You Stole My Score, I'll Take Your Future

One month until the SAT.

Staring at my phone screen—at the pulsing number on "Oracle," the mandatory score prediction app that Elite Prep forced every student to install—I couldn't help but think it was all a joke.

In my previous life, every time I finished a practice test, this garbage system would automatically dock twenty points from my predicted score.

But skip class for a day? The number would mysteriously jump up twenty points.

Back then, I actually believed in this bullshit algorithm. I completely gave up for an entire month, watching that predicted score skyrocket all the way to 1550.

But when I finally logged into College Board to check my real results, I'd scored a pathetic 400.

And that brilliant 1550? It appeared on my stepsister Dahlia's score report instead.

Disgusted that I'd embarrassed the Wright family, my father Harold froze my credit card without a second thought and threw me out of the estate, clearing the path for Dahlia to claim Grandpa's billion-dollar trust fund all for herself.

That night, homeless on the streets, I was cornered by some thugs in a filthy Brooklyn alley and beaten to death.

Lying in a pool of my own blood, fading fast, I heard Dahlia's voice.

"Your GPA's been crushing mine since we were kids. I thought you, the so-called 'Straight-A student,' were supposed to be so smart."

She stood over me, mocking. "Turns out you got played by a prediction app. Pathetic."

That's when it finally clicked. My Oracle prediction system had been completely rigged from the source code—by Dahlia.

I shot up in bed, gasping, my shirt soaked through with sweat. I'd actually gone back in time—one month before the test.

Right now, the Oracle widget glowed eerily on my phone's home screen, displaying a single number: 1350.

"Maeve, want to hit Starbucks tonight and study together?"

Hearing Dahlia's saccharine voice, I didn't even bother looking at her. I grabbed the Princeton SAT Guide off my desk and tossed it straight into the trash.

"Test's coming up—only nerds cram at this point."

The moment the words left my mouth, my Oracle score jumped "+20."

Dahlia let out a theatrical sigh of concern, but when I turned away, I caught the flash of pure glee she couldn't quite suppress.

I wasn't about to watch her little performance. I headed upstairs to my room, claiming I needed to "catch up on sleep."

But Dahlia clearly wasn't ready to let me off that easy.

She followed me up, iced Americano in hand, leaning against my bedroom doorframe. "Maeve, Dad hired a Yale tutor to come tomorrow. I know you've got a strong foundation, but with Grandpa's trust fund on the line, you really shouldn't get cocky."

I swatted her hand away impatiently.

As coffee splashed onto the carpet, I used her split-second distraction to tap my phone, beaming a zero-click payload to her device.

"What's the point of last-minute cramming? If you want to kiss up to that Yale tutor, be my guest. I've got Netflix to catch up on."

"Maeve, you can't just give up like this..." She was repeating the exact same fake concern she'd used in my previous life.

I knew what she was really doing—testing me, trying to confirm whether I'd fully bought into the rigged algorithm.

Meeting her calculating gaze, I smirked. "Don't worry. Even if I party every night, I'll still score higher than you with my eyes closed."

Dahlia immediately put on her wounded act, though the triumph in her eyes was impossible to hide.

Watching her saunter away, I allowed myself a cold smile.

This time, Dahlia, you're the one who's going to slip up.

Back in my room with the door locked, I glanced at my phone. My little performance had already pushed the Oracle score up to 1390.

But the moment I sat down at my desk and pulled out my Advanced Algebra notes from the hidden compartment in my drawer, the number on my screen began flickering wildly—dropping fast.

1350... 1310...

By the time I'd worked through the final equation on scratch paper, the score had crashed to 1150.

I raised an eyebrow, unsurprised. Hitting enter on my laptop, I connected to the malware I'd slipped onto her phone earlier.

Her voice immediately crackled through my earbuds, furious:

"Damn it! Why the hell is Maeve's score dropping? I knew that bitch was lying about not studying—she's totally sneaking in work behind my back! She doesn't trust Oracle at all!"

A cold laugh came through the feed.

"Relax. Once her score drops below 400, the system automatically sends Elite Prep's board a forged medical report flagging her for cognitive impairment. They'll kick her out immediately to protect their acceptance rates. Can't have someone dragging down the numbers."

My chest tightened. My fingertips pressed hard against the desk.

Dahlia let out a gleeful shriek. "Oh my God, I can't wait to see her face when they boot her out like some brain-damaged reject!"

Watching the numbers continue to drop, I frowned. I needed to figure out the exact parameters of this monitoring code.

For the next hour, I ran test after test.

High-level SAT vocab lists tucked inside a Vogue magazine? Score dropped.

Listening to grammar crash courses through earbuds while pretending to zone out? Score dropped.

Even when I cleared my desk completely and just silently wrote out complex geometry theorems on scratch paper—the score kept falling mercilessly.

As the number approached 600, the edges of my screen began flashing urgent red warnings. I clenched my fists, palms slick with sweat.

Couldn't risk pushing it any further. I needed to make the system think I'm completely spiraling.

I changed into a tight cami and a worn leather jacket, messed up my hair, smudged on some smoky eyeliner, grabbed my phone, and bolted out the door.

I called an Uber and headed straight for the most chaotic underground frat party in the city.

It wasn't until I was drowning in deafening bass and the stench of cheap alcohol, swaying in the crowd with a red Solo cup in hand, that the warning finally disappeared. My score climbed back up to 1220.

Exhaling in relief, I slipped into a dimly lit corner booth and reconnected to the surveillance feed.

The system had clearly synced my location. Through my earbuds, Dahlia's voice was ecstatic:

"I told you Maeve would fall for it! Look at her location—she's at some trashy frat party right now being a total trainwreck!"

"Best part? She's at that dump watching her score climb, probably thinking she's some kind of genius who doesn't need to study. What an idiot."

"That moron. The Ivy League acceptance is mine!"

Listening to Dahlia's manic laughter, I smirked and cut the feed.

She had no idea. I'd already figured out Oracle's game.