His Perfect Score

"Have you figured out what you are going to tell the family?"

Logan Harwick’s voice message arrived right after.

"Do not pick a fight with your dad and stepmom over this. They are worried about Bria. You have always been the responsible one. Just do this for me and take one for the team."

He did not ask if I felt upset. He did not ask if I felt willing.

He informed me. My future had been signed away to make up for Bria Linden’s failure, and no one had checked with me first.

I stared at the screen, and my mind drifted back to the day they sorted us into classes in freshman year.

Logan had searched the entire building to find me. He leaned against the classroom doorway with a grin.

"Audrey, I got the school to put me in your class. If anyone gives you trouble, they will have to go through me first."

When we picked our course tracks sophomore year, he had a perfect score in physics, yet he followed me into bio‑chem instead.

He had said, "I promised you we would go to Edgemont together. Wherever you are, that is where I will be. That is our deal."

He used that same tone now to tell me that for Bria’s sake, my place at Edgemont could wait another year.

Every one of those promises had carried an expiration date, and the clock had run out the day Bria entered the picture.

I switched back to the state education board’s website.

A red warning box flashed across the screen. "Final confirmation is irreversible. Are you sure you want to submit?"

The cursor hovered over the confirm button. I clicked it.

The system returned a green banner. "Application locked successfully."

I took a screenshot, saved it, and logged out.

My phone lit up again. This time it came from the class group chat.

Someone had screenshotted Bria’s social media post and shared it in the group.

"Logan, you are really not going to Edgemont? You are the top scorer in the state, man."

"Repeating senior year for Bria. That is real devotion."

"Wait, what about Audrey? She is going to Edgemont alone?"

The chat went quiet for a few seconds.

Logan’s profile picture appeared.

"She has not been doing well lately. Do not ask about it. Test anxiety hit her hard and she did not perform. She is going to repeat the year with us."

He lied without hesitation, as if he were doing me a favor.

The others joined in immediately.

"I always said there was no way she stayed that consistent on her practice tests. Guess she cracked under the pressure."

"Honestly, that works out. The three of you repeat together and sweep the top three spots next year."

I watched the messages scroll past, and I felt calm.

Logan assumed that all he needed to do was say the word and I would take the fall for Bria, play the girl who choked on test day so no one would look closely at what had really happened.

He had not waited to get our story straight. He had written my failure into the record in front of everyone.

I did not respond. I screen‑recorded the entire conversation and saved it.

My phone buzzed. It was a call from the city admissions office.

"Is this Audrey Linden? Our system shows your application has been locked. Given your exceptionally high score, we are making a routine confirmation call."

"I submitted it myself."

My voice stayed steady.

"All right. Please keep your confirmation code safe. Best of luck with everything."

After I hung up, I logged back into the portal and linked the two‑step verification to my personal phone number and email.

As soon as I finished, Dad called.

"Audrey, did you finish your application?"

"It is done."

"Come home for dinner tonight. Logan is here too. We should all sit down and talk."

"Talk about what?"

I asked, although I already knew.

"About your sister." He sighed.

"Bria has been in rough shape the last few days. You are the older one. Try to be understanding."

"Fine. I will be right there."

He always acted like family meant all of us equally, yet the scale had never tipped in my direction.

I pushed the front door open. The living room felt eerily quiet.

No food sat on the dining table. Instead, a thick stack of documents rested in the center.

Dad sat at the head of the table. My stepmother, Lorelai Callahan, sat beside him, dabbing at her eyes.

Bria leaned against Logan, her eyes red and swollen.

Logan looked at me. His expression carried a silent warning. It felt like he was saying, "Do not make a scene. Just go along with it."

Dad slid the documents toward me.

It was an enrollment contract for a repeat‑year program. A pen with the cap already removed sat beside it.