Disclaimer:
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events are fictitious, unless otherwise stated. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No parts of the this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the author. Plagiarism is a crime.
Chapter 1:
If you ever want to know what it feels like to simultaneously make your parents proud and disappoint them in the same five minutes, just graduate as second in your class.
Technically, they call it Salutatorian, which sounds like it should come with a shiny crown or at least a confetti cannon, but apparently, it really just means "Congrats, sweetheart, you're almost good enough."
And no one says that out loud, of course.
Especially not at Riverside Prep, where we clap politely, shake hands, and pretend our parents aren't silently calculating how many zeros they donated to the school this year just so our names are read first.
But my mother? She doesn't have to say a word. I can read disappointment in her posture like it's one of the fifteen chess openings she drilled into my brain when I was seven. She's standing off to the side of the auditorium, perfect posture in a cream suit, hands clasped, watching me with that expression that isn't quite a frown—but isn't a smile either.
And my dad? He's checking his phone, because he only shows visible emotion when a property closes or when the Steelers are losing.
I can't blame them. They didn't just raise me to be good. They raised me to be unbeatable. I am born to win. I am raised to win. My life is all about winning. My mom, former world chess champion and current coach-slash-strategist-for-anyone-with-a-trust-fund-who-wants-to-win while running businesses I couldn't care less, literally told me once "If you're not first, you're forgotten."
So, you know. Being remembered today feels like a participation trophy.
The principal calls my name "Selene Ava Blackwood, Salutatorian, Class of 2025!"
Applause. Polite, polite applause. I smile, shake hands, take the scroll like it's the Nobel Prize. The kid behind me whispers, "Congrats," and I whisper back, "For being the first loser?"
He laughs. I don't.
The walk back to my seat feels like a mile-long runway where everyone is waiting to see if I'm secretly crying. I'm not. My waterproof mascara is industrial-grade, and besides, tears are for car rides home, not gymnasium stages.
When the ceremony ends, I barely make it two steps into the hallway before my mom appears at my side like she teleported there. "Smile wider. The photographers are still here," she murmurs.
"Yes, ma'am." I paste on a smile so convincing, even my cheeks believe it.
My dad finally looks up from his phone. "Congratulations, Selene," he says, like he's congratulating someone on a decent quarterly report. "Must've been better if you are the closing speech not the opening."
"Thanks, Dad. Always dreamed of being... second-best."
Neither of them laughs. Shocker.
The Blackwoods, by the way, are... what do I call it. My dad, Gregory Blackwood, owns half the buildings in downtown Pittsburgh, three vacation homes we visit exactly twice a year, and a medical companies I am actually, surprisingly, interested in. My mom, Diana, is a legend in the chess world—retired champion turned coach, with a client list that includes future grandmasters and bored billionaires who treat chess like a sportscar hobby.
And me? I'm the daughter who was supposed to be the ever so loving, ever so perfect daughter.
They love me. I know they do. They just... show it in weird ways. Like gifting me a Montblanc pen instead of flowers after my speech because "real winners sign contracts, not autographs."
And then there's our house in Sewickley Heights—picture a palace with better Wi-Fi. Marble foyer, a staircase that literally splits in two like a movie set, and a wine cellar bigger than my entire dorm will be next year. We also own a ski chalet in Aspen, a beach place in The Hamptons, and a penthouse in Miami that my dad calls "an investment property" but is really just his excuse to escape Pennsylvania winters.
Sounds glamorous, right?
Yeah, except when you're standing in the kitchen listening to your mom dissect your Salutatorian speech like it was a chess match she lost in 2003.
"You had the room," she says, sipping her tea. "But your pacing could've been sharper. And the joke about Mr. Whitman's history tests—unnecessary."
"Mom, everyone laughed."
"Laughter isn't the goal. Memorability is."
Translation: Valedictorian would've been memorable.
My dad, from behind his laptop at the breakfast counter, adds, "You'll do better at Yale."
Oh, right. Yale. The one-word solution to all my current insecurities. I mean why send your daughter to Connecticut when UPenn exists right?
Speaking of insecurities, let's talk about my friends.
Yes, I actually have some. I'm not just the girl who calculates chess strategies while eating gluten-free snacks in a marble kitchen.
There's Marie, Maria, technically, but she'd rather throw her phone into a lake than hear anyone call her that. She's the calm one, the girl who somehow juggles academics, friendships, and her messy situationship without combusting. She's like the human version of chamomile tea, except with a sarcastic streak when you least expect it.
Then there's Alcy. Short for Alcyone, because her parents apparently opened a baby name book to the "mythology" section and stopped there. She's effortlessly confident, the type who can walk into any room and immediately know who has a crush on her.
Eve? Absolute chaos gremlin. She once convinced an entire senior class to wear pajamas for Spirit Week when it wasn't even officially Spirit Week. She claims it was a social experiment. I think she just likes making teachers nervous.
And Ash, Sweet, steady Ash, who somehow manages to ground all of us without ever sounding like anyone's mom. She's the one who hands you water when you're spiraling at 2 a.m., no questions asked.
The four of them keep me sane, even when I feel like I'm constantly auditioning to be the daughter my parents actually wanted.
They're also the only reason I haven't thrown my Salutatorian plaque into the Allegheny River yet. Ash already texted me "Stop sulking. It's literally just a speech."
Easy for her to say. Her parents don't measure her worth in trophies and stock options.
By the time we get home from the ceremony, I'm so drained from fake smiling I could hibernate until August. But instead, I end up on my bed, laptop open, scrolling through Yale's welcome emails while my phone buzzes with texts from the girls.
Marie: Post-grad party at the lake tonight. You're coming, even if I have to kidnap you.
Alcy: Wear something cute. Like, second-place-but-still-hot cute.
Ash: We're proud of you, Sel. Ignore your parents for one night.
Eve: I'll drive. Be ready at seven.
I stare at the texts, then at my ceiling.
And for the first time all day, I actually smile. Tho I doubt my parents would allow me to go, but still.
Maybe being second-best isn't the end of the world.
Maybe it's the start of something... else.
Because if there's one thing I've learned after eighteen years of being a Blackwood, it's this
Sometimes, the real victories aren't the ones with trophies.
Sometimes, they're the ones you don't see coming.