Chapter 2

I didn' t waste time.

The library became my second home, the track my proving ground. Every equation solved, every lap run, was a small victory, a step away from the past.

Mark, predictably, tried to throw his weight around. He' d taken over my usual quiet corner in the library, not to study, but to conspicuously make out with Tiffany.

One afternoon, as I walked past, he deliberately stuck his foot out. I sidestepped him easily.

"Watch it, Sarah," he drawled, not even looking at me, his arm draped possessively around Tiffany. "Wouldn't want you to trip and fall. Again."

Tiffany giggled, a high, unpleasant sound.

The threat was clear, a slimy reminder of the drugged water, the failed fitness test. He thought he could break me with a memory.

"Don't worry about me, Mark," I said, my voice even. "I' m watching where I' m going this time."

His eyes narrowed. He wasn't used to me standing up to him, not even in the before.

I turned back to my books. Let them have their public displays. My focus was singular: the Academy.

His arrogance was his undoing, even with foreknowledge. He thought knowing the old SAT questions was a golden ticket. He barely cracked a book.

Instead, he was always on his phone, hustling. Gig work, he called it. Delivering packages, chauffeuring people in that rented sports car until, presumably, the rental company took it back.

All to shower Tiffany with gifts. A designer handbag one week, concert tickets the next. She' d parade them around school, her nose in the air.

"Mark just adores me," she' d announce to anyone who' d listen.

He started skipping classes. I saw him once, during school hours, with a group of older, rough-looking guys from Northwood, the town over with a bad reputation. They were smoking by the convenience store, Mark trying too hard to look like he belonged.

His mother, Mrs. Peterson, who used to bake cookies for Mark and me when we were kids, now looked perpetually worried. But Mark, armed with his future knowledge, probably spun her some tale of guaranteed success.

Tiffany' s demands grew. The gifts had to be bigger, better.

I overheard her once in the hallway, her voice sharp. "If you really loved me, Mark, you' d get me that necklace from Ashton' s Jewelers. The one we saw last week."

He looked stressed, his bravado faltering. "Baby, I' m working on it."

Later that week, I saw Mrs. Peterson at the grocery store. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She fumbled with her purse, dropping a few coins. When I helped her pick them up, she barely met my gaze.

"Mark... he' s just under a lot of pressure, dear," she mumbled, then hurried away.

I knew. He was stealing from her. Just like he' d steal my future.

Not this time.