Page 7 of Blacklist

Sterling

Five Years in the Past

Valmont Tennessee is nothing like the city. In New York, every street is crammed with life. It bursts out of cracks and alleys. It assails your senses. Tourists find it overwhelming. To me, it’s as close I get to feeling home. At least, it was before.

Before Francie got ideas in her head about my future. Before my test scores came back and my teachers took notice. Until that point, I was just another foster kid living on time borrowed from the state. After, people started tossing around words like genius and university.

I filled out the applications to make Francie happy. I’d had enough shit foster moms to know things with her were as good as it was likely to get. I didn’t expect the acceptance letters. Not from the schools I applied to, even with the high test scores and the decent grades.

When she walked into our cramped kitchen in Queens, clutching an envelope with the Valmont University crest on it, her eyes glistened.

“We can’t afford it,” I said flatly. That was my plan all along—set the bar impossibly high so it was easier to just duck under and continue on with my life—the life I’d built here. I’d cleaned up my act enough that I’d gotten to stay here for three years. I wasn’t leaving now. “Community college is fine.”

“You’re too smart to get stuck here, Sterling. You don’t belong on the streets.”

That’s when I’d noticed she was actually crying. I couldn’t stand it when she cried—and I had made her cry a lot. I’d broken more than a few foster parents in the first few years I was in care. That’s how I wound up with Francie in the first place. I never understood why she kept me. But every time I’d come home with a bloody nose, she’d gotten me cleaned up, washed my clothes, and got me a hot meal. Then she’d laid down the law.

There were rules in Francie’s house. Rules that my friends hadn’t had. Good grades—and I’m talking there had better not be a minus behind that A—were expected. Dinner was at six. On Sundays, I escorted her to mass at Our Lady of Mercy. For that, she didn’t kick my ass out. I’d barely managed to meet those expectations my first year with her. She’d been more lenient back then. Over time, I’d done more. I listened when she told me to take harder courses, even though it meant taking shit from the guys. I let her read some of my stories, but not everything I wrote. Some things didn’t need to be shared. This is where good behavior had gotten me. Despite my frequent street fighting, which was inescapable in our neighborhood, I’d kept my grades up and had taken the stupid college entrance exam—without actually planning to go. Until the fucking score came in the mail. I should have known by how excited she was that she expected me to go. Or when the guidance counselor called me in to her office to have a serious talk about my future.

I never decided if I’d failed to set the bar high enough or if Valmont University had lowered it to accommodate me. I’d read the brochure, but I didn’t buy what it was selling. It was a bit too glossy, too photoshopped to be believed. It wasn’t a world I belonged in. Valmont may be a half hour outside Nashville, but it has one foot firmly planted in the past while the other tries desperately to drag it along toward the future.

I’m not stupid enough to believe my scholarship covers the entire cost like she claims. Watching her eat off the dollar menu on the fourteen-hour drive confirms my suspicion. That’s why Francie is different. She could have kicked me out when I turned eighteen, but she didn’t. It’s also why I’ve agreed to give Valmont a try. One semester and I’m out. Before we hit the Tennessee border I’m already checking local help-wanted listings on my phone. I doubt she can afford this, no matter what she says.

When we reach campus, certainty replaces doubt. I’ve been on college campuses before. NYU sits in the middle of the goddamn city, after all. But this isn’t a cluster of buildings crammed into Manhattan, it’s an entire city itself. Thick, wrought iron gates open to University Drive, and overhead, oak trees form a canopy of shade as dappled, emerald light dances off the hood of our white Mazda.

“This is the oldest remaining stone street in the city,” Francie informs. She’s been devouring every bit of information she can scrounge up on this place. She sighs, drumming her long, brown fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m jealous.”

“Of what? The shitty road? It hurts my balls.”

Her smile wilts at the corners of her mouth and she casts that look at me—the one that says my attitude is not appreciated. I’ve flattened her mood, one skill I’m particularly adept at: hurting good people. It must be genetic. My piece of shit father was the master of it.

“It’s nice,” I say, trying to muster up some enthusiasm. The stone street really does hurt my junk. I wonder what kind of sick fuck decided to keep that delightful bit of history around.

“With that enthusiastic endorsement,” she says with a groan. I can hear it in her voice. She can’t wait to get rid of me.

“You could have just kicked me out,” I mutter. It would have been easier. I had friends in New York that I could squat with. I ignore the hollowness inside me. It started as an ache then formed a pit when we reached the Pennsylvania border. By the time we reached Tennessee, I was nothing—just a void.

“Why would you think that?” she asks quietly. For a second, I think she’s read my mind. Francie’s freaky like that. Then I realize, she’s responding to what I said.

Why did I say that? I don’t know? Because she packed up all my stuff, shoved it in the trunk, and plans to drop me nearly a thousand miles away? Just a guess. The easiest way to solve a problem was to get rid of it. That wasn’t what was really bugging me though. It was how she’d gone about it. Forcing me to take the harder classes, making me sign up for the entrance exams, paying for my applications—she didn’t want to simply be done with me. Francie doesn’t solve problems like I do. She fixes people.

She’s too blind to see that I’m a lost cause, and fuck if she’s not going to pay for that mistake. I’d seen how much Valmont University cost. “You aren’t obligated…”

“Like hell I’m not. If your”—she cuts herself off. Whenever she’s tempted to talk about my family she stops herself. It’s her rule—never speak ill of your family. She told me about it when we first met. I was allowed to resent them, be angry at them, even hate them, but she drew the line at trash talk.

Words become actions, she’d tell me.

I know a thing or two about that.

Valmont University looks like the brochure. Large oak trees line the road that winds past the main campus. We pass building after building named after what I’m assuming were old white guys with deep pockets. Beauford Hall. MacLaine School of Journalism. Eaton Library, across from which a smaller, brick building sits: Tennyson Hall. The home for the English department is named after a famous poet. Go figure. There’s no money in books. Past the ivy-clad halls, the largest building of all reigns over the others. A sign post pointing in its direction declares it the West Student Union. Students spill from each building we pass, bags slung over their shoulders. Classes don’t start for another week. I wonder what its like to be so fucking eager to learn that you’re walking around on the first day with your books already. It’s all a little too perfect. I guess a college is always selling some version of ideal—the ideal campus, the ideal career, the ideal future.

“Greek row is down there.” Francie jerks her thumb in the opposite direction.

“So?” The location of the university’s fraternities and sororities is so low on my list of interests it’s practically off the list entirely. If I’m being honest, I don’t mind knowing where the sororities are. That’s useful information. I just don’t see why she’s pointing it out.

“You could rush. It would be a way to meet friends.”

I raise an eyebrow, biting back more commentary. She won’t appreciate it. I know she’s just trying to help but sometimes I think Francie has lost her mind. “I’m not really the frat type.”