If this is Mr. D’s doing, so be it. I’m not dumb enough to think he won’t want something in exchange for this. Nothing in life is free, after all. But I’ll pay that price when the tax man comes calling. Just because I know I’m in debt doesn’t mean I’m not going to take a chance when it falls in my lap. I have nothing that’s worth more than this paper right here. I’m already getting the better end of the deal.
Plus, I didn’t promise him anything.
Hell, for all I know, it has nothing to do with Mr. D at all. It could be just a coincidence. It could be a million things. All I know is, I’ve spent my whole life feeling helpless and hopeless as I scrabbled to climb out of the lake of shit and into a boat that takes me to something better, and suddenly, someone threw me a lifeline. It doesn’t matter what the cost is. I’m grabbing hold and holding on with all I’ve got.
“Mrs. Peterson?” I ask, sliding the form back to her with my signature accepting the offer. “Is there any way to know who paid for this scholarship? I’d like to send them a thank you card.”
I add that last part just to increase the likelihood that she’ll tell me, since I have absolutely zero intention of writing a card if it’s Mr. D. I have a feeling the thanks he’ll want can’t be written on paper.
She frowns as she flips through the packet. “Well, there’s a spot for a donor’s name, but this one just says ‘The rest is up to you.’ I guess you just got lucky, didn’t you?”
I’m not sure if lucky is the word for what I got, but I know better than to walk away from money when it’s handed to me. So, I leave with Mrs. Peterson’s words running through my head, wondering exactly what price I’ll end up paying for my stroke of luck but also knowing that even if I was told the price, I’d still make the same choice. When you have no other options, you take the one that’s available, no matter the cost.
I want to get out of Faulkner. If this is a path out, I’ll take it. If it isn’t a path out, then I’ll make it one. My scholarship may be shady as fuck, bought and paid for by some rich perv, but once I’m in, I’ll make it legit. I’ll prove I’m worthy of putting their esteemed logo on my resume by working so hard that colleges will be recruiting my ghetto ass right along with all the straight-A rich girls who go there.
I’m not naïve enough to think it’ll be easy. A school like that is competitive. Not to mention the fact that people there probably don’t want trailer trash like me walking the hallowed halls of their palace of snobbery. But I’m not worried about them. Let those southern belles try to stop me. There’s nothing they can do that seventeen years on the wrong side of the tracks hasn’t prepared me for.
Who We Are
Outsiders
Who forced our way inside
We came, we saw, we conquered
Went in swinging
Came out grinning
That’s how we roll—
The Dolce boys.
This town is ours
We own it
But it doesn’t own us
They don’t revere us
They fear us
That’s how we rule—
The Dolce Boys.
We don’t belong here
They don’t want us
But they obey us
We three kings
Together alone
A brotherhood of blood—