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That’s the whole problem, the principal.
But I’m telling the truth. I did go talk to my guidance counselor, and she did tell me all these things. Well, after she told me that it’s going to be hard and it’s not a very common occurrence. Usually it’s better to just go through the two months and have the process happen naturally.
But of course I don’t have two months, do I?
I only have four weeks before the tour starts and I need to be out of here by then.
I need to.
Hence this whole by-the-book legitimate plan.
I mean, this should impress him, right? This should work.
It’s a plan he’s bound to like, this fucking rule fiend who’s here to make more rules, apparently.
“Four weeks,” he repeats yet again, breaking my thoughts.
“Yes.”
His ring clinks against the glass as he picks it up to take another sip, his eyes never leaving mine. “That’s a lot of work.”
My belly tightens at the clink and I shift on my feet. “I’m willing to do it.”
Another clink as he lowers his glass. “You’re willing to do it.”
“Yes,” I say, my toes curling this time.
“You must be very desperate then.”
“What?”
“To get out of here,” he explains. Then, “In four weeks.”
“Yes, I am. Of course I am. I’ve been desperate to get out of here since the moment I was trapped here.” I raise my eyebrows and inch up my glasses. “Three years ago.”
Which is obviously the truth and is not a mystery to anyone.
I’ve been quite vocal about my hatred of this place.
And so I’m counting on that. I’m counting on the fact that he’ll buy it as the reason.
As the whole reason, I mean, as to why I want out in exactly four weeks.
God, please let him buy it.
Something flickers in his eyes and he murmurs, “But if you’ve been trapped here for three years, what’s another two months?”
“You’re not seriously asking me that, are you? Seriously.”
He’s unbothered by it though. My snippy tone and my glaring eyes.
He takes another sip of his scotch, his ring hitting the glass again, and I swear if I have to go through the chaos his stupid silver ring is causing in my body, I’m going to do something drastic.
Like march over there, wrestle that drink out of his hand, and throw it in his arrogant face.
“I guess not.” He throws out a short nod. “But that’s not what I’m asking.”
“So then what the fuck are you asking?”
His dark, penetrating eyes narrow in warning. But I don’t care.
I mean, how can he even ask me that? How?
When he knows how much I want to get out of here.
“I’m asking,” he says at last, “why is it important for you to leave in four weeks? Exactly four weeks. And why is it so important that you’re willing to work for it? Something that you’ve never really done. For anything, actually.”
Jesus Christ, why does he have to be so difficult?
Why can’t he just make it easy for me?
Just this once.
“Are you saying that I’m a spoiled little princess?” I snap out.
“No.”
I’m slightly taken aback by his negative answer. When he clearly implied something else. And maybe that’s why I launch into this long monologue. “Good. Because I’m not. I’m not fucking spoiled, okay? Look at where I am. Where I’ve been living for the past three years. How I’ve been living. Every joy in this place comes with a price. Every happiness is attached to a million rules. Not to mention, I’m not some freeloader. And you know that. There’s a trust set up in the will that pays for my upkeep. And before you call me a trust fund baby, let me also tell you that I have talents of my own. I have my…”
I come to a halt though. A screeching halt.
Because… what do I have really?
What talent do I have?
I mean, I have my…
But can I really call that talent? They are silly… doodles.
They’re not even doodles actually. They’re just…
They’re nothing.
It’s nothing.
“You have your what?”
My breaths — that were rapid, I realize now — stop at his prodding. They halt and somehow get tangled up in my chest, and I can’t believe I’m thinking about something so inconsequential right now.
Something that has no bearing on my goals, my plans.
Throwing him a belligerent glance, I say, “I’m not spoiled. And even if I am, it’s none of your business. It doesn’t concern what we’re discussing right now.”
His eyes flick back and forth between mine for a few moments and I’m hoping that he accepts this and moves on from this topic.
And somehow, miraculously, he does.
Although there’s still a thoughtful hint on his features. “Maybe not.” Then he drains his scotch in one go and goes, “How about I do you one better?”
I’m instantly suspicious. “What?”
He sets the tumbler down and says, “Instead of making you wait for four more weeks, how about I let you go now?”
