Chapter 2: The Blame Game

At two in the morning, I was jolted awake by a message in the class group chat.

The shadows on the dorm ceiling swirled as I blinked myself back to alertness. I grabbed my phone, eyes gritty from lack of sleep, and opened the chat. Sure enough, there was my name, tagged in bold.

Class president Derek Sanders @-ed me to participate in the 800-meter physical test.

The notification icon pulsed. Derek Sanders. He loved making everything official, even in the dead of night. I could picture him crafting the message, double-checking his grammar, and waiting for the right moment to hit send.

I stared at my phone, reading the message in disbelief—twice.

My thumb hovered over the screen as I reread it. Maybe I was seeing things? Maybe the sleep deprivation was playing tricks?

"The student whose ID ends in 0089 must attend the fitness test on time. If you’re absent, you’ll have to deal with the consequences yourself."

The words glared at me, so coldly bureaucratic you’d think I’d just been drafted into jury duty. I sank deeper into my lumpy mattress, brain foggy and aching for answers.

I wiped my phone screen, double-checked my student number, and fell deep into thought.

A fingerprint smear streaked across the screen. I pulled my wallet from the tangle of charger cords on my desk and checked my student ID. 0089. No mistake. My chest tightened; my number was up.

Because 0089 really is the last four digits of my student ID.

Somehow, the universe—or at least Derek—had decided it was my turn. I exhaled, the weight of it settling over me. This was not how I wanted to start a Tuesday.

But I clearly remember: yesterday, the one picked for the 800-meter was my student council roommate, Natalie Grant.

My brain rewound to just yesterday evening: Natalie, all nonchalance and lip gloss, rolling her eyes when her name was called. No mention of my number, no hint that I’d be next in the firing line.

How did it suddenly switch to me?

It didn’t make any sense. Unless... unless someone had pulled a fast one overnight. I rubbed my eyes, feeling the prickle of paranoia.

I tried to calm down and scrolled through yesterday’s group chat history.

Sleep was officially cancelled. I scrolled back through the chat, the blue-white light burning my retinas. My mind raced, piecing together who might have wanted to dump this on me.

But, unfortunately, every message about the fitness test had been deleted by the student council.

Only blank space and admin notifications remained. It was like someone had swept the digital evidence under the rug. Classic student council cover-up.

Only the latest one remained:

"The student whose ID ends in 0089 must attend the 800-meter fitness test."

That was it. No explanation. Just my number, shining in digital ink. I felt a cold twinge of betrayal, like realizing your best friend had unfollowed you on Instagram without warning.

Absolutely impossible for me to participate.

I was still running on Tylenol and chicken broth. Even the walk from my dorm to the cafeteria was a struggle, let alone a full-out run. The thought of 800 meters made my stitches itch.

Just two days ago, I’d had my appendix removed in the hospital.

The scent of disinfectant and stale Jell-O lingered in my mind. My incision was still bandaged under my old XL college tee. Running? Not even remotely possible.

The doctor warned me over and over not to do any strenuous exercise.

Her voice still echoed in my memory: "If you so much as jog, you’ll risk tearing your stitches and ending up back here, young lady." She’d even made me sign a discharge form. No loopholes.

Forget 800 meters—even 50 would be a disaster.

Hell, sprinting for the last slice of pizza in the dining hall would have been a stretch. I shook my head, disbelief turning to stubborn resolve.

I don’t want the class president to end up with a lawsuit at such a young age.

Okay, I was being a little dramatic, but I genuinely didn’t want Derek to end up in legal trouble over my collapsed lung or worse. I wasn’t about to let anyone’s power trip risk my health.

So I hurried to message the class president privately:

"Derek, I just got out of the hospital and really can’t do the 800-meter test. Can you pick someone else?"

My thumbs hovered, hesitant. I pressed send, hoping he’d show a little human decency. For a second, I allowed myself to imagine a world where Derek responded with compassion.

But as soon as I sent the message, Derek made a big show of posting a new notice in the group chat.

Nope. Derek doubled down, making a fresh group announcement, using the fanciest chat bubble the app would allow. It even had confetti.

He even switched to a flashy premium chat bubble, just to make it stand out.

I pictured him scrolling through bubble options, picking the most obnoxious one, just to drive his point home. The message blared at the top of the chat, impossible to miss.

"The 800-meter test list has already been submitted to the college. No substitutions or absences allowed."

He wanted everyone to know: rules were rules, and he was the king of the hill.

After posting that in the group, he even sent me a private reminder:

"Anyway, you’re the one who was picked. If you don’t show up, get ready to be marked absent and written up."

I clenched my fists in frustration.

For a split second, I wanted to throw my phone across the room, but the memory of my $700 screen replacement bill stopped me. Instead, I squeezed a pillow tight, teeth gritted. Derek was unbelievable.

But I still calmly turned to my student council roommate in the dorm:

"Natalie, yesterday it was you who was picked for the fitness test, right? Did your boyfriend mix up the student numbers?"

I flipped over in bed, voice barely above a whisper. Natalie, perched at her tiny vanity, pretended not to hear me as she painted her lips cherry red. Typical.