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The friend Brandon put in a headlock calls out to him, “Hey, asshole! We gave you enough time to hit on your girlfriend! It’s time to go!”
The others hoot and holler and loudly gossip about how Brandonjust banged her a couple weeks agoand how I must already bebegging for a repeat, and I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying something that’ll get me suspended again. Brandon breaks the stare-off first, standing up.
“I want my phone back,” he states, all conniving playfulness gone. “I know you took it. Give it back to me, and I’ll consider keeping the amnesia. You have one week.” He doesn’t wait for my reply, instead swinging his backpack over his shoulder and joining his friends, getting rowdy all over again. They very loudly head out from the classroom, patting one another on the back and generally acting like they’re entitled to all the space and everyone else can move out of their way. I sit frozen in my seat, watching them. Just before he exits, Brandon looks back at me with an intimidating glare, then disappears from sight.
Two
It takes a moment before I recover enough to pack up my things, but right when I’m about to escape into the hallway to find Jason and tell him about Brandon, my name is called.
Mr. Lewis, an ancient man who should’ve retired from teaching a long time ago, sits expectantly at his desk. “Just a moment, please, Siena.”
Warily, I close the distance between us, unsure of what he wants. Did he hear the conversation between me and Brandon? That seems unlikely but not completely impossible.
“Siena,” he starts, shuffling through papers on his desk, “since you started here at King, I’ve seen real potential in you. I know you’ve been working hard and keeping up with the readings, even going above and beyond when analyzing the text. Your hard work is paying off.”
Mr. Lewis picks up a stapled stack of papers and holds it out to me. It’s the paper I wrote after the last book we finished. On the cover page, the wordsGreat work!are scribbled in red ink, beside a mark of 98 percent.
Holy shit. I stare at the mark like my eyes are playing tricks on me, like it’s actually a six instead of a nine. But it’s not. I earned a 98 percent. My very first oneever. I did it all on my own, and a surge of pride wells up from deep inside me.
“Have you given any thought to what you want to do after you graduate?” he asks, forcing me to rip my eyes away from the glowing mark.
What do I want to do after high school? I know I want to go to college and get a good enough job to take care of Gia, but I haven’t given it much thought past that.
“Um, not really. College, I guess.”
He stands and walks around the desk. “If you’re thinking of college, which I encourage you to do, you need to start seriously considering your options. Deadlines are coming up for programs and scholarships alike.”
I can’t miss the deadlines to apply, especially not for any and all scholarships I can get. There’s no way I can afford school by myself, and my father, the man who told me I’m out when I turn eighteen, certainly isn’t going to help.
Mr. Lewis’s tone softens a bit when he takes in my panic-stricken face. “I’m not trying to worry you, only trying to put things into perspective. My friend runs a scholarship program for students from the community who show academic potential. I always recommend the top student from each of my classes for it, and to be quite frank with you, they always get it. I’m only telling you this because you were on the right track until you got suspended.”
For some reason, him insinuating I’m fucking up makes me straighten my spine and announce, “I’m still on the right track. I’m going to keep my grades up.”
“Good, good.” He nods, then lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I know you’re Florence’s daughter. The teachers gossip amongst themselves, and you’re the spitting image of your mother back in the day.”
Dread fills me, and I hold my breath, waiting for him to tell me that getting suspended only proves I’m exactly like my mother and that my good grades were a fluke, maybe even accuse me of cheating. But he surprises me when he says, “I taught your mom early on in my career, yes, but it’s hard to forget a troublemaker like Florence.
However, based on how hard you’re working and how you’re staying on top of all the work and even the optional course material, I know you’re different from her. I can see you trying. If you keep your grades up like this and stay out of trouble, I’d be happy to recommend you for the scholarship. I think you’d be a good contender, and it’s a good chunk of change too.”
He opens a desk drawer and holds out what looks like an information pamphlet. I stare at it, stunned.
I never paid Mr. Lewis much attention, but he knew my mom, Florence Bowen, the D-list actress more famous for appearing in tabloids and causing issues than for her few cult movies. The woman who grew up here in King City and has a reputation as the worst kind of person.
But not only does Mr. Lewis know all this, he may be the first person who knew Florence and hasn’t assumed I’m exactly like her. He sees me as my own person. He recognizes that I’m trying. He wants me to succeed and is going to help me get a scholarship.
College always seemed like a faraway thing, so I never gave it serious thought, but going to college is possible, and it might be time I give it the thought it deserves.
I finally take the pamphlet from his outstretched hand. There’s information about how to apply and some information about other scholarships.
When I find my voice, it comes out rough. “Yes, I’d like to be referred for this. Thank you.”
I leave the class feeling a weird mixture of confusion, giddiness, determination, and worry. The first three are because of Mr. Lewis and this new realization that I could really go to college and that I’m going to make it happen no matter what, and the last one is because of Brandon.
He’s back and issuing threats, and I need to find Jason and tell him that immediately.
I can barely focus after everything that happened this morning. It doesn’t help that I couldn’t see Jason all day since we both spent the lunch period writing a makeup test for a class we missed last week, and the brief texting conversations we were able to sneak between classes didn’t cut it. When the final bell rings, I sprint all the way to his car. He’s already there waiting for me.
“Siena,” he calls, striding toward me, his blue eyes intense as they scan me from head to toe. “Are you okay?”
