Page 47 of Within These County Lines

“I got to go,” I say, standing abruptly. The backs of my legs shove my wheely chair into my desk with a loud bang.

Whitley grabs my arm before I can bolt. “Wait, I thought you had something to tell me?”

“Not anymore. I don’t feel well. I need fresh air.”

She pinches her lips. “You sure you weren’t just about to admit how bad of a friend you’ve been lately?”

Her words snap something inside of me. Before I can stop myself, it comes tumbling out.

“I didn’t get any financial aid for college, Whitley!” I shout.

This wasn’t what I was going to tell her, but it’s what I need to right now.

Her face falls. “Wait . . . what?”

“I didn’t get the freaking aid.” My ribs feel like they’re caving in. “Murray won. He got what he wanted.” My fist flies to my temple, pressing hard against the pounding behind my eyes.

“What are you talking about?” She glances around, lowering her voice. “Keep it down.”

“What’s it matter?” I throw my arms up. “I am so screwed. I’m never getting out of here. They can fire me if they want to! I don’t care.”

“How is this even possible?”

I let out a bitter laugh. “I have no idea. My parents must make too much money. Which is stupid, because I’m pretty sure college costs their entire salary.”

“But I got some aid,” she says, pacing our cubicle and shaking her head. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“I probably applied too late or something. Money dried up.”

The faces of students from my Tennessee class flash through my mind—the ones I’ve already connected with on social media, the ones who made me feel like I belonged somewhere else. They get to leave their hometowns. But me? I’m literally going to be a college dropout before I even set foot on campus.

No freshman fifteen. No flunking my finals. No toxic dorm romance to obsess over. Just a facepalm at the entrance gate.

“We need to do something about this,” Whitley says.

I sigh. “Like what?”

“Go to that stuffy guidance counselor who helped you with your applications. Figure out what happened. There has to be another way.”

“Oh, you’re right! She’s literally the only person who ever believed I’d get out of Penango.”

Whitley smacks my shoulder. “And me. I came up with the pact, remember?”

I nod, but then reality punches me in the gut again. “Wait . . . it’s summer. Will she even be around?”

“Email her. Or blow up her phone. We’re working in the summer. This is her job. Hell, I have two jobs now.”

Before I can agree, Whitley shoves me back into my chair, grabs my mouse, and clicks open my email.

“Now,” she says, “let’s get you out of here.”

23

The feeling I had when I read Xander’s missing person article in the archives reminded me a lot of the first time I realized my future with Murray might not play out the way I’d always imagined it.

It wasn’t a passing thought, but a weekend of spiraling. My head spun while my body sank, like all my future plans were drifting away from me, a swimming tube lost in the river’s current. In one moment, everything shifted.

It all started last fall, on a Friday afternoon in my counselor’s office. It had been a couple of weeks since our first conversation about my grades and college prospects.