Chapter 2: The Bet and the Burn

A year later, my savings account hit six digits, and his SAT score jumped from a 900 to a 1540.

My phone would ping every week with another payment. I kept a spreadsheet on my laptop, color-coded and precise. By the time senior year rolled around, I’d saved more than I ever thought possible—enough to pay for Stanford and then some. Jason, for all his swagger, buckled down. His test scores soared, and the teachers started talking about his "remarkable turnaround." The rumor mill had a field day.

And as his girlfriend, I got his kiss. I even sketched his portrait.

He showed up at my apartment with a bouquet of wildflowers, hair tousled, cheeks flushed. He kissed me in the hallway, then sat for me while I drew him—eyes bright, that familiar smirk softened into something real. For a moment, it felt like the world was just the two of us, suspended between graphite and paper.

The night before the SATs, the school's resident bad boy sent me his location: "Come over. Got a surprise for you."

My phone buzzed with his text, the blue dot pulsing on the map. I stared at it, thumb hovering, my mind racing. I could almost hear his voice, teasing and insistent, promising something big. The city lights flickered outside my window, and I felt the weight of the night pressing in.

I knew what he wanted. To confess that this whole relationship had been a bet with his childhood friend. That he hoped I’d fall apart and bomb the exam.

The thought gnawed at me. I pictured him and Savannah laughing behind my back, a private joke I was never in on. My chest tightened, anger and hurt swirling together. But I’d read this script before—I knew how this story was supposed to end.

Who’d actually break was still up in the air.

I let the silence stretch, letting the tension build. My hands shook, but I forced myself to breathe. I wasn’t going to let him see me crack—not tonight.

No drama. No confrontation. I went straight to the hotel I’d already booked... turned off my phone, and went to sleep.

I threw my backpack over my shoulder, grabbed my keys, and slipped out the back door. The hotel room was cold, the sheets stiff and unfamiliar, but I curled up in the dark and let the world fade away. My phone buzzed and buzzed, but I shut it off, burying it under a pillow. Sleep came slow, but it came.

I’d landed in a high school romance novel—cast as the overachiever the popular guy and his queen bee set up for a bet.

It was almost funny, if you looked at it sideways. Like I’d stepped into the pages of some paperback from the drugstore rack—except this time, I knew the twist before the last chapter. I rolled onto my side and stared at the ceiling, determined not to give them the ending they wanted.

In the original, when the main guy—Jason Grant, all leather jacket and brooding smirk—chased off the jerks bullying me, the sunset stretched his shadow across the football field.

I remembered the way the golden light caught his hair, the way his shadow stretched over the turf, bigger than life. The air smelled like cut grass and sweat, and the bleachers creaked under the weight of a dozen bored students. Jason had swaggered across the field like he owned the place, scattering the bullies with a single glare.

I stared at him, caught between the glow and the dark, thinking I’d found my hero.

For a second, I let myself believe in the fairytale. My heart thudded in my chest, hope blooming where it shouldn’t. The world felt soft around the edges, like maybe things could be different this time.

On the night before summer break in our junior year, he spelled out my name in candles on the quad under the girls’ dorm—yeah, our school had dorms.

The whole place glowed—hundreds of little flames flickering in the dusk, spelling out "AUTUMN" in careful, shaky letters. The other girls pressed their faces to the windows, whispering and giggling. My hands trembled as I stepped outside, the warm air buzzing with possibility.

"So, uh, be my girlfriend. I want to go to Stanford with you."

He stood there, holding a single red rose, his voice low and steady. The crowd held its breath, the moment stretching out like taffy.

I believed him.

For a heartbeat, I let myself fall. The rose trembled in his hand, and I thought maybe—just maybe—this was real.

All summer, I worked the diner by day, organized notes for him at night.

My days blurred together—greasy plates, the jingle of the cash register, the smell of burnt coffee. At night, I’d spread my textbooks across the kitchen table, color-coding flashcards and outlining chapters until my vision blurred. Jason would call, voice soft and sleepy, asking for help on calculus or APUSH essays. I’d walk him through it, exhaustion tugging at my bones.

Some nights, when I was so exhausted I could barely keep my eyes open, I jabbed my thigh with a pencil. Anything to stay awake.

Sometimes, the only thing keeping me upright was the sharp sting of graphite against skin. I’d press my palm to my face, willing myself to keep going. The kitchen clock ticked, relentless. My dreams were filled with formulas and essay prompts.

In a year, I dragged him—once the worst student in class—into the top fifty of our grade.

By fall, the teachers had stopped calling his name with a sigh. His grades climbed, slow but steady, and people started to notice. He’d flash me a grin in the hallway, and I’d pretend not to care. But inside, I was proud—of both of us.

The night before the SATs, the class group chat blew up.

My phone buzzed nonstop, the screen lighting up with message after message. I had a bad feeling in my gut, but I opened it anyway. The group chat was chaos—memes, emojis, screenshots flying by faster than I could read.

Jason posted a picture: me, kneeling to wipe his sneakers, a cartoon dog leash photoshopped around my neck.

The photo was grainy, but unmistakable. My cheeks flushed hot, shame prickling under my skin. Someone had gone to the trouble of adding a cartoon leash, the whole thing a cruel joke.

There was another shot of me curled up in the janitor’s closet, highlighting key concepts, with the caption: "Look at this dog working overtime."

My hands shook as I scrolled. The comments piled up—laughing emojis, cruel words, people I barely knew piling on. I felt small, invisible, like the walls were closing in.

The last one was of me, passed out at my desk, with a turtle he’d drawn on my exposed back, the ink trailing along my skin.

I remembered that night—how tired I’d been, how I’d trusted him. Now it was a punchline. My chest ached, anger and humiliation warring inside me.

"Grant really knows how to play—even the top student’s this desperate?"

"She tutored Grant just to land a rich kid. Didn’t think she’d get played."

The messages kept coming, each one sharper than the last. My ears rang, the words blurring together. It felt like the whole world was laughing at me.