Chapter 44
Checking in again.
Somehow, the world keeps moving, even though everything feels frozen in time since my sleepover with Xander, like morning dew clinging to summer’s greenest grass.
We didn’t kiss that night, but I know he wants to. Whenever we’re together, he watches my hands and stares at my mouth, even when I’m not speaking. Sometimes I feel the phantom pressure of his finger on my lips.
He’s waiting for me to be ready.
His eagerness hangs over us like the minutes before a summer storm when the clouds roll in and the town falls still, and everyone waits to see if the rain will break or pass.
I’m not sure when the moment will be right for the first kiss.
But I bet, like most things this summer, it will sneak up on me when I least expect it.
I quickly type a response to my counselor:
Almost done.
Then I hit send.
Later that morning at work, I sit in my desk chair drafting my scholarship essay instead of doing anything remotely related to swimming pools.
Whitley’s not here, and the cubicle is quiet. She could be out on an inspection, but it’s more likely that she’s still avoiding me. Her absence fuels my focus. I want to fulfill our pact, our promise, and be by her side this August when we leave Penango.
I messed up bad. And this is a love letter in disguise. It’s a way to fix what I broke.
My toes curl rereading the corny intro paragraph I wrote days ago. It’s some nonsense that talks about my love of counting and numbers like I’m Sesame Street’s biggest fan.
The truth is, I don’t know what kind of career I want to have with math. I just like it. Numbers make sense. Unlike English class or feelings, there’s always a right answer.
At Stillwell Trail, the mathletes slogan is Make our math mean something. Maybe I need a real-life example to add some depth. But right now, everything meaningful in my life is also making it miserable.
How can I build a career when I’ll be stuck looking like a teenager forever?
The cursor blinks on the blank page like it’s judging me. I blink back. We’re in a standoff.
I wonder how long I’ll have to wait for a response from this scholarship committee and if their criteria are as elusive as the financial aid process. It’s all like trying to catch a firefly. I see the light, but as soon as I reach for it, it blinks out of existence.
Then an idea elbows its way to the front of my brain. I love math because there’s always a right answer built from a consistent set of variables. It’s fair.
My first financial aid decision was a math problem where the correct answer was five hundred, but the teacher insisted it was twenty. A spreadsheet was crashing out somewhere behind the scenes.
It doesn’t add up that a kid like me is this close to not going to college. It doesn’t check out that asking for help is like playing the lottery. And there’s nothing that explains why a year of college costs more than my mom and dad earn in a year.
The numbers should speak for themselves. But since they don’t, I will. I’ve listened to enough podcasts to know how to complain about something over a beat.
No one should be stuck in places like Penango if they are working with the right set of variables.
Just like my favorite podcasts, I want to explain how stuff works using math.
I’m going to explain how we can fix life’s broken equations so at the end of each episode, everyone’s jars are full of fireflies, and maybe more hope than I’ve had all summer.
Five hundred words isn’t much space to pitch a whole season of my new podcast, but I come up with a name and outline for the first episode.
It’s going to feature real students, real numbers, and real talk about financial aid.
Because someone needs to pull back the curtain and say what we’re all thinking: WTF.
It’ll be a career behind the scenes, where thirty and forty years from now, my voice can take center stage while my face stays hidden, just in case anyone starts asking questions.
Maybe it’ll be the longest-running podcast in history.
I guess it’s time I start looking for the perks of my own invisibility, the way Xander learned to do.
I proofread the essay a few times, then attach it to a blank email draft. But before I hit send, I need to secure my second attachment.
The recommendation letter.
I turn to Victor’s office, but my heart sinks like a stone in the river when I see the lights off. I run to the window in his door, keeping my fingers crossed that he’s just napping, but my worst suspicions are confirmed. The chair is empty.
He’s gone.
Hours pass and he never returns to the department. I sit with my head in my hands, pulling at my hair for most of the afternoon. My phone calls, texts, and emails to him go unanswered.
With the day nearly over, I decide to just send the essay to my counselor on its own, with hopes of reaching Victor tomorrow. But within a minute, she responds to my email.
Thanks, Stetson! I already received your second letter of recommendation, so we’re all good there. I am going to send in your essay ASAP. I will let you know of the committee’s decision soon.
My eyes widen. I reread the message.
There’s no way Victor sent her a letter. I never gave him her email address. I didn’t even tell him that Rainbow Valley’s pool is staying closed until next year. He had no reason to get a head start.
From who? I reply.
A moment later, the response comes:
Mr. Wyomen. It’s a glowing recommendation.