Chapter 23
The feeling I had when I read Xander’s missing person article in the archives reminded me a lot of the first time I realized my future with Murray might not play out the way I’d always imagined it.
It wasn’t a passing thought, but a weekend of spiraling. My head spun while my body sank, like all my future plans were drifting away from me, a swimming tube lost in the river’s current. In one moment, everything shifted.
It all started last fall, on a Friday afternoon in my counselor’s office. It had been a couple of weeks since our first conversation about my grades and college prospects.
“I’d try to get these applications submitted as soon as you can,” she said as she printed me out an application checklist.
My phone bounced on my knee as I tapped the screen, watching the seconds change. The only thing standing between my and Whitley’s football pregame party with Murray was this meeting.
“I’ve already sent your transcripts and test scores to some of the schools,” she added.
My spine stiffened. “Wait . . . really?” I held up my hand. “This is actually happening?”
She grinned. “As long as you do your part. This time next year you might be a far cry from Penango.”
A squeal burst from my lips as I bolted from her office, down the hall, and toward Murray’s locker.
He looked me up and down as I slid to a stop. “Was cross-country practice early or something?” he laughed.
I shook my head, panting. “Sorry. I just met with the guidance counselor again. I think I’m going to apply to college after all!”
“That’s awesome, Stetson.” He kissed my forehead. “You’ll be the smartest guy at Penango College.”
“Well, I don’t think I’m going to apply to Penango College. I still don’t want to go there.”
His hands froze as he shoved a notebook into his bag. “UPitt?”
“No, somewhere outside of Pennsylvania.” I unfolded the checklist and held it up. “She gave me this list of schools to apply to.”
His face drained of color.
“What do you mean?” he asked softly. “You’re going to live in Pittsburgh and I’m going to Penango College.” His eyes scanned the paper. “These are all so far, Stetson.”
“I never really thought I had a shot,” I said. “And I told you I’ve been thinking about Ohio too. I want something new.”
“What about what I want?” Murray wrinkled his brow. “How long have you been meeting with her about this?”
I took a step back. “It doesn’t matter.” I forced a laugh, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s just an idea.”
“I didn’t know about this idea.”
“It’s not like it was a secret.” My voice was sharper than intended. “I’m bringing it up now.”
Murray licked his lips and nodded. “Okay, well . . . have fun in . . .” he glanced at the list. “Nevada.” Then he slammed his locker shut and turned away from me.
“Wait—I wanted to talk about it,” I said quickly. “Aren’t we going to Whitley’s house before the game?”
He spun back around, arms outstretched, his history textbook still clenched in his right hand. “Sorry, I have other plans for the game tonight.”
“Since when?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t a secret. I’m just bringing it up for the first time.”
An invisible fist punched me in the gut.
Now I’m standing in front of the same doors Murray walked through after the first crack in our relationship.
The guidance counselor emailed me back within an hour of my SOS message, telling me I could come by after work to figure something out.
I never thought I’d actually want to return to Stillwell Trail High School. I used to roll my eyes at alumni who returned to catch up with teachers on a random Tuesday afternoon. Wasn’t four years enough?
But right now, it’s the only place in town where I might find some hope.
Weeds creep up the sides of the school building, unchecked, like nature is reclaiming it after some long-forgotten apocalypse.
I knock on the glass, and my counselor hurries toward the entrance juggling a large set of keys.
The smile tucked between her plump cheeks sends me back to senior year, before everything changed, before Penango started feeling like a trap.
I take a sharp inhale as she pushes open the door.
“I’m sorry to hear about your aid application,” she says as we head toward her office. “I can’t imagine how stressful this must be.”
“It hasn’t been great,” I say. “But thanks for meeting with me.”
We sit. I stare at the floor, picking at the skin around my thumb. “Why did I get rejected?”
She purses her lips. “I wouldn’t call it a rejection. It doesn’t reflect your abilities as a student. You’re just ineligible this year. You can always reapply.”
I shrug. “Okay . . . but why am I ineligible this year?”
She lets out a slow breath. “It’s a combination of factors . . . your family’s income level, the number of students applying, when you submitted your application . . . You applied quite late.” She tilts her head.
“So you’re saying I’m screwed?”
She levels me with a stern look. “Do you really think I called you in here just to say you’re screwed?” She leans forward, lowering her voice like she’s about to tell me a secret. “At this point in the game, we do have one last shot.”
My eyes widen.
“It’s called the Keystone Rural Youth Mathematician Education Fund.”
My ears perk up. “What do I have to do?”
“It’s a bit of déjà vu for us.” She takes a deep breath.
“There are no set deadlines. Submissions are rolling. But we should move quickly. It’s for students from rural Pennsylvania communities who demonstrate exceptional promise in math—which makes you a perfect candidate.
They’ll need your transcripts, which I can send over, a five-hundred-word essay on what you hope to achieve by studying mathematics, and two letters of recommendation.
I can write one. Do you know someone who could write your second? ”
I nod before even thinking of a person.
“Great. Let’s aim to submit everything by the end of July. Does that work for you?”
I spring out of my seat. “Yes! Thank you so much.” My smile stretches so wide it hurts. “I might need therapy after this application, just to deal with the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on these past couple of weeks. But that can wait.”
She laughs. “I’m here for whatever you need.”
“Thank you, thank you.”
Between my cheers, I spot an STHS Class of 2015 banner above her desk. I pause.
“Whatever I need?” I ask, raising a brow.
She crosses her arms. “Don’t push it.”
I step forward. “Remember when you told me all that information about my grades and the activities I did?”
She nods. “Your high school record? Yes.”
“Yeah. That. Would you be able to pull up someone else’s record?”
She presses her brow. “Stetson . . .”
“A boy named Xander Pomers. Maybe?” I flash an innocent smile.
“No, Stetson. That’s their private information.”
I exhale. “I figured it was worth a shot.”
“Stetson.” Her voice drops to a more serious tone.
I grip the back of my chair. “Yeah?”
“Do not let another boy make you miss this deadline like the last one.” She points at me. “I know more than you think.”
I sigh. “I don’t think this new boy could stop me . . . even if he wanted to.” My nose wrinkles. “If that makes sense.” She narrows her eyes. “No one can see . . . uhh . . . never mind.” I grab my things before she can press me. “You have nothing to worry about.”
Something shifts in my chest once I’m outside.
For the first time in days, the odds of getting out of Penango—of actually making it to college—feel possible again.