She shrugs. “Okay. Sure. Hey, how is your noggin feeling today?”
“Hard as usual,” I say, pretending to knock my skull.
“Sounds about right.”
“I did think about what you said yesterday morning,” I say, collapsing onto the couch, legs dangling over the armrest. The mention of food reminds me of how Renner took me to the drive-thru after I told him about Dad.
“What did I say yesterday?” she asks, half-distracted as she riffles through the drawer.
My heart twinges at the thought of Dad. He was gone. Leaving Alexandra and two technically-unborn-sisters behind. “About calling Dad.”
Truth be told, I’m still mad at Dad and the way he’s handled things. But now I understand how it feels to no longer have the chance to speak with him, even if I wanted to. So turning down the opportunity now, especially since he extended an olive branch, doesn’t sit right.
Her brows rise with surprise. “Oh, really? Okay. Great. He’ll be happy to hear from you.”
“I’ll call him. Maybe when I get home from the sleepover.”
“Oh right. The Senior Sleepover is tonight!” She does an embarrassing shimmy. “I remember my Senior Sleepover. Georgia and I made a pact to lose our virginities—”
I toss a throw pillow at her and pretend to gag. “Ew. Mom!”
“You’re such a prude, Charlotte,” she says, tossing the pillow back. It bounces off my knee and lands on the floor.
Mom has read one too many books on how to talk to kids about sex. Instead of having “the talk” like most parents, she tries to relate to me by using real-life examples, like when she told me all about losing her V-card in the back of a rusted Sunfire, Titanic-style. She’s under the impression （delusion） that the more open she is, the more I’ll tell her about my nonexistent sex life.
“Anyway, I didn’t actually lose it at the sleepover. Turns out the boys and girls had to stay on opposite sides of the gym,” she says, seemingly still disappointed.
“We’re separated too. If all goes smoothly, at least. Though who knows. Renner was supposed to arrange the chaperones.” I lurch. “That reminds me. I never confirmed them.”
She gives me a warning look. “You’re going to get a hernia if you keep this up. It’s Senior Week. These are the best days of your life. Have some fun for once.”
I think about Adult Renner. He told me to stop stressing and just enjoy life. “Easier said than done.”
She gives me a knowing look. Before she can say anything else, my phone pings.
It’s an email. From Cynthia Zellars from the Katrina Zellars Foundation.
My stomach flips.
I brace myself for what I already know. My official denial. I turn my face to avoid Mom’s inquisition. I’ll fall apart if she sees my disappointment. So while she’s distracted ordering dinner, I race to my room, close the door, and dive onto my bed.
Heart racing, I take in a deep breath and open the email.
To: Charlotte Wu <[email protected]>
From: Cynthia Zellars <[email protected]>
Subject: Scholarship
Dear Charlotte,
I am pleased to inform you that you are the recipient of the Katrina Zellars Foundation scholarship in the amount of $20,000 USD.
In a blurry haze, I finish reading the rest of the email. And then I reread it, and read it again. Ten times.
Is this a joke? After that abysmal interview, how was I selected for the scholarship? Surely they had many more qualified applicants who didn’t ramble off topic about human rights matters.
Striking a huge goal like this off the bucket list feels beyond satisfying. I squeal into the mattress, ecstatic, already rethinking my budget for next year.
My body buzzes with frantic energy. I head back to the living room to tell Mom, but she’s hunched over her writing desk, tapping away on her keyboard. Sometimes she gets random bursts of inspiration. I’ve learned not to disrupt her in these moments.
I pull up my texts and contemplate telling Kassie and Nori ASAP. But my finger hovers over Renner’s name. And I remember his behavior at school and the anniversary of his sister’s death yesterday. I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for him and for his parents. Frankly, it sucked seeing him all sullen and withdrawn. So I click his name. Before I can think too hard, I send a message.
Charlotte: Hi
He responds almost immediately.
Satan : Hey
Charlotte: How are you?
Satan : This feels like a trap. You never ask how I am.
My lips tug upward into a small smile. His cheeky response feels like putting on my favorite sweatpants. They’re not the nicest pair, probably a little tattered. But they’re comfortable. They’re what you know. His text reassures me that I can forget all about the alternate universe. Life can continue on as it was. Our rivalry. My friendship with Kassie. Everything.