Who Breaks First (Clearwater University)

“What?” I blink. The tone in Dad’s voice is seriously freaking me out.

“I said, what have you done? I trusted you. I trusted that you would take advantage of this opportunity.”

“Dad, I don’t know what you mean.” My heart is pounding in my chest as my mind races. What does he know? Did he find out about what’s been going on between me and the guys? Is he mad about it?

Fuck, of course he is. Not everyone in the world would be as accepting of the fact that I basically want to be with three guys as Leslie is. Especially not my father.

“I just got a call from Clearwater. You failed your Anthropology class. Don’t you understand that violates the provisions of your admission? When you were given the scholarship, we discussed how there was no room for failure. Admittance to that school was a gift, and now you’ve thrown that opportunity away.”

I feel sick. The world seems to tilt and sway in front of me. I heard the words come out of Dad’s mouth, but I still don’t understand what’s happening.

“There must be some mistake,” I choke out. “I worked my ass off in Anthro. I did a great job.”

“Apparently, not nearly good enough. I got a call from the dean just now. This is serious stuff, Emma. There’s no going back. Once this is done, it’s done. It’s over.”

“Dad!” I plead.

“No. There’s nothing else to say. We’re going to have to have a serious discussion about how you’re going to move forward with your life after this. You’ve disappointed me, Emma. After you just abandoned your studies in high school, I thought you were finally back on track. And now this.”

I have never heard my dad be this stern before. It’s true that my grades in high school were shit, and he never knew the reason for it, so I think he just assumed I blew off classes and didn’t care. He tried to get me tutors and stuff, but none of it helped, because understanding the material wasn’t the problem.

The problem was that my high school had become like a war zone.

I feel like I’m in some kind of nightmare as I begin to feel tears streaming down my face. This can’t be happening. I was doing so well in Anthropology. There’s got to be some explanation for this. It must be a mistake of some sort.

“I’m going to fix this, Dad,” I finally say.

“There is no fixing this, Emma. There’s no fixing it.” This time, it’s not anger I hear in his voice. It’s just exhaustion. Disappointment.

And then silence, as the line goes dead.

My head is spinning. So many scenarios are rushing through my mind that I can’t grasp onto any one of them long enough to process it.

“What’s wrong?” Leslie takes a step toward me, looking seriously freaked out. She probably thinks someone died or something.

“I… um,” I reply, but I can’t get out more than that. The only thing I can think to do is call Trent immediately. I speed dial him and bring the phone to my ear, listening as I hear it ring endlessly.

He’s not picking up, so I decide to text him.

ME: Trent, did you turn in our Anthropology project on time?

There’s no response, so I keep sending messages.

ME: Please answer me. I’ve failed Anthro. This can’t be happening.

ME: Are you trying to ignore me? Please just tell me if something went wrong with our project. I’m freaking out right now.

Minutes pass as I stare at my phone’s screen, willing him to respond. But when I still don’t hear anything back, I decide the best thing to do is to go to the guys’ house. If Trent isn’t home, maybe one of the others is. Maybe they’ll know what happened.

“I gotta go,” I throw over my shoulder to Leslie, walking toward the door.

“Uh, okay.” She watches me go with a frown. “What’s going on?”

“I can’t tell you right now. I gotta go.”

Before she can respond to that, I’m through the door, already closing it behind me. I know that was rude, but I can’t think about anything right now except figuring this out. Making it okay. It has to be okay.

As I walk down the hall, I feel like I’m going to faint. My legs are shaking, and if I’d eaten anything recently, there’s a good chance it would be making its way back up.