Reborn: Three Days Before The SATs

My world was perfect.

Top of my class, early acceptance to Yale, just days away from the SATs.

Then, my stepsister Tiffany handed me a protein shake.

I trusted her, drank it, and then – darkness.

I woke up in a cheap motel, framed for cheating, test booklets scattered, my phone incriminating.

Campus security, news cameras flashing.

"Cheater!" the headlines screamed.

Yale rescinded my admission, my furious father disowned me, and my popular boyfriend Chad, feigning support, was part of it all.

Pregnant, isolated, my dreams shattered, I withered, looking ten years older than I was.

Five years later, I overheard Chad boasting, chillingly: "Tiffany and I planned it perfectly.

She needed Sarah gone – Valedictorian, Yale, the Miller inheritance.

And Sarah? Served her purpose. Time to upgrade to Tiffany."

The betrayal, so cold and absolute, utterly shattered me.

I ran blindly into the street, and then – screeching tires.

Nothing.

A gasp.

I sat bolt upright in my own bed, sunlight streaming through my window.

My heart hammered, the nightmare vivid.

I looked at my phone.

Three days before the SATs.

It was happening again.

No.

It was my second chance.

This time, they wouldn't know what hit them.

My world ended three days before the SATs.

Tiffany, my stepsister, handed me a protein shake.

"For energy, Sarah," she said, her smile too wide.

I trusted her. My father had married her mother after my own mom died, a death that always felt wrong.

Tiffany wanted my Yale spot, my father' s approval, everything I had.

I drank the shake.

Then, darkness.

I woke up in a cheap motel room.

My head pounded.

SAT cheat sheets were scattered on the bed. A stolen test booklet. My phone, logged into an answer-sharing group.

Campus security from my private school stood there. Local news bloggers, cameras flashing.

"Cheater," the headlines screamed the next day.

Yale rescinded my early admission.

I couldn't retake the SATs that year.

My father, Mr. Miller, a man obsessed with public image, was furious.

"You've shamed this family," he yelled.

He disowned me. Cut me off.

Chad Peterson, my boyfriend of two years, popular and seemingly devoted, feigned support.

I found out I was pregnant.

Assaulted while drugged, though I didn't know then Chad was part of it.

I moved in with him.

My friends went to Yale, Harvard, Princeton.

I became a young mother, isolated, my dreams dead.

Stress aged me. I looked ten years older than I was.

Five years passed.

Chad returned from a fancy internship.

I overheard him talking to a friend, boasting.

"Tiffany and I planned it perfectly," he said, his voice slick with pride.

"She needed Sarah gone. Valedictorian, Yale, the Miller inheritance – it was all for her and her mother."

My breath caught.

"And Sarah?" his friend asked.

Chad laughed. "I took care of her that night. Drugged, easy. She gave me a kid. Served her purpose. Time to upgrade to Tiffany. Her family's got the real Miller connection now."

The world shattered.

My stepsister. My boyfriend.

Betrayal, so deep, so cold.

I ran. Blindly.

A delivery truck.

Screeching tires.

Then, nothing.

A gasp.

I sat bolt upright in my own bed. My room.

Sunlight streamed through the window.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

The memory, the pain, so vivid.

I looked at my phone.

Three days before the SATs.

It was happening again.

No.

It was a second chance.

The door creaked open.

Tiffany walked in, holding that same protein shake.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she chirped, that fake sweet smile plastered on her face. "Made you a power shake for your studies."

My stomach twisted. The dread was a physical thing.

I looked at her, really looked at her. The jealousy in her eyes, barely hidden.

"Thanks, Tiff," I said, my voice surprisingly calm. "You first."

Her smile faltered.

"What? Don't be silly, Sarah. I made it for you."

"I insist," I said, my gaze steady. "Or are you worried about something?"

Panic flickered in her eyes. "Of course not! I just... I'm not thirsty. And I already had breakfast."

She pushed the shake towards me again.

I took it.

Walked to the sink.

Poured it out.

The thick liquid gurgled down the drain.

Tiffany gasped. "Sarah! What are you doing? I made that for you!"

"I'm not thirsty either," I said, my voice cold.

She feigned offense, her face flushing. "Well, fine! Be like that!"

She stormed out, slamming the door.

I leaned against the counter, my legs weak.

But a new feeling surged through me.

Determination.

I went to my desk, pulled out my SAT review books.

My eyes were clear, my mind sharp.

This time, things would be different.

I remembered the old phone.

A cheap burner I' d hidden in Tiffany's room months ago, after suspecting her of snooping. It had a voice-activated recorder.

I retrieved it. Checked the recordings.

There it was. Tiffany, frantic.

"She didn't drink it, Chad! She poured it out! What do we do now?"

Her voice was shrill, laced with panic.

Chad's voice, smooth, reassuring. "Relax, Tiff. We have other ways. We need her discredited before those SATs. Your mother is counting on this. That Yale spot, the Miller name... it all hinges on you being the top daughter."

Tiffany whined, "But her grades, Chad! She's always perfect! It' s the only thing standing between me and Mom getting everything we deserve from that old man!"

"Don't worry," Chad said, his tone chillingly casual. "My two years with Sarah? All part of the plan. She' ll break. We'll make sure of it."

My heart ached, a dull, familiar pain. But this time, anger hardened it.

Three extra days.

I had three extra days to prepare. Not just for the SATs, but for them.

I buried myself in my books, studying with an intensity I'd never known.

Then, a text. Anonymous.

"Watch your back. Don't trust anyone before the SATs."

Chad, I thought. Playing mind games.

I ignored it. For now.