After the Weekend from Hell, I’d arrived at school Monday morning just in time to duck into calculus. But I couldn’t avoid my friends at midmorning break. I reluctantly joined them at our spot—a little courtyard off the cafeteria with wrought iron tables and chairs—and braced myself for questions about Jack. It was obvious they’d all been talking about him; the whole school was talking about him. There was even a video going around that someone had taken with their phone, but I didn’t want to know who.
So I don’t go and claw their eyes out.
“Jack’s going to be okay,” I announced to my friends impatiently, as if I were already bored of the subject. “He got wasted and tripped. It’s not a big deal. He’ll be back at school in a week or two.”
I took a seat beside Tucker, hoping my little act was the end of it. But clearly, I didn’t know my friends very well. They surrounded me immediately, asking questions. Most with sympathy. Others—like Aria, Rhett, and Elowen—not so much.
“We’re glad he’s okay, Em,” Elowen said, as if speaking for thewhole school. “But you weren’t there. A bunch of people saw him put his hand in the fire. Like…deliberately.”
My stomach clenched, and I fought to keep my face neutral. “Yeah, because he wasdrunk. Like I said, it’s not a big deal.”
Glances were exchanged, like birds darting through the air all around me.
“It’s just that we’re worried about him,” Aria said with a sweet smile that didn’t touch her eyes in the slightest. “He seemed like he was in a bad way, and he was talking about your brother. The one who died—”
“All right, that’s bloody well enough,” Orion cut in. “He’s going to be okay, and that’s the long and short of it, eh?”
“Thank you,” I said, then glared at Tucker.
He glanced back with a stupid “What did I do?” look on his face.
The conversation moved on to other subjects, but I knew it’d swing right back to Jack as soon as I was out of earshot. Every single one of us at CHA had pressure to excel, so seeing someone else crack was almost motivating. Like reassurance that they might have it hard, but hey, at least they weren’t sticking their hands into a raging fire.
They killed him…
Jack’s words haunted me. I was too scared to look at them, but my parents’ neglect of Jack was bad enough. Mom had eventually visited him, maybe staying five minutes, and my dad lectured him the entire time about “family image” and “media scrutiny.”
Neither had asked him why he’d done it.
I have to get out.
At lunch, I went directly to the library, pulled up UCLA’s webpage, and printed the application forms. I filled them out and took them with shaking hands to Ms. Alvarez’s class. She looked up from her desk, where she was eating a sandwich and grading papers.
“Hello, Emery. What brings you…are you all right? You look pale.”
I set the application forms on her desk. “I can’t send this from myhouse, and I can’t receive any responses there either. And I have no way to pay for this college. Not while being attached to my parents’ money, which I will be until I’m twenty-four. So basically, this is probably a waste of time, but…here we are.”
Ms. Alvarez scanned the forms. A small smile touched her lips, then was dampened by concern. “Are you in danger, Emery? I have to ask.”
“No, nothing like that,” I said automatically. Then I thought of Grant walking out the front door to meet that train and Jack’s burnt fist. “I have to get away from here, Ms. Alvarez. The farther away, the better.”
“I see.” Ms. Alvarez looked grave. “Well, I can use my mailing address, though it might jeopardize my job if your father interferes like he did with my curriculum.”
“Oh, God. I didn’t think of that. No, forget it…”
I started to reach for the papers, but Ms. Alvarez was faster.
“A PO Box will do the trick. And as for the financial aid, it might prove difficult, given your family’s wealth. I would suggest applying for any scholarships available to you and maybe even private loans.” She pursed her lips. “Although I don’t like that you should be buried in college debt when your family has all the means in the world.”
“I have to get in first.”
She smiled. “I think UCLA would love to have you. But it says here the application fee is ninety-five dollars.”
“I know, and I don’t have it. They watch my money. Every cent. But I have these really expensive boots I’ve hardly worn and a few other things. I’ll sell them and pay you back. I promise.”
“I’m going to hold you to that, Emery, only because I want you to do this on your own. To have as much authority and autonomy over your decisions as you can. Okay?”
My head bobbed in a nod. “Thank you, Ms. A. Thank you so much.”
