10. Mia
MIA
“And that’s why this project will be half of your grade,” Professor Teague said the next day in class.
Wait, what?
I wasn’t the only student whose jaw dropped. Since the start of the semester, we’d been required to make short video presentations for this digital advocacy class. But they’d been short, two- or three-minute videos. Not half our grade.
“Did you say…” a young man in the second row began.
“Yes, Mr. Dawson, half your grade.” Professor Teague sounded like she’d been expecting some pushback.
“And there’s a reason for that. This presentation will be a culmination of everything you’ve learned in this class.
You’ll need to write the script, create the storyboard, and plan for the voice narration, background track, captions, and whatever else you’ll need.
Plus, an educational social media campaign to go with it. ”
I sank down in my seat, feeling deflated. How was I going to manage all that in a little over a month?
“Some of you may be wondering how you’re going to accomplish this,” Dr. Teague continued. Crap, could she read minds now? “Your role is to be a combination of producer and project manager. In short, you’re going to assemble a team.”
A team?
“Sounds like The Avengers ,” a girl behind me muttered, but I was too shocked to laugh.
I didn’t have a team. I’d always done everything on my own.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one concerned. Students were peppering our professor with questions.
She held up her hands until there was silence.
“I’m not throwing you completely to the wolves.
On the course website, there’s a list of students whom you can contact and their areas of specialization.
You’re in charge of figuring out who you need and convincing them to help you.
Without paying them.” She looked around sternly as she said that, and I didn’t blame her.
Most of the students in this school were so filthy rich that they probably could hire not only a team, but a Hollywood producer to lead it.
I’d heard stories of students paying image consultants to help them with their university applications.
Meanwhile, I’d just barely gotten into Langley.
It had taken me nearly a year to prepare all the application materials, and it wasn’t like I’d had parents to help me step by step.
The foster parents I’d lived with after Sara and I had been split up hadn’t been to college themselves, so they couldn’t have helped even if they’d wanted to.
Sara and I had chatted online for hours four or five times each week, working toward getting a scholarship here. There were times when we thought we’d never?—
Wait. That’s what my presentation could be about. An informational video to help foster kids navigate the college application process. With tips, strategies, and encouragement.
My brain took the idea and ran with it, and I started jotting down a bunch of notes until I stopped dead. I was on board, but how on earth was I going to find and convince a team of people to work with me?
“If you get stuck, feel free to contact one of my teaching assistants for some guidance. But this is part of the assignment. So think like a producer, not an individual contributor.”
“Can we only use the people on the list you posted?” a redhead asked.
“You can use whoever you want. Last year a basketball player recruited a group of freshmen women who all had a crush on him. Er, not that I’m recommending that approach.”
People laughed at that, but I was too concerned. And when the class ended, I kept thinking about it all the way back to the house.
The person I needed on my team—the person I’d always needed—was Sara. She’d been through the exact same process, and she’d been just as lost as I had been, so she knew how it was.
Once at the house, I made myself a quick sandwich for lunch, still mulling over the project that was going to account for half my grade.
If only Sara was here.
Wait.
I pulled out my phone and checked the date. My stomach did a little flip flop when I realized that the rehab center would allow phone calls now. I’d been warned that they’d be monitored and short, just five minutes, but I couldn’t wait to hear her voice.
I sat at my desk practically vibrating with excitement while I spoke to a staff member there. While they located Sara and told her about the call.
And then I heard her voice. My sister. The only true family I had.
Tears flowed down my face as I greeted her.
But five minutes later, the tears flowed for another reason.
Feeling dazed, I got up, went to the bathroom I shared with Jenna, and splashed water on my face. My very pale face, at least as it appeared in the mirror.
Numbness spread over me. I wanted to talk to someone about it. I wanted someone to hold me and tell me it would all be okay.
But the person I wanted to do that was Sara.
Blindly, I walked down the hallway, but not to go downstairs. At the far end of the hall was a narrow staircase that led upstairs to where Cody and Evan stayed. I’d never been up there, but I knew there were three bedrooms up there.
I climbed the steps carefully. Walked past a bathroom. Ignored the two closed doors and entered one with the door that was open.
The one that was supposed to have been Sara’s.
The air was stale. The furniture was a little dusty. It was obvious that no one lived here.
But it was clean, and someone—maybe Diego?—had carefully prepared it for her. There was even a little welcome basket on the desk with soaps and lotions. I’d received one like it.
Her bed wasn’t as big as mine. It was a double.
And it wasn’t actually her bed. She’d never slept in it.
But it felt like her bed, and that thought had me kicking off my shoes and laying down on my side.
I put my arm under my head and tried to turn off my thoughts.
Tried not to hear the accusations she’d shouted on the phone. Tried not to feel anything.
I blinked. Then blinked again. Eventually, my eyes closed.
Then I drifted away from the house, but to a familiar place.
To Tuppington Middle School, to be exact.