Chapter Twenty-Six
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Claudia’s gone by the time I wake up. I’d fallen asleep holding the box of tea, rereading the ingredients until it lulled me to sleep. It’s on my nightstand this morning. I double-check the box, the nightstand, and the floor to see if I can find a note from Claudia, and bite down the disappointment when I don’t.
So much for hoping she’d take a sick day.
Somehow campus is completely spotless by the time the dining hall opens. All the branches, leaves, and debris have been swept off the carefully manicured lawns. You’d never know there was a destructive storm raging less than three hours ago. No surprise that Kingswood forced its workers to clean up in the middle of the night just to make sure its students don’t see how ugly the world can really be.
“You missed it, babe,” Hunter says in lieu of a greeting when I join our usual table for breakfast. “Everybody in Hyacinth took over the basement lounge. We hooked up some speakers to the overhead sound system and went ham until the power blew out. It was unreal. ”
I hum in response, giving him a tired smile before tilting my gaze down to the open notebook in front of him. His French notes are surprisingly neat, considering he hardly ever studies. Vocabulary words and conjugations are written in elegant script like he’s been holding a fountain pen since birth. Nothing like the rushed, jagged handwriting from the note.
Across the table, Poppy, for the first time since I’ve met her, looks worse for wear. Despite the extra layer of concealer, you can still see the dark circles beneath her eyes. Highlighter doesn’t do much for the lack of color in her cheeks either. Instead of hanging on to Hunter’s every word, she’s limply stirring a bowl of oatmeal. She doesn’t even bother to look up and give me her usual cheery greeting.
Gabe never looks especially put together, but even he’s lost his usual “don’t bother me” air. His grip on his fork is so loose it clatters onto his untouched omelet, while his eyes are glazed and unfocused, looking somewhere in the distance.
Hunter’s latest story cuts short when he realizes his audience isn’t as attentive as he thought. His eyes skim from me to Poppy. Gabe is practically catatonic.
How Hunter doesn’t look like death warmed up is unfair.
Smirking, he leans across the table until he’s inches away from Poppy’s face. She doesn’t take the bait this time, keeping her attention focused on her oatmeal.
“Pop had fun last night,” he says before pushing her pin-straight hair over her shoulder.
When she jumps back, I spot what she’d been trying to hide—a purple bruise at the base of her throat, barely covered by the collar of her shirt and what I’m guessing is multiple layers of foundation. Not a bruise like the ones in the photos in Solina’s file, but something tender. The shadow of lips against her pulse point. While Hunter cackles, she quickly pulls her hair forward again, the bruise carefully covered beneath the curtain of her thick black hair.
“C’mon, no shame,” he teases when she turns back to her oatmeal with a huff.
My breath hitches as I watch something in her snap. She freezes for half a second, then throws her spoon into the bowl. Before Hunter can come up with another platitude, she’s flipping him off and standing up from the table. Her gaze flickers over to me, something unreadable in her expression as she stands there, staring at me, before ultimately storming away.
Hunter rolls his eyes as he watches her walk off, waiting until she’s out of view to pull her abandoned breakfast toward us.
“More for us, right?” he says with a wink before offering me a bite of her oatmeal.
I turn down the spoonful, quickly losing my appetite. I still don’t trust Poppy, but I can’t help the part of me that aches for her. I’ve seen that same fear and anger on a familiar face. On a night I’ll never forget.
Charlisa’s waiting for me outside my first period English class.
“Fuuuuuuck,” I mutter under my breath.
At least I don’t have Poppy glued to my side this morning. Whatever happened last night has made her keep her distance. So much so that it looks like she’s decided to skip first period. I’ve got my suspicions about what really went on between her and Hunter at the party, but I won’t be able to dig any deeper until I get her alone tomorrow. That’s assuming she even still wants me to come over to help with her UCLA essays.
Regardless, it’s a welcome break from the constant need to be on my best-Solina behavior. Plus, I don’t need her going around telling everyone within a ten-foot radius that I was pulled aside by one of the guidance counselors. I knew the chem exam incident was going to bite me in the ass, I just didn’t think they’d pounce in less than twenty-four hours.
“Good morning, Solina,” Charlisa says as I trudge toward her. There’s no trace of her usual smile. She’s finally had it with my bullshit. “Can I speak to you for a moment?”
I glance into the half-full room behind her. Every other time she’s pulled me aside has been before lunch or a study period. Mr. Benjamin has a strict “no late entry” policy, and something tells me this isn’t going to be a quick, thirty-second chat.
“Don’t I have to go to class …?”
“Mr. Benjamin is aware that you’ll be missing first period.”
Well, there went any hope of getting off with a slap on the wrist.
Charlisa guides me to the end of the hall, but instead of making her usual left toward the staircase, she makes a sharp right out of the building. I skid to a halt and whip around when I realize she’s headed in the opposite direction, jogging to keep up with her. We make the trek across campus to a building I’ve never seen before. The interior is, unsurprisingly, grander than the exterior. Rows and rows of oil paintings of former Kingswood deans line the walls of the entryway, their eyes watching me move through the room. Armchairs and end tables that look like they were plucked right out of a Victorian-era museum sit beneath the portraits.
Charlisa knocks on a set of large polished-wood double doors at the end of the entryway. My heart drops to the pit of my stomach when the doors crack open, Dean Hughes peeking out at the two of us.
Shit, shit, shit.
“Ms. Flores,” he says before ushering us into the room. Not a greeting, a statement. An aggressive one.
Charlisa gestures for me to take the seat opposite Dean Hughes’s desk while she hovers beside him, hands clasped behind her back.
“If this is about the cheating, I swear I won’t do it again,” I blurt out the second I sit down. I’m prepared to beg if I have to. Crawl on my knees. Throw out my dignity and offer them up all the money I have left if it means I can have a second chance. “I panicked because I was behind on studying, it was a one-time mistake!”
Dean Hughes’s expression is unreadable as he holds up a hand to silence my excuses. He waits until I’ve stopped to lower his hand back down, letting me sit in toe-curling silence as he glances down at something on his desk. Every second that passes feels like a knife to the gut. Sweat beads along my forehead as we sit in total silence except for the ticking of the ornate clock on his wall. If I could, I’d pull the wiring out, stomp the clock into the ground until that goddamn ticking stops.
“As I’m sure you know, Ms. Flores, it’s school policy to contact a student’s guardian whenever they’re involved in an incident that has found its way to my desk.”
The sweat rolls down my temples, streaking my cheeks like tears. In all her time at Kingswood, Solina never did anything worth calling home about. Still, I’d fudged the forms to be safe. I’d put down my number beside Papi’s name as her emergency contact. If they called, we had Dede on hand to play the part. They never did, but we were always ready.
“We tried reaching out to your father at the number listed in your file but couldn’t get ahold of him.”
Of course they couldn’t, because my old phone’s sitting in a box under my bed in Luster. No one except Tiffany, Dede, and spambots ever calls me, so I figured leaving it behind was safer than bringing it and dodging questions about why I had two phones. Another hole in my plan I hadn’t accounted for. Another sign that I’m not smart enough to pull this off.
“I can give you a different number. His work num—”
“We found a different number,” Mr. Hughes interrupts. “We contacted his place of employment and were told he hadn’t been there for the past several years. But we got a direct contact number and still couldn’t get ahold of him then either.”
Thank God I didn’t eat breakfast, or else it’d be splayed out across Dean Hughes’s antique desk. There’s no way the number Papi’s old office had on file is still in service, I tell myself, trying to keep the panic at bay. He could barely cover the bills when he was swiping birthday money out of our piggy banks. If he’s not dead by now, his phone definitely is. Either that or he’s miraculously cleaned up his act and started fresh.
For once, I hope Papi started a new life. One that has nothing to do with us.
I’m prepared to offer up another number, Dede’s cell, when Dean Hughes pulls the landline on his desk toward him.
“You can understand my surprise when I came in this morning to this voicemail.”
He presses a button, and Papi’s voice fills the room.
“Who the fuck do you think you are? Callin’ me up to talk about some fuckin’ suspension bullshit … You think that shit’s funny? Talkin’ ’bout her like that?”
Last time I saw him, he was passed out on the couch, too out of it to notice the social worker taking us away. But even after all this time, even through the muffled speaker, he still sounds the same. Like the Papi who told us stories about the farm he grew up on in Puerto Rico. About how he wanted to bring us there to visit his family someday, to Luster too, so we could meet Angel. The same Papi who named us after the sun and the moon so that even when he was away from home, he could always look up at the sky and find us.
I wish I could blame Papi for everything that’s happened, but I know it’s not his fault. The same way it’s not Mami’s for being sick, or mine for telling the wrong person the truth. More than that, I wish I believed in God because then there’d be someone I could blame for everything we’ve had to suffer through. But there is no God. There is no fate. There’s just the hand we’re dealt, and the way we play it.
“Don’t ever call this number again! Entiendes?! Don’t EVER call me talking about my daughter again!”
He’s done ranting, but he doesn’t hang up. He mutters something under his breath about nosy pendejos before the words are swallowed by a sob. A sound so gut-wrenching it sends chills down my spine. I thought I’d severed the part of me that cared about Papi years ago—when we left the group home, leaving behind any chance of him coming back to get us, like we’d always hoped he would. We cut him off like a dead limb, making our peace with the fact that we might not ever see him again.
But I miss him. I miss his voice and his piggyback rides and the way he always brought home McDonald’s on Fridays. I miss our house and our closet full of cheetah-print throw blankets and Mami’s scented candles. I miss our life. I miss the person I used to be.
I’ve tried so hard to hate Papi, but I don’t think I ever will. Just because I can’t forgive him doesn’t mean I stopped loving him.
His sobs are raw, primal. More like a wounded animal than a man with a broken heart. I didn’t consider that he might have known about Solina. Cartagena’s so bad at his job, I wouldn’t have been surprised if he skipped a step and decided telling me was enough.
Papi’s sobs echo through the room. Charlisa wipes a tear out of the corner of her eye while I grip the edges of my seat until my knuckles turn white. I won’t cry. Not for him. Not now, and especially not in front of them. The message ends, and Papi’s voice cuts off mid-sob.
Dean Hughes leans back in his seat, calmly peering at me over the top of his glasses. “Care to explain?”
Where do I start? The truth is as unbelievable as any lie I could come up with, but I start with it anyway.
“My sister died,” I say. One of the few true things I’ve said since I got here. The first time, I realize, that I’ve said it out loud. Everyone in Luster knew about Solina without me needing to tell them. The words are clunky, scratching my throat raw like they’re not mine to share. It’s different, saying it as opposed to thinking it.
My sister died.
Saying it is worse.
Charlisa softens, holding a hand up to her mouth as tears spill down her cheeks. Dean Hughes seems less moved. He shifts uncomfortably, as if he finds displays of emotion inappropriate. He clears his throat and fiddles with a loose button on his suit jacket as he searches for the right way to respond to me. The girl with the dead sister.
“Over break. My dad took it hard,” I add when Dean Hughes can’t find the words he needs, patching up the next hole in my story. “Really hard.”
That’s not a lie either. Papi’s clearly not taking the news well.
This detail makes Dean Hughes finally get with the program, shaking off whatever jarred him and facing me head-on again. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ms. Flores.” He doesn’t sound sorry at all. “Given the circumstances, we think it’d be best if we could speak with your father in person about your situation.”
Just when I think I’m out of the woods. “You … what?”
Mr. Hughes clears his throat again. “This is a complicated matter, and we think it’d be best to hash things out personally, to avoid any miscommunication. You’re only a few hours’ drive from here, correct?”
Everything about this—the tone of his voice, the way he looks down on me, the thought of making Papi come here—makes me want to scream. Charlisa doesn’t meet my eye, just wipes away her tears like she doesn’t have the power to put a stop to this.
“Y-yes, b-but, my dad, he …” Doesn’t know I’m here. Doesn’t know where I am. Is probably passed out on someone’s couch right now. “He’s been really busy lately. Picking up extra shifts to pay for … everything.”
I don’t need to be specific to play their heartstrings, but Dean Hughes doesn’t let up. No wonder Gabe’s so damn gloomy. He was raised by someone who’s dead behind the eyes.
“We’d be happy to arrange for him to come on a weekend, if that’s easier for him.”
The urge to cry morphs into the urge to throttle him. There’s got to be a way out of this—something I can say or do to convince them that Papi doesn’t need to be here in person. He has to work overnight shifts, or he was recently injured, or something, anything , to get them to back off.
“O-okay,” I choke out. Whatever the solution is, I’m not going to think of it here. With this kind of pressure, I’ll only come up with something that’ll land me in even more trouble. Unless I want to pack my bags tonight, I need to play by the rules. “I’ll talk to him.”
“Good.” Dean Hughes nods, uncrossing his legs and turning back to the computer on his desk. At first, I take it as a dismissal—already halfway out of my seat when he speaks up again.
“I’ll be speaking with the Hightower Committee after our meeting with your father,” he says, and I drop right back into my seat. The fellowship doesn’t matter anymore, but I can’t help the tug that lures me to the promise of it. “They’re still very interested in you as a candidate.”
I’m not sure what to say, my voice and heart lodged in my throat. The fact that they’re interested in Solina at all is a testament to the person she was. All that time she spent so worried that they’d go with someone like Hunter, someone who had enough money to fund their own scholarship, and now she’s a front-runner.
If she were here, I’d tell her I told you so.
“Thank you,” I say as quietly as I can. Dean Hughes is the last person I want to thank, but I don’t think he’d take too kindly to me not expressing my gratitude for taking expulsion off the table.
My eyes glance down at the papers on his desk, various forms and documents waiting for his signature. An idea comes to me, the words tumbling out before I can overthink it.
“Can I have a tardy slip?”
Dean Hughes grunts, not looking away from his computer as he reaches for a stack of red slips. He scribbles out the date, time, and his signature with practiced ease before tearing out the slip and handing it to me. Before I can examine it, Charlisa shuffles over to my side, gently tapping my shoulder and gesturing for me to follow her out of the room. She breathes a sigh of relief once we’re out in the hall, wiping at the dried tears staining her cheeks.
“That went better than expected.”
Easy for her to say.
“I’m so sorry for your loss, Solina,” she says with a sniffle, resting a hand on my arm. “I had no idea you were going through that. I know it must be making everything so much harder. Please don’t ever hesitate to reach out to me if you ever need to talk, or if you feel like you need help, okay?”
I need a hell of a lot more than help. I nod, shooting her my best grateful smile and a mumbled thanks before heading for the door. As soon as I’m outside, Charlisa headed the opposite direction, I examine the slip. Dean Hughes’s slanted script is harsh, the pen pressed deep, definitely leaving a mark behind on the slip beneath it. But it’s not what I’m looking for. The loops and curves of his letters are too neat to be the person behind the note slipped under my door. It had been a long shot, but worth checking while I had the chance. I wouldn’t be surprised if he wanted to get rid of Solina. Make things easier for his son to swoop in and steal the fellowship for himself—even if we both know he doesn’t deserve it.
Tucking the slip into my pocket, I quickly turn off the path—away from the cluster of buildings where classes are held. Campus is blissfully deserted, everyone still in class for another twenty minutes. I put as much distance between me and the dean’s office as possible, double-checking over my shoulder that no one is tailing me before settling on a bench and pulling my phone out of my coat pocket.
Tiffany answers on the third ring. “What happened to daily updates, huh?”
I swallow hard, looking over at the looming black iron gates shielding Kingswood from the rest of the world. “I need your help.”