I glance at Jenny. She clasps her hands together, nodding at me to open it. My hands shake as I slide my finger under the tab and rip open the envelope, pulling out a folded sheet of paper. Somehow my heart races faster than when I thought it was an invitation, the game following me still, even as Lyla faces a zealous prosecutor in court. Faces life in prison.
They found her three days after she tried to bury me alive. She’d sent a school-wide email exposing Farrah’s, Nikki’s, and Hartley’s secrets. Authorities traced the IP address back to a public library in Breaux Bridge and nabbed her the next day, trying to buy a bag of chips at a gas station. She’s in jail now, awaiting trial, but I know I’ll live with this fear until she’s locked away for good. But there’s nothing I can do about it. I just have to trust the system and let go.
“Open it already!” Jenny cries.
I hesitate, a dizzy feeling washing over me. I blow out a pressurized breath. This is silly, how nervous I am. It doesn’t matter if I don’t get in. I can go to college here, apply again next year. I can do anything I want. Life will not end if this place doesn’t want me.
I unfold the paper.
Dear Student,
Congratulations! You have been selected for admission to the Honors Social Work and Applied Social Studies program.
The committee especially enjoyed your essay submission….
I bite back my tears. With Tucker expelled as he faces charges of attempted murder—charges his father is fervently attacking— I had to do my history midterm alone. But instead of Walt Disney, I opted to focus my paper on someone else important in history—my personal history. My mom. The paper earned me an A-plus, so I recycled it for my essay submission.
“Well?” Jenny asks.
I stare at the paper. I read it again and again and again.
“What is it?” Jenny repeats. “Yes or no?”
I can’t talk.
My hand trembles as I hold out the paper. She snatches it and quickly scans the letter, then shrieks so loud I think my eardrums might pop, and she tackle-hugs me. I stumble back, laughing and crying and sobbing and just so utterly happy.
“What’s going on?” Mom appears in the doorway. She eyes us and the paper warily.
I swallow, sobering in the face of the reality that not everyone is going to be happy about this.
Mom will lose it. She’ll say I’m too sick. That my health is fragile and international travel could be dangerous. I’ll have to get used to a whole new set of doctors—doctors who don’t know me—and I’ll have to do it alone. She’ll say I need her.
And she’ll be right.
Of course I need my mom. I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for her making my health her top priority for seventeen years. I needed her to take care of me when I couldn’t—and sometimes wouldn’t—take care of myself. In France I’ll have to do it all alone.
But it’s time I started looking after myself. I’m almost an adult, and I can’t live my life holding her hand. I need her, but what I need most is her love and support. I have to do this, even if it feels like the scariest dare I’ve ever faced.
I hand over the letter, then pull Mom into a hug.
The door swings shut behind the last customer. I exchange a glance with Casey, my fellow Bourbon Beignet employee, and then look over the sea of tables cluttered with china and powdered sugar, the café heavy with the scent of floral perfume.
“Holy shit,” she says. “That was insane.”
I wasn’t in the door for five minutes before a literal busload of seniors poured into the shop and wreaked havoc on the place for two hours. If my apron wasn’t heavy with change (and hard candy), I’d be just as annoyed as Casey.
Mom didn’t want me to get a job, and I didn’t blame her. After everything I put her through, I’d want to chain me to a bed too. But I told her I needed independence, needed to be a regular teen, and after I showed her I could be responsible—taking my meds on my own, cooking my own high-salt, high-calorie meals, making my own doctors’ appointments—I was able to eventually wear her down. Some days I feel tired, some days I’m not sure I can do it, but mostly, mostly, it makes me feel good. I’ll never go back to life on the couch, worrying what might happen if I breathe wrong. If Hartley’s death has taught me anything, it’s that your life can be cut short at any time. You have to live it as if any day could be your last.
Besides, I don’t have a magical hundred K to save the day—even the pin was confiscated by authorities as evidence—and I have to pay for university somehow.
Casey tosses me a rag, and we get to work cleaning up the mess. My phone buzzes in my apron. I pull it out. Farrah.
Mall tomorrow?
You know my feelings on shopping.
Come on! Nikki’s coming.
I don’t wannnaaaa.
Pick you up at eleven!
I smile and stow my phone. It’s hard to believe it’s been a year since Farrah, Nikki, and I sat next to each other in the second-row pew at St. Anna’s Episcopal Church, gripping hands so hard it was a miracle that bones didn’t break. A year since Farrah looked across at me and said, “I did love her.”