Rose and Connor's First Time Alone Together

Rose and Connor's First 1:1

Rose Calloway

I'm painfully aware of the way my Chanel headband digs into my pounding skull and the way my fingers grip the buzzer slick with sweat. This is the last question in the last round of the national quiz bowl tournament and Connor Cobalt is getting on my last nerve. He's managed to answer just as many questions as I have, and our team's scores are tied up. Everything rests on this last point.

This round of the tournament is technically Dalton Academy vs Faust Academy For Boys. But from my perspective, the last couple hours have been a rapid-fire, one on one duel: Rose Magdala Calloway vs Richard Connor Cobalt. We've thus far established ourselves as the respective MVPs of each team by answering the majority of prompts, each of us vying to snatch a point before the other can.

My attention shifts to the officiator, who flips to the next page for our final question. Connor and I lock gazes. I wear a fierce glare while he wears his trademark and infuriatingly confident smirk. Ugh. I'm tempted to roll my eyes, but refuse to be the first to break eye contact.

Can't he at least pretend like he's scared of losing this last point?

I'd never admit it to anyone, but I am. This moment has been years in the making. I've been to dozens of competitions, studied for hundreds of hours, and written thousands of note cards in hopes of winning the national title.

No one is going to get in my way. Not even the handsome, teasing, and overconfident boy standing opposite me.

My glare must intensify with conviction, because Connor quirks a brow.

Translation: "Scared, Rose?"

My eyes narrow. "In your dreams, Richard."

The officiator begins reading.

"In this play, a prince falls in love with a maiden due to the magical charms of the Rightful Duke of Milan. That prince went on to..."

It's a Shakespeare question.

I've practically been reading Shakespeare since I came out of the womb.

Instantaneously, I know I've won. I slam the buzzer as my glare transforms into a confident smile to match Connor's.

Except nothing happens.

And in the second that it takes me to press the button again I hear the other size buzz in.

"The Tempest" Connor chimes in easily.

He's right.

My heart stops. And then I feel it drop all the way down to my Louis Vuitton heels. I feel devastated - so devastated that I barely register my teammates clapping me on the back then sliding past me to exit the room. The officiator's congratulations and closing remarks pass by in a blur, and I'm still staring at my faulty buzzer, seething at its betrayal when I hear:

"Don't look so upset, Rose. If it's any consolation, it's not you, it's me." Connor grins from across the room as he continues, "I always win." He shrugs his shoulders as if to say, "it can't be helped", and it sparks a fire in me, snapping me out of my trance

"Don't gloat, Richard. It's not a good look on you." I snarl back.

"Don't lie to yourself, Rose. Everything looks good on me."

He walks toward the officiator's podium unphased and begins flipping through the packet of questions.

This piques my curiosity. "What are you doing?"

"I always review the packets after a match."

"Really?" I say dryly. "Winning isn't enough for you?"

"No. It's not. Winning is only a byproduct of my true goal - which is to be better than everyone else."