't have total control," Larry explained, his eyes darting toward the hallway. "There's a faction in Class A that calls themselves The Superiors. Their name is famous—or notorious—throughout the entire second year. They think they're the elite of the elite, and they don't take kindly to Irfan's 'reformed' way of leading."
Zack's expression darkened. "Superiors? Sounds like a bunch of guys who like the sound of their own voices."
"It's more than that," Larry said. "The founder's name is Robert. He's the one pulling the strings. Then you've got the rest of the core members: Jugram, Allen, Anto, and Felixson. They're a tight-knit circle, and they've made it clear they only follow Robert's orders, not Irfan's."
Heather blew a strand of hair out of her face, letting out a sharp, skeptical breath. "Why are they called 'The Superiors'? Is it because they're actually better at something, or do they just have a high opinion of themselves?"
Larry shook his head, his expression turning grim. "It's not that they completely ignore Irfan. They follow his orders—most of the time. But it's like they're constantly testing him. If they don't like the plan or if they think it makes them look 'weak,' they'll just flat-out refuse. It's a power struggle every single day."
Zack leaned back, crossing his arms. "So Irfan is the leader, but Robert and his crew are the wildcards."
"Exactly," Larry said. "And the reason they're called The Superiors isn't just an ego thing. It's because they actually are. Each one of them is a specialist in a specific field. We're talking high-level skill—sports, strategy, technical stuff. If we can get them to cooperate, they're the ultimate weapons for this tournament. But you have to be careful. They know how good they are, and they'll use that leverage to try and take over Class C from the inside."
Heather looked toward the door, her eyes narrowed. "So we have to use them without letting them break us."
"That's the catch," Larry warned. "Irfan changed for a reason, but Robert and the others? They still miss the old days when the school was a battlefield. They're looking for a reason to snap."
I looked at Zack. The weight of the tournament was already heavy, but now we had to manage a "reformed" leader and a group of elite specialists who might stab us in the back the moment they felt bored.
"One person per sport," I whispered, thinking of the math again. "If we lose the cooperation of The Superiors, we lose our specialists. We don't just need them to participate; we need them to stay in line."
Zack stood up, his green eyes flashing with a cold determination. "Let's go see if Irfan can actually keep his dogs on a leash, or if we're going to have to do it for him."
As we walked out of the classroom, the hallway felt longer and darker than usual. The "Meaning of Life" lesson was over; now, the real test was seeing if we could survive the "Superiors" before the tournament even began.