“No. I just lost it. I kinda need a new one for classes and food and to get into my dorm.”
“Well, we aren’t able to just whip key cards out of thin air,” she says, her words coming out slow, like she’s talking to someone who doesn’t know how to speak English. “And it is generally a student’s responsibility to keep track of their ID. We didn’t have to replace a single card last year, so I don’t believe it’s that hard.”
I press my lips together, biting back the half-dozen snarky comments that sit on the tip of my tongue.
The secretary straightens up with a sigh. “But we can’t exactly have you roaming the grounds without one either. I can check out a temporary guest key; it’ll have a fixed amount of funds on it for meals and you’ll be registered as a guest student in your classes—”
“Will that count me as present automatically when I use it to check in?”
She smiles, though there’s not much cheer in her expression. “No. Your teachers will have to manually enter you as present. You’ll need to remind them.”
“And if they forget?”
“Then you’ll have to take it up with your professors to remind them that you attended class on the aforementioned days.”
“And how long is it going to be until my replacement card is ready? What do you have to do, order them from somewhere?”
“Anywhere from the end of this week to sometime next week,” she says airily, pulling out a form from a file drawer behind the desk and sliding it over to me. “The process is not something that’s widely circulated to prevent students from learning how to make duplicate cards and sell them. It was a measure implemented when we began taking on yearly scholarship students.”
I’m not surprised by the implication, but that doesn’t mean it annoys me any less.
Of course. As far as she’s concerned, I lost my card because I’m an irresponsible scholarship student, and I won’t get a new, proper one anytime soon because of all the other irresponsible scholarship students who’ve come before me.
Meanwhile, the other ninety-nine percent of Hawthorne University students can get away with doing whatever the fuck they want—including stealing other people’s damn ID cards.
It’s fucking bullshit.
I’m not sure if the woman behind the desk is trying to teach me some sort of lesson or if it really takes that long to get all the paperwork filed, but I have to wait almost an hour before my temporary key card is ready.
It’s set to expire by the end of the week, and if I don’t have my permanent replacement by then, I’ll have to come back on Friday before the office closes so that I can get the cut-off date extended. I’ll have enough credit on it to cover two meals a day, but not all thre
e—to keep people from abusing the system, she tells me—so I’ll have to choose between skipping breakfast or skipping dinner.
Well, joke’s on you, Miss Bitch-Face Secretary. Not having money for three square meals a day isn’t anything new to me.
An hour and a half after walking into the office, I’ve got my temporary key card and have missed one class and half of another. I consider showing up late, strolling in halfway through class like I don’t give a fuck—but then I decide the real “no fucks to give” move is to go from the admin office straight to my dorm and skip the rest of my classes for the day.
I’m sure it won’t ingratiate me with any of my professors, but I don’t really need to hear another first day of class speech, and I’m not sure I could keep my reaction civil if one more person implies that I’m some kind of drugged up slow kid just because I’m here on scholarship.
So I spend the afternoon painting and trying to clear my head from the mess Gray Eastwood left it in.
It almost works.
By the time evening comes around, I head back down to the student union dining hall, figuring I might as well get dinner before my week of two-meals-only begins.
No one bothers me, which is a plus, but it’s obvious that I’ve made waves. The scrutinizing stares are more obvious than they were even at breakfast this morning, and I hear Gray’s and Cliff’s names thrown into the mix every now and then.
Great, so I’m being associated with those assholes now too. Apparently my disdain isn’t apparent enough for people to realize I don’t want shit to do with either of them, let alone most of the fuckers here.
When I’ve got my dinner—some fancy beef wellington shit, according the menu board—Max joins me, settling into the seat beside mine.
“S’up,” she greets. “How’re you doing?”
“Aside from trying to figure out what the fuck a beef wellington is supposed to be? Peachy.”
She chuckles. “At least you got your temp card, right? Shouldn’t take too long to replace it.” Her nose wrinkles. “You think Gray will give you your card back before then?”
“Probably not.” I shrug. “He took it to be an asshole. I don’t see him giving it back to me. He’d have to have a conscience and a human soul that could actually feel guilt for that to happen.”