Things have been fine lately, apart from Olive’s notes. No lacrosse, no Brotherhood. But people have been snickering behind their hands at me because of what happened in class the other week.
The scholarship kid is too poor to go home over break.
Ha-ha.
Most of those kids aren’t even going home; they’re off to the Alps or the Bahamas or wherever insanely rich people go for Christmas. They’ll be having adventures in mountain lodges or lounging on white-sand beaches, and I can’t even afford a flight to a nowhere town back home in the States.
I have seen a bit of encouragement lately, however. A few boys have nodded at me in the hall. Neville, the nerdy kid, told me yesterday just how shameful it was for someone to act so holier-than-thou about money. Last night at dinner, I overheard some boys talking about how uppity The Brotherhood is, and how they should “watch their tone”.
Those people are in the minority.
And they still serve as a constant reminder how much power The Brotherhood holds … even when they’re barely talking to me. One word from one of them, and suddenly everyone is talking about me again.
Will I ever be rid of them, or will they follow me forever?
I know the answer to that.
The image of their faces, of Heath, of Beck, even of Jasper, swims to mind in a way that makes me shove the thought away as quickly as it comes. It would be a whole lot easier to forget them entirely if they didn’t look like gods chiseled from stone.
I know that’s how they get away with all this in the first place. After all, how bad can a boy really be when his face looks like that of an angel?
I know the answer to that, too.
I smoke two cigarettes down to the butt before heading back inside the school to meet Rafael for class. He tries to stick by me, noticing my mood, and dogs my steps all the way to history again, where I sit down and try not to draw any attention to myself this time.
I think I’m successful when, right as the bell rings to end class, the professor calls my name and asks me to stay a few minutes after class.
My heart immediately sinks.
Reluctantly, I sit back down while the rest of the class streams past me, some avoiding my gaze, others grinning mockingly as they pass. I just prop my chin on my hand and wait.
“I’ll be right outside,” Rafael assures me, but I see the way he’s shifting on his feet. He knows something is up too … and would rather not be here for it.
“It’s okay,” I reply, nodding out the door down the hall. “Go ahead to your next class.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
He puts his hand briefly on my shoulder before flitting away, shooting me a concerned look over his shoulder.
After the class clears out, I gather my books and walk up toward the professor’s desk. “Uh, did I do something wrong?” I ask, forcing my voice into its lowest register.
“Not at all,” he replies, straightening some papers. “I just want to inform you that your ticket home, and your admission into the historical conference has been paid for you.”
Stunned, I watch as he pulls a long envelope out from under a stack of documents. He places it carefully in my hands.
I’m less stunned than I am confused. Sure, I was annoyed at how much attention Beck had drawn to the fact that I’m basically a pauper compared to the rest of them … but I’d barely thought about the conference. I hadn’t even begun to entertain the idea of finding a way home.
It isn’t until I turn the envelope over, running one finger along the sealed edge, that I feel suddenly overwhelmed. Home.
Home, where I won’t have to pretend to be someone else, if just for a couple weeks. Just the thought of getting to be myself for a single day is enough to make my vision start to blur for a second. A deep ache lodges in my chest when I look back up.
“Who?” I blurt out.
“It was done anonymously.” He shifts his eyes off to the side, fidgeting slightly. He must be lying. If he didn’t do it himself, he knows who did.
“Well … I …”