Not to make excuses, but I was fed up. That top spot was always supposed to be mine. It still is, mind you. I hadn’t slept for more than a couple hours in days. I had studied like a madman all year long, but it still wasn’t enough.

I knew in the back of my head that Roman Bastille had probably been working just as hard as I was, but it sure as hell didn’t feel that way. In fact, I was starting to think that he was cheating somehow. Any unfair advantage he had going on could be the difference between being number one, and being number two; and I was so sick of being number two. 

It didn’t take very long for this thought to stick. As with most things, after the seed was planted, there was no way to stop the gears in my head from turning.

Now, if you haven’t noticed, people around here aren’t usually the type to cheat. At Arcadia Academy, there’s always so much on the line, so much to lose; and at the end of the day, with all the measures in place to prevent cheating, it’s probably harder to cheat than it is to actually do the work. Taking all that into consideration, I had pretty much ruled out any kind of mainstream, full-on cheating. I ultimately came to the conclusion that there was no way that Bastille was deciding to cheat, doing it successfully, somehow managing to not get caught, and largely benefiting from it.

Despite knowing this, I was still dead-set on the idea that something was going on, and that I needed to be the one to get to the bottom of it if I had any chance of ending up on top. Looking back on it, I’m starting to realize that this whole thing could’ve been avoided if only I wasn’t too arrogant and conceited to accept that it is, in fact, possible for someone to be smarter than me, but I digress.

One of the many perks of being a nosy bastard is knowing how to pick a lock in a way that exudes the normalcy of an uncooperative key . One of the many perks of paying the equivalent of a royal dowry to attend such a prestigious school is not having to worry about a roommate. Everyone else is usually too focused on themselves to notice that the person who vaguely looks like Roman, isn’t actually Roman.

As a result, it was easy enough to slip into his room unnoticed. Had breaking in–or any of the other things I ended up doing–been harder, maybe I would’ve been slowed down enough to realize that what I was doing was a huge invasion of privacy, not to mention completely immoral, and probably illegal in some capacity. That isn’t to say that any of those things really would’ve stopped me, but still. 

I had no idea what I was looking for. I guess just anything that set him apart from the other students. From me. Any clue, or oddity, or hidden gem. I started at the desk, flipping through all of the papers, folders, and file organizers. High quality projects, impeccable writing, perfectly executed experiments, blah, blah, blah. I wasn’t finding anything, and from the way Roman had his desk organized, I knew it was only a matter of time before I put something back in a way that would alert him to some form of meddling. 

Since Mr. Clean couldn’t bear to be the cause of any clutter, there wasn’t much out in the open. I shifted my attention to the place where most people hide secrets when they don’t expect anyone to be rooting through their drawers. In the bedside table. I opened the drawer, and there it was. A worn, leather-bound journal, with a bookmark kindly showing me the way to a page titled “Professor Info (pg. 7)”. Bingo.

This was it. I had caught Roman Bastille red-handed with a journal full of blackmail on the professors. Except, I wasn’t about to out myself for breaking in. I would end up facing expulsion right along with Bastille. Not really what I was going for. Thus, complete and utter madness ensued.

I hatched this crazy, awful plan to lawfully find my way into Roman’s room and accidentally uncover the damning evidence. Since it’s not uncommon for students at the academy to become overexerted or sleep deprived, all I had to do was slip a little fast-acting sedative from the medical wing into his drink during lunch, and when he was feeling dizzy and nauseous, I would selflessly swoop in and escort him to his room to get some sleep, where I would innocently stumble upon the journal. Perfectly safe, and totally logical, right? 

Until I lost track of him, and he fell down the stairs. Way down. Broken bones, a fractured skull, and worst of all, major brain damage. An innocent accident, caused by a not-so-innocent plan, surrounding what I later found to be a completely innocent journal, with completely innocent notes on what each teacher might like for National Teacher Appreciation day.

Not exactly ideal, but hey, that’s one way to get to the top.