Question Two #2
“I recently attended a presentation about Luminary. The director, Wyatt Sullivan, was there, and can I just say, he’s quite the educator.
Luminary’s curriculum is the only one like it in the world.
I’ve decided to enroll Scarlett in their inaugural class starting in September.
” Tammy takes her phone from me, pausing a beat before she adds, “I suppose you could join her…if you like.”
I frown, trying to figure out her angle.
She said, I’ve decided to enroll Scarlett.
I’m betting that means she never actually asked Scarlett what she thinks about this plan.
A year ago, that wouldn’t have mattered.
Before I showed up, Scarlett would’ve done whatever Tammy asked her to do without a second thought.
But I’ve spent the last twelve months helping her grow a spine.
And she has friends at Adams, and teachers she likes.
Last year they voted her senior class treasurer.
She won’t want to leave. Unless I’m not there.
In fact, I’d be willing to bet that Tammy’s only offering to send me to Luminary because she knows Scarlett will go wherever I go.
“This feels like a setup,” I tell her.
“I know you want to cast me as the villain in your little story, hon, but I’m not actually out to make your life miserable. I think Luminary could be a good place for you. Better than military school, at least.”
No shit, I think, but I bite my lip so I don’t say the words out loud. A muddy ditch and a textbook missing half its pages would be better than military school.
Now that I think about it, this might’ve been the reason Tammy dangled the threat in the first place.
She’s probably had this plan in her back pocket ever since this presentation she attended.
She had to know it would only be a matter of time before I messed up again.
And she needs me to want to go to this place so I’ll convince Scarlett.
“Look, you don’t have to make the decision right now,” Tammy says, pocketing her phone. She’s trying to pretend this is just some favor she’s doing me, that she doesn’t really care, but I don’t buy it.
“This isn’t a punishment,” she adds.
I snort. “Like hell it’s not.”
And now the corners of Tammy’s smile start to look a little strained, irritation passing over her face in a shiver. “Take some time, dear,” she tells me. “Think about what you want.”
I leave Tammy in the kitchen, go straight to my room, and pull a teeny tiny T-shirt out of my underwear drawer.
The shirt’s way too small for me, and you can barely make out the Blackwood University crest on the front, it’s peeling so badly. Supposedly, I was wearing it the night I was surrendered to foster care. It’s the only thing I own that my birth mother actually bought for me. Which makes it priceless.
I’ve done very little research over the years on my birth parents.
I read about what my father did exactly once, and it was enough to keep me from sleeping for an entire month.
Every time I closed my eyes, I would think about how his blood was running through my veins, how I shared half of that monster’s DNA.
I still have nightmares about how I’m going to turn out exactly like him.
So no, thank you. I don’t need any more details.
But I do know that Cynthia Michaels—my mother—was a decent person.
She was a grad student at Blackwood, a small private college at the edge of Springfield.
It’s a beautiful school. All the photos show Gothic brick buildings and twisting stone pathways, trees in full autumnal glory.
A place out of a fairy tale. When I was little, I used to look through photo after photo online, trying to imagine my mother walking down the paths, reading under the trees.
Then, when I got older, I started thinking I might want to go to Blackwood after finishing high school.
They’re one of the only schools in Nebraska that offers a fashion design major, which is what I want to study.
But tuition starts at sixty thousand dollars a year—a number too high for my brain to comprehend.
They apparently give scholarships to “exceptional students in need,” and a guidance counselor at Adams said she’d try to dig up some information.
But I’ve been kicked out of Adams, so I’m guessing that offer is off the table now.
My life so far has been one broken dream after another. This one shouldn’t hit any different. But it does.
Someone is knocking on my door. “Lia?” Scar calls. “Are you there? What happened?”
I bring the shirt to my nose and inhale, but it doesn’t smell like anything anymore.
Tammy told me to think about what I want.
But I already know: I want a guidance counselor who can tell me how to get into college with a 2.
6 GPA and transcripts from twelve different schools.
I want to actually be able to pay for that college.
I want textbooks that don’t have penises Sharpied on the front covers and teachers who’ve never heard the name Eli Michaels.
I never want to have to do an active shooter drill again for the rest of my life.
I want to stay in the shower for more than fifteen minutes without someone pounding on the door and telling me my time’s up.
I want to talk to someone about getting a job I might actually like—something in fashion—instead of what kind of job might be possible for “someone with my record.”
Maybe Luminary wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe this “innovative curriculum” could actually help me.
Scar’s mid-knock when I finally answer the door. She blinks three times, very fast. Her nervous tic. She always does this right before she’s about to cry. “Tammy’s sending you away, isn’t she? Juvenile detention? Another group home?” Her eyes fill with tears.
What do I want?
It’s an easy decision, in the end. I don’t have any family—Scarlett’s it. I go where she goes.
“You’re half right,” I tell her. I already have the Luminary website pulled up on my phone, and I hand it to her, adding, “This time, she’s sending us both away.”