I shut my eyes briefly. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You also know you’re not the only medical science major competing for this scholarship, and the others certainly took a more conventional route for their essay.”
My fist clenches and unclenches at my side. Is that really all this shit is to them? To her? Being conventional? Turning in what’s expected even when you’re sitting on something so much bigger?
“I’ll be honest, Mr. Hunt. When you pair your recent academic slip with this research on dietary needs—”
I can’t suppress a dry laugh at that. “Dietary needs,” I bite out, forgetting where I am; who I’m talking to. “Did you read the whole paper?”
She arches her brows. “I did.”
“Then you know this is a lot more than that. It’s about science, thinking long-term. It’s potentialpreventionwhen there’s no cure—”
“If I could achieve one thing,” she reads, holding the essay, “it’s to revolutionize our thought process on food, the way we view what we ingest.”
“Yeah, but—”
“Eating healthy fats doesn’t only protect your existing brain cells, but also essentially helps create brain cells. When your glycated hemoglobin reaches a certain level, diabetes type 2 is diagnosed, but its symptoms show far before this ever happens.”
My skin burns, frustration making the back of my neck itch. “Did you read the part correlating the insulin resistance in type 2 diabetes with Alzheimer’s?Whypeople need to start thinking about sugar the same way they think about blood pressure?”
“Vinegar, cinnamon, olive oil, avocado—”
“Ma’am, before all that, I cover the fact that roughly 5.5 million people in the United States have Alzheimer’s. And that’s not even counting the other forms of dementia. I mean, we’re talking about 10 million people in this country, right now, who don’t have any signs of dementia, who will start showing symptoms within the next few decades. And they don’t have a clue that they can control it. That every little choice they make at the dining table is contributing to their future cognitive health, for better or for worse.”
Finally, Principal Lori looks up from my essay. Her eyes narrow, but she waits for me to continue.
“Look, you’re right,” I mutter, trying to cool off. “I strayed a little far from medicine. But I’ve been monitoring the research on dementia for years. We’re not getting any closer to finding a cure. So, yeah, I started looking into preventive measures instead, and I can’t believe more people don’t know how much of the food they eat today is going to affect where they’re at thirty, thirty-five years from now. Even health-minded people are shoveling whole grains and protein into their system, none the wiser. This ... this is something I can get behind, ma’am.” I shake my head, looking away. “Something I can actively do to help.”
The room’s quiet for longer than I can stand. I grip my knee, forcing it to stop bouncing. I know I shouldn’t have spoken to her the way I did, but I couldn’t help it. Even now, my blood’s boiling.
“Thank you, Mr. Hunt,” she finally says. When I glance her way, she’s typing on her computer. “That was insightful. Unfortunately, you’re late for calculus. Just tell Mrs. Scheerer you were with me.”
She doesn’t look up when I nod or when I make my way toward the exit.
I clench my jaw as I shove the door open.Great.Just one more thing I’ve fucked up.
Blue
Ihug the comforter tighter, a small smile on my lips. I don’t want to wake up yet. My mom and dad are both here with me, rays of sunlight warm my face, the earth is my bed, and I even dreamed I got to cuddle with Joshua. It was a great night.
“Mom,” I mumble sleepily. When she doesn’t answer, I stretch my arm out, feeling for her. “Mom ...”
Groaning at the silence, I throw the comforter off and force myself to sit up. Um, I’m definitely alone out here. My gaze wanders to Joshua’s place, but the curtains are drawn. My stomach sinks like a broken ship.
I stand and brush the grass and dirt from my pants, then make my way inside through the back door.
“Mom?” My eyes narrow as I walk through the empty kitchen. “Hello? Anyone?”
A muffled voice pulls my feet up the stairs, but it’s coming from Dad’s office.Weird. He usually heads straight to the law firm Monday mornings. I push my bedroom door open—empty. A frown tugs on my lips at the scent wafting in the air. Burned sage is easy to recognize; it smells just like pot.
I find Mom’s sage tucked beside the sweetgrass in my abalone shell. There’s no sign of smoke, which means she must have lit it a while ago. My brow furrows as I graze the sage with my fingertips. How long ago did she wake up? And why in the world did she smudge my room?
Grabbing my phone from beside the computer, I flip it open to call her, but the two unread texts make me pause.
Grumpy: Morning, sleepy.
Thirty minutes later ...
