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I smiled and opened the refrigerator, took out the water pitcher, and poured myself a glass as I eyed the contents and debated our options. I doubted most kids my age regularly handled the family meal—a Royal would probably faint at the mere suggestion, lest they get their baby hands dirty. But even they would probably learn to sling a spatula if their options were my father’s cooking or going hungry. I learned long ago if I wanted something edible, it was fully up to me, considering Sara was only nine and the one time she tried to make eggs, she nearly burned the kitchen down.
No joke. Scorch marks still stained the cupboards next to the stove.
Settling on tacos, I grabbed the lettuce and tomato off the shelf, then bumped the door closed with my hip and took them to the counter, where I pulled out a knife and a cutting board. I’d chop veggies, do my homework, get Sara, then brown the meat.
Allowing the monotony to soothe my nerves, I got to work. A couple hours later, I sat at the little round table in the eat-in kitchen with my father and sister. The remnants of dinner sat in front of us, ready to be wrapped up in containers. And while Sara had already filled us in on her epic day of fourth grade, which, sadly enough, made mine look pathetic, I still hadn’t found the opening I needed to inquire about assistance with my tuition.
My father stood and Sara followed, taking our plates to the sink while he began clearing the table. Cooking was my job, so she assisted him with clean-up every night while I usually slipped off to our room for the evening. There wasn’t much privacy when you were seventeen and shared a bedroom with your nine-year-old sister, so you took every chance you got to be alone.
But tonight, I sat there, mustering up the courage to ask my father for money I knew he didn’t have just so I could get out of tutoring Topher. It was selfish. I knew it, and though thinking about it made me squirm, my continued presence must’ve tipped him off because he paused on his way to the sink and glanced back at me.
“Something wrong, P?” he asked, his forehead knotting in concern before his gaze darted to the fingernail polish I was unconsciously picking at.
I knew what he was doing, checking my mood.
“Um, yeah, sure,” I said, cursing myself for being such a wimp. He turned back to the dishwasher and my stomach squeezed as I blurted, “Actually, it’s not. Okay, I mean.”
He glanced back at me with a frown. “Something you wanna talk about?”
“I guess there was some funding issue and they canceled a couple of the classes I need, so my scholarship is in jeopardy,” I said, testing the waters.
“So, what are they gonna do?”
“Well,” I squeezed my eyes closed and took a deep breath, then elaborated. “I talked to Principal Bell, and he said I just have to make up the difference somehow.”
My father reached up and grabbed the dishtowel slung over his shoulder and wrung it between his hands, his face a mask of worry as he stared at the fading linoleum, his mind working. “What kind of money are we talking about?”
He knew what the tuition was at Lakeview.
My heart twisted in my chest as I watched him mumble something about taking extra hours, maybe doing some side work, and I couldn’t do it. Dad already worked hard enough. Much more and we’d never see him.
I cleared my throat. “No worries, Dad. Bell suggested I take an open tutoring position to pay for it.”
He hesitated. “It’s not your responsibility to pay for school,” he said, though I could tell a weight had been lifted. “I can handle it. I’ll figure something out.”
I shook my head. “No, seriously. I mean it. It’s all taken care of. No biggie.”
Relief flickered in his eyes, and he hesitated. “If you’re sure . . .”
“Positive.” I nodded.
With a smile I didn’t quite feel, I hurried to my bedroom and over to the little ivory vanity my father bought me for Christmas my first year of high school and pulled open the top drawer. A rainbow of nail polish stared back at me.
With a sigh, I chose pure black. The color of the highest level of stress and anxiety. The color of mourning. Darkness. Sobriety. All things truly awful. Because it was official. As of tomorrow, I was Topher’s tutor.
TOPHER
I kicked the front door closed behind me to the scent of chocolate chip cookies.
My stomach growled at the sugary scent as Mom appeared, rushing into the foyer. “Oh, honey. Here, let me help.” She helped me with my gym bag before she disappeared into the coatroom, her voice echoing from inside. “I saved you dinner, and there are cookies for dessert.”
“Thanks. I’m starving.” I slid off my shoes as heaviness settled in my chest. The envelope from Bucknell in my pocket felt like an anvil. “Um, is Dad around?” I asked.
“He’s working in his office, but he was waiting for you to get home. I’ll go get him while you eat. Your plate’s in the oven. Cookies are on the counter.”
I nodded and my stomach twisted at the thought of telling Dad about the scholarship offer, so I shoved the thought aside. If I dwelled on it, I wouldn’t be able to eat a bite and, at the moment, I felt like I could eat a whole cow, though it was always that way after practice. Swimming for hours on a good day was enough to make anyone ravenous. Add in the equivalent of a basketball-soccer fusion in water and my stomach felt like a bottomless pit.
Mom bustled out of the room while I made my way to the kitchen, my bookbag still slung over one shoulder. Once inside, I opted to have dinner at the island like I often did when practice ran later and I missed the family meal. Truth be told, I enjoyed eating alone. It meant space from my father and his prying eyes.
