My Fake Boyfriend Is the School Bad Boy

The porcelain of the toilet tank bit into my spine through my thin uniform blouse.

I wasn't hiding. At least, that was the lie I told myself as I sat perfectly still in the farthest stall of the third-floor girls' bathroom. I just needed ten minutes of quiet. Ten minutes where the fluorescent lights of Crestview Preparatory Academy weren't glaring down on me, and the crushing weight of my perfect GPA wasn't sitting squarely on my chest.

I pulled my knees to my chest, letting the cool tile seep through my plaid skirt. The bathroom smelled like cheap vanilla body mist and the sharp, chemical tang of lemon bleach. It was usually empty during fourth period. Usually.

The heavy, unmistakable thud of the solid oak door swinging open echoed off the tiles.

I held my breath.

Heels. Not the standard-issue Crestview loafers. Someone had customized their uniform, which meant it was someone with enough money to ignore the dress code without consequences.

"I'm just saying, it makes perfect sense."

The voice bounced off the mirrors, shrill and dripping with absolute certainty. Harper Vance. My stomach performed a slow, sickening roll.

"I don't know, Harper," a second voice replied, softer but just as eager. Chloe. "Are you sure? It's a massive accusation."

"Oh, please." The sound of running water hissed out of the sink, followed by the aggressive tear of a paper towel. "Think about it. How else does a charity case from the east side maintain a 4.2 GPA while working weekends? Nobody is that smart, Chloe. Not without help."

My fingers tightened around the fabric of my skirt. Charity case. They were talking about me.

"You really think she's sleeping with Mr. Harrison?" Chloe’s voice dropped to a loud, theatrical whisper. "He’s, like, forty. And married."

The air in my lungs turned to glass. I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my knuckles against my mouth to keep from making a sound.

"I didn't just hear it, I practically saw it," Harper scoffed. Her voice moved closer to the mirrors. I could picture her leaning over the sinks, applying that sheer pink gloss she wore every day. "Sarah left her hydro flask in the AP Calc room yesterday after school. When she went back to get it, the door was locked. She looked through the window on the door? Raisa Petrova was standing right next to Harrison's desk. He was handing her a thick manila folder, and she was smiling at him. Like, smiling smiling."

"A folder?"

"The midterm answer keys, obviously. And Sarah said his tie was loosened." Harper tossed the paper towel into the trash can with a dull thud. "It's disgusting. She’s literally trading favors to keep her academic scholarship. It completely invalidates the Valedictorian race."

"Wait." Chloe’s voice spiked with panic. "If she's cheating, and she gets Valedictorian over you..."

"She won't." Harper’s tone went flat, stripped of all its usual fake sweetness. It was the voice of someone holding a match over gasoline. "My mother is on the PTA board. I already texted her what Sarah saw. By the time the final bell rings today, the Dean is going to have a full report on his desk. They’ll pull her scholarship. She’ll be expelled before Friday."

A high-pitched ringing started in my ears, drowning out the steady drip of the leaky faucet in the sink next to me.

Expelled.

The word tasted like copper in my mouth. My scholarship wasn't just a piece of paper; it was my entire life. It was the hours my mother spent picking up extra shifts at the diner just to pay for my textbooks. It was the sleep I skipped, the parties I never attended, the absolute, bone-deep exhaustion I lived with every single day to prove I belonged in these ivy-covered brick walls.

"God, I almost feel bad for her," Chloe murmured, though she didn't sound bad at all.

"Don't," Harper snapped. "Trash always takes itself out eventually. Come on, we're going to be late for French."

The door clicked open, sighed heavily on its hinges, and slammed shut.

The silence that followed was suffocating.

I didn't move for a long time. My hands were shaking so hard that when I finally reached up to unlock the stall door, the metal latch rattled loudly against the frame. I pushed the door open and stumbled out into the main bathroom area.

I braced my hands on the cold marble of the sinks and looked up at the mirror.

The girl looking back at me was a ghost. My skin was practically translucent, highlighting the dark, bruised-looking circles under my brown eyes. My uniform tie was perfectly straight, my collar perfectly starched. I had spent three years building an impenetrable fortress of perfection so that no one in this school could ever look down on me.

And in a two-minute conversation, Harper Vance had burned it to the ground.

Sleeping with Mr. Harrison. The sheer absurdity of it made a hollow, hysterical laugh bubble up in my throat. I had been in his classroom yesterday. I had been picking up the extra-credit worksheets he asked me to grade because he knew I needed the community service hours. He had handed me a folder. I had smiled and thanked him.

But truth didn't matter at Crestview. Gossip was the only currency that held any real value. If Harper’s mother went to the Dean, they would launch an "investigation." They would look at my perfect test scores and sudden, quiet meetings with teachers, and they would twist it. The administration wouldn't risk a scandal with their highest-paying families. They would quietly ask me to leave to avoid the bad press.

I gripped the edge of the sink until my knuckles turned stark white.

I couldn't just deny it. A denial from the poor girl against the rich girl was a losing battle. I needed proof that my attention was elsewhere. I needed an alibi so bulletproof, so entirely distracting, that the idea of me looking twice at a middle-aged calculus teacher would become the dumbest thing anyone had ever heard.

I needed the school to look at me and see something else entirely.

I pushed away from the sink, grabbing my heavy backpack from the floor. The strap dug into my shoulder, grounding me. The ringing in my ears was slowly fading, replaced by the steady, frantic thumping of my own heartbeat.

I didn't have social capital. I didn't have wealthy parents to threaten the school board.

But I had logic. And logically, a scandal could only be buried by a bigger scandal.

I pulled open the heavy oak door and stepped out into the empty, sunlit hallway. The final bell of the day was exactly four hours away. I had four hours to find a shield.