Chapter FIVE: More Than Good Intentions

By Friday morning, Isaure had learned that asking students what they wanted was considerably easier than listening to their answers.

She sat at a table in the common room with her proposal spread before her, surrounded by notes collected over the previous two days. Some suggestions were useful. Others contradicted each other completely. One student wanted more academic societies, while another insisted the existing ones already consumed too much time. Several had complained about announcements being posted in places nobody checked.

Isaure had expected disagreements. She had not expected so many people to be right about different things.

"You're frowning at that paper as though it personally offended you," Séverine remarked, dropping into the chair opposite her.

"It suggests creating another announcement board."

"And?"

"We already have three."

"Perhaps the problem isn't the number of boards."

Isaure looked up. "Don't start."

"I'm not starting anything. I'm asking whether you've considered why nobody checks them."

"Because students are lazy."

"Or because important information gets buried beneath notices for events that happened two weeks ago."

Isaure glanced at her notes.

Unfortunately, Séverine had a point.

She crossed out a sentence in her draft and replaced it with a proposal for a weekly digital bulletin, with printed copies available for students who preferred them. It was a small change, but it addressed the actual problem instead of adding another object to the corridor.

"I hate when you make sense," Isaure muttered.

"You'd hate it more if I didn't."

Before Isaure could reply, a younger student approached their table. He was carrying a notebook against his chest and looked uncertain about interrupting.

"You're Isaure Valcourt, right? The leadership candidate?"

"Yes."

"I suggested that the science society should meet at a different time. Nobody responded."

Isaure remembered the complaint from her notes. "When did you send it?"

"Last week. To the society secretary."

"Have you spoken to them directly?"

He shook his head. "I'm new. I don't really know anyone there."

Isaure paused, then wrote something down.

Her directory could list every society in the academy and still fail students who felt uncomfortable approaching the people already inside them. She needed to consider how newcomers could participate, not merely tell them where to go.

"Would you be willing to explain that in more detail when I revise this section?" she asked.

The boy looked surprised. "You actually want me to?"

"I wouldn't ask otherwise."

After he left, Séverine studied her.

"What?" Isaure demanded.

"Nothing. I'm enjoying the historic occasion."

"Which occasion?"

"You listening without explaining why the other person is wrong."

Isaure returned to her notes. "Go to class, Séverine."

Séverine laughed and gathered her books.

Across the academy, Rafe had a different problem.

His student publication proposal had reached the stage where enthusiasm could no longer disguise missing details. He sat in an unused classroom with a notebook, a calculator, and three sheets of figures that refused to agree with one another.

The publication needed replacement equipment, but purchasing everything at once would consume most of the available budget. His proposed training workshops would require time from the staff adviser, who already supervised several extracurricular activities.

And now he had to explain how four additional student editors would make the workload manageable rather than create four new problems.

Caspian leaned against the desk beside him, reading the revised schedule.

"You're planning to train everyone before letting them contribute anything?"

"I'm planning to make sure they know what they're doing."

"Those aren't necessarily the same thing."

Rafe took the pages back. "Do you have a useful suggestion, or are you just here to annoy me?"

"I can do both."

"Impressive. A man of many talents."

Caspian ignored that. "What happens when someone wants to write but doesn't want to join the editorial team?"

Rafe stopped turning the pages.

He had been so focused on staffing that he had overlooked students who might want to contribute occasionally without committing to regular meetings.

"Trial submissions," he said slowly. "New writers could submit pieces for review before being considered for regular contributions."

"Sounds reasonable."

"You sound surprised."

"I'm trying to encourage you. Don't ruin it."

Rafe wrote the suggestion in the margin, then added a note to discuss the process with his adviser. He wasn't going to promise students an open submission system until he knew who would review their work and how much time it would require.

A voice came from the doorway.

"Are you two planning to occupy this classroom until graduation?"

Séverine stood there with a folder under her arm.

"Only until Rafe becomes a successful publisher," Caspian said.

"Then I should find another room."

Rafe glanced at her folder. "What are you working on?"

"The debate society's upcoming interschool event. Apparently, organising a debate requires more than announcing a date and hoping people arrive."

"That sounds familiar," Rafe said.

She stepped inside when he explained the publication project. Unlike Caspian, she didn't immediately suggest a solution. She asked how new contributors would submit work, who would review it, and whether students would receive feedback if their pieces weren't selected.

Rafe answered as best he could.

"What if you started with a trial period?" Séverine suggested. "A few submissions each week, reviewed by the editorial team. You could test the process before promising regular publication."

"I was considering something similar," Rafe admitted.

"Then you're welcome."

"I didn't say I was accepting your idea."

"You were writing it down."

He covered the margin with his hand. "That proves nothing."

Séverine smiled and returned to her folder. "When you've revised it, I'd be happy to look over the submission process. I'm not volunteering to run your publication, though."

"I wouldn't ask you to."

"Good. I have my own responsibilities."

After she left, Rafe looked at the note he'd written.

"She's helpful," Caspian observed.

"She's sensible."

"That's what I said."

"No, it isn't."

Caspian reached for his bag. "You should probably stop arguing with people who are trying to help you."

Rafe looked pointedly at him. "Take your own advice."

For once, Caspian had no immediate answer.

That afternoon, the candidates received an announcement from the competition committee. Before the practical assessment, each candidate would submit a preliminary plan outlining the problem they intended to address, the students consulted, the resources required, and the steps needed to make the proposal workable.

The submission wasn't the final assessment, but the committee would provide feedback. Candidates were expected to use it.

Isaure read the announcement twice.

She had a workable idea now. What she needed was evidence that it would function beyond the pages of her proposal.

At dinner, she found Caspian sitting with Rafe. Their conversation stopped when she approached, although neither boy looked particularly guilty.

"Have I interrupted something?" she asked.

"Rafe was explaining budgets," Caspian replied. "It was devastating."

"Then perhaps you should pay attention. Your own proposal could benefit."

Caspian set down his fork. "You seem unusually concerned about my proposal, Valcourt."

"I'm concerned about the quality of the competition."

"Of course."

She ignored his tone. "The preliminary plans are due next week. Have you tested your assumptions with students yet?"

"Have you?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"They raised problems I hadn't considered."

For a moment, he seemed genuinely interested rather than merely prepared to challenge her.

"What kind of problems?"

Isaure hesitated. She didn't owe him her research, particularly when they would eventually be judged against each other. But she remembered how quickly she had dismissed his point about accessibility during their first debate.

"Knowing a society exists doesn't mean a student feels welcome joining it," she said. "I'm trying to address both."

Caspian considered this. "That's better than your original plan."

"I know."

"I'm sure you enjoyed discovering that."

"Immensely."

His own proposal still had weaknesses, she knew. But for the first time, she wondered whether he was beginning to recognise them himself.

When she returned to her room that evening, Isaure reorganised her notes and drafted a list of questions for another consultation. She also added a section explaining how she would measure whether her proposed changes actually helped students.

Winning had once seemed like a matter of presenting the strongest argument.

Now she understood that a good argument could survive a debate and still fail the people it was supposed to serve.

Two weeks remained before the practical stage.

Isaure had no intention of losing.

But this time, she wanted to build something worth winning for.