4. Sydney
four
sydney
Six Months Later
“You don’t have to do this.” I say it with no small amount of trepidation.
Beside me in the Registrar’s office is my father. The man I haven’t talked to in full sentences since I was fifteen and discovered he was about to remarry. At eighteen, I went full no-contact.
Now I’m twenty.
Six months ago, I had the luxury of crawling back to him for help and falling on his mercy. Him, his wife. Standing in the house I’d only been to a handful of times before I stopped going at all, pleading my case to two strangers.
Everything has changed.
While St. James students don’t hate me for what I did, the administration had a problem with it. They pulled me into the dean’s office and informed me that my scholarships were based on merit, which included ethics.
In their eyes, it was cheating.
With suddenly no extra slack in the line, I had a choice: get an off-campus job and work my tail off all summer to afford my junior year tuition, continue working through classes and parties and whatnot, or… figure something else out. In a word— leave .
By the time the school year ended, my friends had abandoned me, and then Mom disappeared.
One shit thing on top of another.
“Here you go,” my new academic advisor says, standing on the other side of a long counter. She sets down a thick folder and flips it open, pointing to one side. “Your schedule is here. Your login for our portal is here. We have an online program the professors sometimes utilize for assignment turn-in, which is here. Your meal plan…”
I nod along until she finally stops talking, and I retract the folder off the counter.
Outside the administration building, across the quad, the residences are buzzing with life. Students are moving in today, and older ones who volunteered to help wear bright-purple t-shirts. They’re all swarming around the cars that pull up, unloading in a fervor.
Like ants.
“Sydney…”
I glance at my father.
A lot has changed in six months, but most of all, us . I don’t know if he took pity on me or if he heard whispers about what happened, or?—
“It’ll be okay,” he says.
He said it then, too. Before I finally caved and asked for help.
I couldn’t go out without running into an FSU student. I had more drinks and food dumped on me in two weeks than in my entire lifetime, because that seemed to be a go-to maneuver. My apartment front door was splashed in bright-red paint. Handwritten threats were shoved in the mailbox.
It was obvious they knew exactly where I lived—it was only a matter of time before things escalated.
Lettie went away. As soon as her last final was done, her bags were packed and a driver helped load her things into a blacked-out SUV at the curb. She hugged me goodbye, but even that felt too… superficial. She said we had the apartment through the summer, that her father had taken care of rent with the landlord.
I didn’t say anything to that. I couldn’t, because it was very clear that my best friend would not be returning. Yet, I waved as her driver spirited her away. I waved, knowing that she was taking the easy way out. Of living here, of being my friend.
Dad called me out of the blue shortly after that, sounding raspy and a little sad. Maybe it was disappointment. But his number wasn’t even in my contacts. And when the call came in, early on a Saturday, it took me a moment to place his voice.
“Sydney.” He paused. “I should’ve reached out sooner. But I’ve caught wind of what you’ve been going through, and just wanted to extend an olive branch. I’m not mad, honey, and no matter what—it’ll be okay.”
It wasn’t.
It isn’t.
And while he thinks he had his finger on the pulse of what was happening, like many adults, he only gets the tip of the iceberg.
People can be vicious.
Over the summer, my mother disappeared. I thought that living in the targeted apartment was bad—it’s nothing compared to walking into the trailer we used to live in together and find it…
Horrible.
Abandoned.
She had stopped responding to texts, stopped answering her phone, but it still took me a while to get back to Emerald Cove to check in on her.
Once I did, I wish I hadn’t.
I spent the day at the police precinct, trying to file a missing person’s report. Except I couldn’t tell them anything useful. When was the last time I talked to her? Three weeks prior. When was the last time I saw her? Winter break. To which they reminded me that it was July.
I hadn’t seen my mother in seven months?
Correct, Detective.
He gave me his card, took my contact information, and said he’d look into it.
Then… nothing. Not from him, not from my mother. I moved her stuff into storage and let go of the trailer, thinking that , at least, would make her reach out when she returned. But she hasn’t.
Once the lease on the two-bedroom SJU place came up, I moved into a new one-bedroom apartment in Framingham.
Everything is totally fine. The house—the metaphorical one—is not on fire. The sky isn’t falling anymore. I can deal with whatever else comes.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him again.
I do not like apologizing, but I can’t seem to stop when it comes to my father.
He waves me off. “You know, your mother and I met here.”
I tilt my head. “Here, where? Like… you both went to school here?”
“We were in the same year.” His expression turns sad. “If you’re missing her terribly, you could check the yearbook archive in the library. She was in quite a few clubs.”
“Wow.” I should’ve known that. I think I might’ve, even, in the back of my head.
“Come to dinner with Perri and me tonight,” he continues, effectively changing the subject.
I chew on that. It’s not like I’m going to any parties, even if the idea of more bonding time with Dad is a bit… uncomfortable.
St. James, the university I once considered home, simultaneously feels close enough to touch and a universe away. As soon as my dad swooped in, and word started spreading that I was transferring to FSU, my classmates turned on me.
There should be a case study on such a rivalry.
I might be the most hated person in the county.
And when I consider that…
I nod along. Perri is nice enough. She took me shopping for furniture when Dad had to work, and while it was awkward enough that I wanted to scream, it was also kind of… fine . She let me pick out a couch after sitting on half a dozen with me, brought along a little measuring tape to ensure everything would fit in my rooms and through the doorways, even took me out for a fancy cup of coffee afterward.
There was something in the back of my mind that knew my mother and I were dirt-poor while my father was the opposite. Mom used to mutter about old money. A trust-fund baby.
Him, not me.
Obviously .
Dad and I make it to his truck without incident, and he drops me off at my new apartment. I thank him gruffly and close the truck door, booking it up to the second floor. It’s a rather small apartment building, just eight apartments in the brownstone. Two on each floor. I’m three B.
As soon as I lock myself inside, I shed my sweatshirt and slump into a chair at the kitchen table.
I am rubbed raw. Emotionally. I just can’t seem to calm myself down enough to breathe , let alone digest what I’m doing. Tomorrow, when classes start, I anticipate the tensions around me to only get worse.
If I can get through the day without something being spilled on me, or gum in my hair, I’ll count myself lucky.
My phone chimes. I groan, but it goes off again almost immediately.
Then again.
And again, so fast the sound cuts itself off to begin again.
What the…?
I check the notifications, my brows furrowing. Text after text from different unknown numbers. I get to the bottom, and my heart stops. I’ve been tagged in a video… of myself. Today. I have to do a double take, confirming I’m wearing the same clothes as right this very moment.
It’s of me walking across campus, although it’s cropped in a way that hides my father, who must’ve been beside me. It’s very obvious where I am, though.
And the caption announces it, too:
We have a snitch amongst us, Vipers… how about we give her a warm welcome? You can reach her at 617-555-4399 or [email protected].
The page that posted it is an FSU gossip and hot-takes page. I scroll, scanning other posts. They seem intent on dragging down whoever steps out of line, spotlighting embarrassing moments and the occasional achievement from the sports teams. There are multiple posts about Oliver Ruiz’s greatness, unfortunately.
More texts come in, nearly constant, and my phone lights up with a call.
I swipe to answer it, a tentative, “Hello?” barely out before the caller interrupts me.
“Go home, you fucking bitch. No one wants you here.”
Click .
I don’t have time to process it, because another call comes in.
“Yeah?”
“Sydney Windsor?” Gruff. Male.
I remain silent.
“Yeah, thought so. St. James didn’t want you so you thought to try your luck here? Nice try, fucking slut?—”
I hang up. My hands are shaking. When another call comes in, I decline it and put my phone on silent. I drop it into a drawer in my kitchen.
What the fuck ?