Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 82255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
“You will,” he assures her. “I’ll have it sent over before that.”
He sounds confident, but she doesn’t look like she believes him, and I’m not sure I do either. Though he hasn’t made it overtly obvious, I’ve seen the worry in my father’s eyes over the past six months. Something has changed with our finances, and I don’t know exactly what it is, but I’ve noticed him in his study, poring over bills whenever he’s home. As always, my mother remains clueless, content to maintain the status quo with frequent shopping trips and designer luxuries.
“All right then.” Marcy offers up a tight, disingenuous smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Welcome to Loyola, Stella.”
As soon as she shuts the door behind her, my father turns back to me, and suddenly, he looks like he’s aged twenty years.
“Is everything okay, Dad?” I fidget with the spinner ring on my finger as I wait for his assurances.
“It’s fine.” He flippantly waves away any other possibility. “Just an accounting snafu. I’ll get it taken care of, Stella. You don’t need to worry about it. The only thing you need to worry about is your education.”
“Okay.” I offer him a weak smile.
He sits down on the bed beside me, and in a rare moment of vulnerability, I recognize the concern on his face. He seems nervous, but I don’t know why. “I need you to make the most of this opportunity, honey. This is important. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that Loyola is going to be a challenge. I should have sent you to better schools from the beginning.”
“My school was great.” I shrug. “They offered advanced classes too. You know I never cared about the money, Dad. I was happy even when you were a photographer.”
He cringes at the reminder of his past, but those are the years I like to remember most. At least then, we weren’t just three strangers living together in a house. My mother wasn’t completely consumed by her social status, and their love hadn’t yet turned to hate. We didn’t have a house in the suburbs or the best of everything money could buy, but I still had a father.
“I need you to do well here,” Dad reiterates. “This is your last year of high school. From here, you can go straight to college. I think the plan your mother has laid out for you is a solid one. It’s important you follow it and don’t get into any trouble.” Disappointment lingers in his eyes, but I don’t know if it’s for me or himself. “I’m putting everything on the line to send you here, Stella. This is all I can do for you now.”
My breath catches as his eyes become glassy, and he turns away from me. My father isn’t an emotional man. At least, he hasn’t been since he became a corporate robot five years ago. If he’s admitting that things aren’t as good as they seem, then I know they must be pretty bad.
“You don’t have to send me here,” I tell him. “It’s so expensive, and if we can’t afford it—”
“No.” He shakes his head, adamant. “This is the last good thing I can do for you before you’re out on your own. I want you to go to Cornell. That degree means something in this world we live in. It will open doors for you that our name won’t. But they aren’t going to give it away. You have to put your head in the books and work hard. Can you do that for me?”
The knot in my throat makes it too difficult to speak, so I nod instead. And I really do mean it. I know I’ve disappointed my father lately with my stupid antics, and I want him to be proud of me. I want to be one less thing for him to worry about. If that means getting a degree in communications, then so be it. Even if it feels like a prison sentence, I make myself promise what he needs to hear.
“I’ll do it.” I offer him a watery smile. “I’ll make you proud, Dad.”
CHAPTER TWO
SEBASTIAN
ENTERING the grounds of Loyola Academy, freshly sharpened pencils aren’t the only scent lingering in the air. The stench of wealth and pretension invades every porous surface around me. A new wave of faces blurs together among the old familiar. Trust fund brats and their parents eye the competition in the courtyard while I narrowly avoid them all. The ever-present noose around my neck strangles the air from my lungs as I walk the sacred grounds of the asylum doubling as an educational institution. I hate this place. And yet, I find myself coming back here for the fourth year in a row.
I did not choose to be a teacher because I love the job. Prior to taking the position here, I’d spent the entirety of my life being groomed to work in a corporate skyscraper. The title and matching desk plate were mere formalities at the end of my tunnel to success. But when the time came for me to take the rightful place I’d earned through literal blood, sweat, and tears, I turned my back on all of it and came back to the establishment that represents everything I despise.