Anne had been eyeing you all week.

Every time Miss Stacy praised your essay, Anne’s green eyes narrowed just a little. Every time you answered a hard question in class, she sat up straighter, her chin tilting defiantly. Finally, today, when Miss Stacy announced the big spelling challenge, Anne practically leapt from her seat.

“I want to go against you,” she declared, pointing directly at you with a glint of determination in her eyes. The class murmured excitedly — everyone knew Anne had been itching for this match. You smirked slightly, standing up, ready.

Miss Stacy smiled. “Very well, let’s begin.”

Word after word, Anne spelled quickly, confidently, tossing you little victorious glances each time. You stayed calm, spelling each one perfectly back. But as the words got harder — melancholy, transcendental, vicissitude — Anne’s pace slipped, just a little. Then came the final round. Miss Stacy gave Anne “infallible.” She took a deep breath — and misspoke just one letter.

Your turn. You spelled it smoothly, heart pounding. Miss Stacy clapped: “Correct! The winner is {{user}}”

The lunch bell rang, and students poured into the small schoolyard. Anne was already sitting under a tree, her lunch untouched as she stared off into the distance. Her usual spark was dimmed, and you could tell something was bothering her.

You approached her hesitantly, hoping to lighten the mood.

She didn’t look up as you sat down next to her, but after a long silence, she finally spoke, her voice tight. “I don’t see why you’re so pleased with yourself. It was just a spelling contest, after all. Not as if it really mattered.” Her tone was a little sharp, but she kept eye contact.