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When he does finally text, he starts with an apology.
From: Leon
Sorry. I got a call from my mom. She needed me to help her out with something. I’ll be back in Atlanta soon enough. Want to pick something for us to do together when I get back?
A guy who takes care of his mother. Who could stay pissed about that? Not me, for sure. Especially when it’s followed up with a request for a date.
Besides, I know exactly where I want to go.
To: Leon
Could you stand spending time with me at a museum?
From: Leon
Sounds great. When and where?
To: Leon
High Art Museum, whenever you get back. There’s a special surrealist exhibition.
From: Leon
Perfect. I’ll grab tickets for us.
And just like that, I think I might be falling for him again.
I can’t wait for our date. I’m practically floating when I stop at the mailboxes outside my apartment complex and open mine.
Inside, there’s a thick envelope from the art school.
My heart stutters to a stop, but somehow, I keep moving enough to open it.
Inside the envelope is an invitation to apply for the Presidential Scholarship.
If I get it, even more of my school would be covered.
Numbers run through my mind. I’d have to get a job. It wouldn’t be easy.
Suddenly, I deflate.
There’s no way my father will ever let me go away.
I need to talk to someone about this. What I really want to do is contact Leon. I don’t reach out to him, though. Our connection is too new for me to be willing to risk telling him about Control.
It might scare him off.
I’ll talk to Flirt, then I’ll decide. She always has good advice.
So, I head to the club.
* * *
As I walk into the clubhouse, the smell of leather and gasoline fills my nostrils. The sound of revving engines and laughter echoes through the room. Flirt is sitting with a group of guys sitting at the bar that runs along the back wall of the main room, but as soon as she sees me, she waves me over.
“Hey girl, what’s up?” she asks with a grin. Her bleach-blonde hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and she’s wearing a tight black tank top and ripped jeans.
“I got an invitation to apply for the Presidential Scholarship at the art school,” I reply, my voice barely above a whisper.
