Bad Boy Hero - Tanglewood Academy

Keanen bows his head. “It’s my fault.”

Bette and I both whip around in unison to gape at him. What?

“I threw the party,” he’s saying. “It got out of hand. The blame falls squarely on my shoulders, sir.” He straightens in his seat.

My stomach twists. It’s noble, what he’s trying to do, but Keanen is just a semester away from graduating. He can’t get a black stain on his record now, not one as bad as this. Drinking on campus, giving alcohol to minors, whatever else they could charge him with…

But to my surprise, Chancellor Kross just sighs, looking aggravated. “Keanen, what do I value above all else?” he says.

“Hard work,” Keanen replies.

His father’s eyes narrow.

Keanen bows his head. “And honesty.”

“Honesty. Yes.” The chancellor glances around the room, and for the first time since we entered, his gaze lands on me. He looks so much like his son. He tilts his head, holding my gaze. “Tell me, Miss…?”

“Missy,” I reply, and his lips tighten with amusement.

“Missy. Tell me, does that sound like the honest truth to you?” He raises an eyebrow. I remain silent, my mind racing. I don’t know how to get out of this one. I either wind up calling Keanen a liar—bad—or I condemn him to taking the fall for Bette’s actions—also bad. I bite the inside of my lip, and the chancellor shakes his head, heaving another sigh. “No, I don’t think so either.”

He leans forward, shifting his gaze to his younger child now. “So why don’t you tell me what in God’s name was going through that head of yours this time, hmm, Bette?”

I wince at hearing him talk this way. So does Keanen. As for Bette, though, she only seems to bristle at the challenge, straightening in her seat.

“I didn’t do anything. She’s the one you should be talking to.” Bette gestures at me.

“Keanen, is that true?” Chancellor Kross asks, without taking his gaze off his youngest daughter.

“No, sir,” Keanen answers after a moment’s pause.

Bette scowls.

“So it is, as I suspected, another of your temper tantrums,” the chancellor continues. He leans back against his desk with a loud sigh. “It’s as much as I deserve, I suppose, for letting your mother talk me into a second child.” He shakes his head.

For a moment I just sit there, stunned into silence by what I just heard. Jesus. I know he’s angry, but I can’t imagine what it must feel like to hear your own parent say something like that. I shoot another glance at Bette, and all the fight’s gone out of her now. Her eyes glisten with tears instead.

Before their father looks over again, Keanen reaches over to squeeze her knee, gently. And slowly, more and more about Bette’s attitude begins to make sense.

I grimace. I don’t forgive her for what she did to me, but… I can’t imagine what her life has been like. Here I was assuming that Keanen and Bette’s world was so much easier because of their money, but… Money can’t fix every problem.

“Missy.” The chancellor’s gaze is on me again, and I force myself to sit straighter, meet his gaze. “I offer my sincerest apologies for my youngest daughter’s behavior. I hope that you will decline to press charges.”

My lips part. Press charges? I never even dreamed of suing the girl over this. It was childish, infuriating, yes, but…

Before I can answer, Keanen speaks up. “Actually, Missy is here on a partial scholarship.” Between us, Bette sniffs surreptitiously.

When I look over, I notice tears leaking down her cheeks. Unable to stand it, I dig in my pocket and pass her a tissue.

She stares at me, wide-eyed, like she can’t believe what I just did. I shrug one shoulder, let it fall.

Only then do I process the rest of what Keanen is saying. “Perhaps Tanglewood University would see fit to raise Missy’s scholarship amount to full tuition, in order to help her in paying the bills she’s been working so hard to meet, and of course replace the things in her room that have been ruined.”

The chancellor glances from his son to me and back, his brow furrowed.

My breath catches in my chest. It can’t be this easy. Can it? But a moment later—“Yes, yes, all right,” the chancellor says, waving a hand as if he’s swatting at an annoying fly. It’s that simple for him. Barely even a consideration. My chest tightens again, and I barely hear him continue. “Assuming you can maintain the grades required for our full ride candidacy,” he adds.

I realize he’s speaking to me again.

It takes all my energy to force a broad, reassuring smile. To make my voice work normally, at least for long enough for me to reply. “I assure you, sir, I’m a good student and a hard worker.”

“Yes, I’m sure you are.” The chancellor gives me one last long once-over, and then holds out a hand.