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“And I totally understand where you’re coming from. The administration absolutely wants every student to pursue the path that is best for them.” Her tone is a little too upbeat and agreeable, like she learned her technique for relating to students from movies. She’s all Dangerous Minds meets Dead Poet’s Society. “But every student is required to formally declare a major by the end of sophomore year if they want to remain at St. Bart’s. For you, that deadline is coming up at the end of this term.”
And here I am thinking I came here to get my schedule changed. “So?”
“So…it would be a good idea for us to discuss your plans before the deadline. It’s still early enough that we might be able to change some of your current classes if need be.” Her smile has wilted around the edges. Maybe Ms. Henney is finally figuring out that I’m not going to impress her in the way my sister did. “What do you want to do with your life?”
I know the question isn’t meant to trip me up as much as it does. It’s got to the most basic thing that you can ask someone in college, but I don’t have an answer for her.
What do I want?
A few days ago, the answer to that question would have been justice for Olivia. Before coming here, I didn’t exactly spend a lot of time making long-term plans. Sure, I knew that hanging out with artists and committing petty crimes for spending money wasn’t a sustainable lifestyle, but I didn’t think much about the future.
What do I want?
“Um…what are my options?”
Under other circumstances, her jaw-dropped expression would be funny. To her credit, Ms. Henney recovers quickly and reaches for a catalog on the shelf behind her.
“We offer just over three dozen majors and twenty-two concentrations in the liberal arts. I assume you’re not interested in engineering or healthcare. Feel free to take some time to think things over, but you’ll need to make a decision on your major before I can change any of your classes.” She clears her throat as she hands me the brochure, her expression becoming one of obvious discomfort. “I’ve also noticed another problem.”
Here we go. “What’s that?”
She winces a little, as if hesitant to come right out and say whatever it is she’s thinking. “Your grades were excellent in your first semester here. There was that early withdrawal last spring, but it looks like most of your professors awarded you full credit. But your grades from last semester really aren’t the best. I noticed a lot of C’s and you failed one class. Is there still something going on that could affect your performance?”
I’d love to see the look on Ms. Henney’s face if I did tell her exactly what’s been happening:
You see, it all started when I stole my sister’s identity. Actually, no. It started before that when a bunch of entitled frat boys attacked her and left her for dead in the woods behind Havoc House. I’m sure you heard something about it. Like the complete idiot I am, I thought it would be a good fucking idea to show up here, pretending to be her so I could figure out what happened. Not only did I not manage to do that, but I made things about a million times worse. I also didn’t anticipate just how much being a dumbass with only a GED might make picking up where she left off in her classes more than a little difficult. I shouldn’t have even worried about my damn sister. Turns out she doesn’t give a shit what happened last year. Oh, and now she’s back and making my life a living hell. You met her this morning, remember? She’s going by Evangeline now. All of that might be a little distracting for me.
Instead of that, I keep my responses as short as I can get away with.
“I’m definitely planning to work on that.” Picking up the brochure, half-rise from my chair. “I’ll get back to you on the declaring a major thing.”
“Oh, alright them.” Disappointment twists her features, like she really thought this was going to be some Hallmark moment where she gave me some brilliant piece of advice that I’d repeat to my grandchildren. Her gaze moves over me, taking in the clothes that wouldn’t look out of place in a homeless encampment and lingers on the ketchup stain. “If you need help with anything, please let me know.”
I give her a lame little wave with the brochure as I back toward the door. “Yeah, sure I will.”
She’s already got her nose buried back in paperwork by the time the door closes behind me.
Ms. Henney is right about one thing. I need to figure out what the hell my plan is and I need to do it soon. Even if Drake comes back, that doesn’t mean there is a place for me at St. Bart’s.
If I don’t figure out what I want soon, then someone else is going to decide for me.
Chapter Seven
The cops conveniently managed to destroy my phone when they arrested me. My screen is shattered completely enough that it could only have been crushed between a boot heel and the pavement. The screen flashes for a minute as I try to turn it on, but then immediately goes dark again.
When I went through outtake at the jail, the asshole behind the counter didn’t bother to look apologetic as he handed me the twisted piece of metal. If anything, the guy was smiling as he pointed out that my property was already damaged when he checked it in so the jail wouldn’t be liable for replacing it.
“Feel free to file an incident report with the police department,” he said with a smirk. “Someone will reach out to you in eight to ten weeks.”
Oink oink, motherfucker.
Obviously, not all cops are terrible people. Some are probably real stand-up guys. But the ones who suck really seem to get off on being total pieces of shit. But that’s just what happens when society creates a position of unreasonable power. The kind of people most likely to abuse any authority they get are going to be the most attracted to any position that provides it.
I’m almost surprised when only a few hundred dollars is missing from my wallet. Whichever slob of a guard processed my belongings must have assumed I’d make a stink if he took any more than that. I appreciate the attempt at restraint. Lucky for the sticky-fingered civil servant, I have enough sympathy for people at the shallower end of the financial pool to let it go.
Right now, I’m just focused on getting back to St. Bart’s as quickly as possible.
There isn’t any point in trying to replace my phone because the line is in my father’s name. I’ll have to wait until he gets around to sending me another one, likely enduring a lengthy lecture on what a disappointment I am in the meantime. It isn’t a coincidence that I haven’t heard from him since I got arrested, not even after finally Jack Deguerre paid me a visit. My father’s silence is meant to be a message all of its own.
