I stop thinking about ideas.
The ownership of ideas is inconsistent. They belong to whoever says them last, loudest, or with the most witnesses.
I already learned that lesson the hard way.
Reputation is different. Reputation collects.
I start paying attention to where it shows up.
Faculty meetings aren't public, but their aftereffects are. You can see it in the way teachers repeat certain names, the way they preface comments with "I was talking to—" as if proximity alone is a credential. Oscar's name starts appearing in sentences that sound like conclusions.
"Oscar's been very prepared this year."
"Oscar has a good sense of balance."
"Oscar understands how to work within the system."
Within the system. It's said like a compliment.
I hear it in Mr. Harrison's voice during announcements, the way he pauses half a beat longer before moving on. I hear it in Mrs. Gable's emails, where Oscar is mentioned even when he doesn't need to be.
It isn't favoritism. It's confidence.
They believe he'll handle things without supervision, which means they don't look too closely at how he does them.
That's what trust looks like here.
I adjust to their understanding of it.
I don't chase attention. I become visible in the right places. I stay late in the student council office, not to argue, but to organize. I answer emails promptly, using complete sentences and bullet points. I say things like "happy to help" and "just flagging this for awareness." I stop speaking in hypotheticals and start speaking in outcomes.
When faculty talk about projects, I talk about follow-through.
When they talk about fairness, I talk about consistency.
When they talk about risk, I talk about alleviation.
It isn't lying. It's translation.
Students notice different things. They care less about what gets approved and more about who listens. I eat lunch at different tables. I ask questions I already know the answers to. I remember names. I don't promise anything I can't deliver, and I deliver small things quickly. A poster reprinted. A meeting rescheduled. A complaint acknowledged.
Goodness doesn't come from grand gestures.
It comes from making people feel accounted for.
Oscar does the opposite, without meaning to. He speaks in finished thoughts, not invitations. He's confident enough now that he doesn't soften his edges. It doesn't hurt him—yet. If anything, it makes him look decisive. Safe.
Safe is a powerful word at Meadows Ridge.
Maya Chen fades quietly. Not because she does anything wrong. She just doesn't do anything that registers.
Her proposals are thoughtful but narrow. Her emails are polite but cautious. She waits her turn.
No one here rewards waiting.
By the time the first informal polling numbers circulate—nothing official, just chatter—her name is already framed in the past tense.
She would've been good. She's smart, but…
The sentence always trails off. No one finishes it, which means no one has to feel guilty.
I notice something else, too.
Whenever a question comes up—about funding, or logistics, or whether something might be "appropriate"—faculty don't ask who's right.
They ask who's "responsible".
"Responsible" doesn't mean innocent.
It means predictable.
In a meeting with Mrs. Gable, I suggest adding a short summary page to council proposals. One page. Clear metrics. Timelines. "Just to make review easier," I say.
She smiles immediately. "That would be wonderful. We've had issues in the past with things getting… muddled."
Muddled. Not wrong. Not unfair. Just unclear.
That's when it clicks.
This place doesn't run on justice. It runs on confidence. On the appearance of order. On the belief that the people in charge know what they're doing, even when they don't.
Especially when they don't.
I file the thought away, careful not to touch it too directly. Some realizations are better kept theoretical until you know what to do with them.
Oscar keeps rising.
I keep stabilizing.
By the end of the week, teachers trust him to innovate and trust me to maintain. Neither role is accidental. Both are useful.
As I pack up my bag on Friday, Mrs. Gable calls after me. "Sage—thank you again for being so reliable lately. It makes a difference."
I smile. I mean it.
Reliability isn't about being good.
It's about being the person they don't worry about.
And now that I know that, I know exactly what kind of problem this school will always choose to solve first.