Page 49 of Within These County Lines

I take a sharp inhale as she pushes open the door.

“I’m sorry to hear about your aid application,” she says as we head toward her office. “I can’t imagine how stressful this must be.”

“It hasn’t been great,” I say. “But thanks for meeting with me.”

We sit. I stare at the floor, picking at the skin around my thumb. “Why did I get rejected?”

She purses her lips. “I wouldn’t call it a rejection. It doesn’t reflect your abilities as a student. You’re just ineligible this year. You can always reapply.”

I shrug. “Okay . . . but why am I ineligible this year?”

She lets out a slow breath. “It’s a combination of factors . . . your family’s income level, the number of students applying, when you submitted your application . . . You applied quite late.” She tilts her head.

“So you’re saying I’m screwed?”

She levels me with a stern look. “Do you really think I called you in here just to say you’re screwed?” She leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s about to tell me a secret. “At this point in the game, we do have one last shot.”

My eyes widen.

“It’s called the Keystone Rural Youth Mathematician Education Fund.”

My ears perk up. “What do I have to do?”

“It’s a bit of déjà vu for us.” She takes a deep breath. “There are no set deadlines. Submissions are rolling. But we should move quickly. It’s for students from rural Pennsylvania communities who demonstrate exceptional promise in math—which makes you a perfect candidate. They’ll need your transcripts, which I can send over, a five-hundred-word essay on what you hope to achieve by studying mathematics, and two letters of recommendation. I can write one. Do you know someone who could write your second?”

I nod before even thinking of a person.

“Great. Let’s aim to submit everything by the end of July. Does that work for you?”

I spring out of my seat. “Yes! Thank you so much.” My smile stretches so wide it hurts. “I might need therapy after this application, just to deal with the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on these past couple of weeks. But that can wait.”

She laughs. “I’m here for whatever you need.”

“Thank you, thank you.”

Between my cheers, I spot an STHS Class of 2015 banner above her desk. I pause.

“Whatever I need?” I ask, raising a brow.

She crosses her arms. “Don’t push it.”

I step forward. “Remember when you told me all that information about my grades and the activities I did?”

She nods. “Your high school record? Yes.”

“Yeah. That. Would you be able to pull up someone else’s record?”

She presses her brow. “Stetson . . .”

“A boy named Xander Pomers. Maybe?” I flash an innocent smile.

“No, Stetson. That’s their private information.”

I exhale. “I figured it was worth a shot.”

“Stetson.” Her voice drops to a more serious tone.

I grip the back of my chair. “Yeah?”