“Are you threatening me?”
“I don’t have your picture,” he says. “Now go.”
“Not until you erase it.”
He leans closer, so close I can smell that he brushed his teeth after the game. His eyes fix on mine, hard and mean. I lean back instinctually, trying to keep my space. He keeps leaning in. When I’m bent back against the hood of his Range Rover, he exhales a little snort of breath and pulls away.
“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug, heading around the car. He hops up in, and the others follow. A second later, the lights sweep across the lot, and the engine roars to life. I leap away from the car to the sound of their laughter inside. The windows slide down, as if to make sure I hear how funny they find all this.
The sound of their celebration seems to unfreeze the crowd, and everyone starts hurrying away to their own cars, whispering about the little scene. Baron hangs out the window when a group of girls in short skirts walked by, swishing their long hair.
“Here, kitty kitty,” he calls.
Faulkner High’s mascot is the Wampus Cat, and annoyingly, the women’s teams are Wampus Kittens. But I have a feeling he’s looking for a different kind of pussy.
The girls giggle and bump together, casting excited glances over their shoulders, nearly swooning that the richest guys in town just paid them some attention.
“Let’s par-tay,” Duke Dolce yells from the passenger seat, pumping his fist. “I’m getting anal tonight!”
Royal revs the engine, and the Range Rover roars away, leaving me in the parking lot with way too many people staring and no way home. I hurry away, my heart pounding. I’m not scared of the ugly side of Faulkner, of running the streets at night when the gangs come out. But put me on the spot, with everyone staring, and my palms start sweating and my heartbeat gets all erratic.
All the way home, I curse myself for this stupid plan. I missed Femme Fight Friday, which is my big money night. I can try to make up for it tomorrow at cards, but I’ll have to pull from my stash to buy in. I usually use Friday’s money as my buy-in on Saturday, then add it all to the stash together. Somehow it feels like less of a loss if it hasn’t been tucked into my floorboard yet. And I’ll have to win a lot bigger tomorrow to make up for missing a Friday night fight.
I don’t look over my shoulder for gangs or hooligans on my way home. I only look over my shoulder when I hear the roar of an engine that could be the black Range Rover. Of course it’s not. It’s just a truckload of Faulkner High boys whooping about their win as they roar by, tossing empties and knocking over mailboxes in celebration. A beer bottle shatters at my feet, and they careen away, laughing hysterically at their cleverness. But they know who I am, and they won’t fuck with me.
Monday morning, it’s back to the grindstone. I’m in the middle of first period when the intercom crackles to life. “Harper Apple to the office,” the secretary drones. “Have her bring her stuff.”
Blue shoots me a questioning look, but I just shrug and grab my books before heading out. No one pays me any mind. At a school like Faulkner, if you’re not the kind of kid in the advanced classes, you’re the kind who’s had your share of trips to the office.
“You’re going to be about the happiest young lady in the world this morning,” gushes the guidance counselor, Mrs. Peterson, when I arrive in the office. She gestures for me to follow her to her office. She’s one of those ladies who talks like she’s in a competition to be America’s Most Smiley instead of a dead-end job trying to convince a bunch of derelicts to go to college. And even though she’s fake as fuck—there’s no way someone could genuinely be that happy dealing with the punks she does—I like Mrs. Peterson. She didn’t laugh at me when I said I wanted to go to college out of town, maybe even out of state. She brought me brochures.
“What’s up?” I ask. “You got me early admission to Yale?”
“Not quite yet,” she says, holding up a finger as she circles her desk to take a seat. “You’ll have to do that part on your own. But I just got you a heck of a lot closer.”
“Really?” I ask, taking the seat across from her and accepting the papers she slides across to me, a fat stack with a cover letter bearing a gold seal at the top. The letters WHPA top a crest stamped into it, with some Latin words circling it.
“Well, now, if I’m being honest, I can’t take a lick of credit for it,” Mrs. Peterson says with a little laugh. “It just showed up in my inbox this morning.”
I look at it for a minute before raising my eyes to hers, my heart beating crazily in my chest. “Willow Heights? That’s a high school.”
“One that sends a whole heap of kids off to universities,” she says. “Even Ivy League schools.” She wiggles her brows like we’re in on some grand shenanigan together.
“I don’t get it,” I say, flipping to the next page in the packet.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” she says. “Remember to thank him in your prayers tonight.”
I sit there for a second, trying to take in what’s happening. Why is she telling me to go to the rich kids’ school, the one across town where people drive Bentleys and Porsches, not rusted out hoopties with trash bags taped over the windows. Those people live in the kind of houses that my mother cleans, not owns. Why would I want to go there?
I push the packet back across the desk. “I can’t afford Willow Heights.”
“You don’t have to,” the counselor says. “It’s a scholarship. Afullscholarship, Miss Apple. They only give out a handful of those every year, usually to freshmen who will be with them for the whole of high school. I don’t know how they got wind of you, but I’ll tell you what. If I were you, I’d sign that so quick the ink wasn’t even dry before I had it on its way back to them. A girl like you doesn’t get a chance like this too often.”
I bristle even though she’s right. It still sucks when even the nice teachers who want to help you think you’re trash.A girl like me. If I had a fucking dime for every time someone used that phrase.
I think of Mr. D’s words, and a shiver goes through me. He said I’d see how he could put his money where his mouth was, how he could grant my wishes and show how powerful he was. Is that what’s happening? Is this all funded by some creeper with a savior complex… Or one who wants me to owe him?
So yeah, there’s this part of me that wants to toss the packet in the trash and flounce off like a brat. But I’m not a brat. A bitch, sure, but I’m not spoiled enough to be a brat. And I’m sure as fuck not dumb enough to turn down this scholarship, however it’s funded. Hell, I’ve sucked teacher dick to get out of this town before. Signing my name on a scholarship? Piece of fucking cake. There’s really no decision to be made. I wanted a way out, and now I have one… At least a hell of a lot better shot at one.