Full Ride

by Margaret Peterson Haddix

  Somehow I don’t think so. Somehow I think Daddy just did it without a second thought. He crossed the line, broke the law, fooled his victims, ruined his life—and Mom’s and mine—without a single backward glance.

  Unless . . . what if setting up the fake scholarship for me is his backward glance?

  • • •

  I wake up in the middle of the night with four words floating through my head: You can find out.

  I smile drowsily. I am calm, even serene. There is a way for me to find out if the Court scholarship is just another one of Daddy’s scams without ruining anything.

  At least, there’s a way for me to find out if it isn’t.

  In the middle of the night, that sounds good enough to me.

  Now—

  hopeful

  I am waiting at Rosa’s locker long before school starts the next morning.

  “I couldn’t figure out that fourth problem in calc, either,” she says as soon as she sees me.

  “I didn’t even try,” I admit. All my homework still sits untouched in my backpack. I have never come to school before with undone homework. But I’m holding onto my drifty, calm, middle-of-the-night feeling.

  Rosa drops her backpack to the floor and spins her combination lock.

  “I wanted to ask you about something else,” I say. “Did you check with any other Whitney Court Scholarship winners before Emily Riviera and David Lin?”

  This is my theory: If I can confirm that the scholarship was set up before Mom and I moved to Deskins, that will prove Daddy had nothing to do with it.

  If David Lin’s Court Scholarship two years ago was the first one, that doesn’t prove anything one way or another. But I’m trying not to think about that.

  Rosa jerks up her locker release and swings the door open.

  “Do you like making yourself miserable?” she asks. “You want to read every single winning essay that’s so good you want to gouge your own eyes out?”

  “I’m curious,” I say. “I want to know if they’ve ever repeated a winning topic.”

  Of course I don’t tell her that isn’t the main reason I’m asking.

  Rosa grunts as she starts moving textbooks from her backpack to her locker.

  “My Facebook sources only go back so far,” she says. “I’ll have to check with my sister to see if she knows who won the years before she graduated.”

  I guess Rosa’s sister graduated the same year as David Lin. It’s funny to think that Rosa has this whole other person attached to her that I barely know anything about—a whole family, actually. I always steer conversations away from family talk, because I don’t want anybody asking about mine.

  But now I say, “It won’t make your sister feel bad, since she didn’t win the scholarship?”

  Rosa snorts.

  “Lily won’t care,” she said. “I don’t think she even applied. She was majoring in boys her senior year. She thought David Lin was hot—that’s why she remembered him winning.”

  Rosa swings her locker open wider. I’ve never been the type to hang out at my friends’ lockers, so I’ve never seen the pictures inside her door before. Where other girls might hang pictures of their boyfriends—or hot celebrities they wish were their boyfriends—Rosa has photos of various colleges and universities. The pictures are perfectly matted, precisely labeled: Yale. Stanford. Georgetown. Washington University. Northwestern.

  Rosa sees that I’m looking.

  “Yeah, that’s the wish list,” she says with an embarrassed shrug. “Don’t tell me they’re out of my league. Stuart already has.”

  I am suddenly almost as furious with Stuart as I was last night with Whitney Court, her family, and my father.

  “I think some of these schools are beneath you,” I tell Rosa. I touch the Georgetown photo and do a snobby imitation of Stuart: “I mean, Georgetown? It’s not even Ivy League!”

  Rosa laughs and shuts her locker.

  “Don’t forget about asking your sister,” I say.

  “I won’t, but I hope you’re not in a hurry,” she says. “Lily’s not too fast about answering messages. Unless there’s testosterone involved.”

  Rosa starts rushing toward her first-period class. I glance at the clock and veer toward the guidance office instead. I am in a hurry, and Ms. Stela might be organized enough to remember what year the Whitney Court Scholarship started.

  But there’s a sign taped to the guidance office door:

  ALL GUIDANCE OFFICE STAFF IN MEETINGS THIS MORNING. WE WILL BE OPEN FOR URGENT BUSINESS ONLY THIS AFTERNOON.

  That’s about how the rest of the day goes too. We have a pop quiz in gov that I would have aced if I’d spent three minutes looking at the book last night. (But I didn’t.) At lunch Stuart goes on and on and on about needing commitments from everyone who wants to go on his Southern college tour at the end of October. For some reason, he’s nagging me most of all.

  “I’d like to see Vanderbilt,” I admit, and this feels horribly brave, like walking into a room with only a bikini on when everyone else is fully clothed. Do I still want to see Vanderbilt? Do I still want to go there, or has Daddy ruined it for me?

  I can’t think about that right now.

  “But Emory?” I say, putting maybe a little too much scorn into my voice. “Ugh. Why not combine Vanderbilt with someplace else instead—Wake Forest, maybe? Duke?”

  Stuart bristles.

  “Emory is the Harvard of the South!” he says.

  “No, Vanderbilt is the Harvard of the South!” I correct him.

  There’s something really ugly between us. I hate Stuart right now because he doesn’t have to worry how he’s going to pay for college visits or college itself. And because he made fun of Rosa and because he doesn’t have to wonder if his father has set up a hoax that could turn him into a criminal too. I don’t know why Stuart hates me right now, but it’s clear that he does. His eyes are little and squinty, his face is flushed, and his mouth is snapping open.

  I can feel the wave of vitriol about to come toward me, and I am not ready for it.

  Clarice sticks her phone between us, with its voice app activated: “At least six different universities have been called the Harvard of the South. Shall I list them?”

  The bell rings just then, and even though it would probably do us good to sit there listening to a calm computer voice, we all flee in different directions.

  In calculus class the last period of the day, I discover that I got a 68 on last week’s test.

  I sit there staring at the lowest grade I’ve ever gotten and think, This is what happens to other people. It’s other people who get bad grades because they’re distracted by boyfriend or girlfriend problems, or they party too much, or they just don’t care about school as much as other parts of their lives.

  And weren’t you distracted by the Court scholarship? I ask myself. Didn’t you break your laser focus on getting good grades?

  It’s totally unfair that trying to get the money to go to a good college should make me mess up the grades that were supposed to get me in to that good college.

  It’s totally unfair if one of Daddy’s schemes has ruined this part of my life too.

  “All right, everyone,” Mr. Hattimer says from the front of the room, a million miles away. “The world did not just end. None of you did well on this test. Neither did my morning class. In fact, the highest grade in either class was a 68.”

  A 68? I think. I got the highest grade of anyone?

  “So there’ll be a thirty-two-point curve?” Lakshmi asks in a wobbly voice from across the room.

  “No, Ms. Patel,” Mr. Hattimer says scornfully. “I am not just going to give you all better grades. You need to know this material for the AP test at the end of the year. You need to know this material for college. And if any of you are going to become civil engineers or architects someday, you need to know this material so the bridges and buildings you design don’t fall apart and kill me or someone I care about. Or anyone! There is no curv
e in real life!”

  He’s been on a big kick lately about how calculus isn’t just theoretical and that it can have real-life consequences beyond grades. Whatever. With half the girls in the class on the verge of tears—and maybe some guys, too, though they’re hiding it better—today his lecture just feels like bullying.

  “So we all fail?” three kids wail almost in unison.

  Technically, I think 68 is some kind of D, but I don’t think I should point that out.

  “No,” Mr. Hattimer says. If anything, the scorn in his voice has thickened. “Because high school is evidently another name for preschool nowadays, I am going to reteach this material, and then you will be retested. But that pushes everything in the course back a week, so we’re going to have to pick up the pace after this. And remember, once you get out of this playpen, you won’t get do-overs in real life. If you’re a surgeon, you can’t kill your patient on the operating table and then say, ‘Oops, can’t I start that over again?’ If you’re a pilot, you can’t crash your plane and then say, ‘Hey! Let me have another chance!’ If—”

  I’ve had enough. I raise my hand. Mr. Hattimer looks surprised—he’s not used to being interrupted. But he nods at me and says, “Yes, Becca?”

  “It’s not like we weren’t trying,” I say. My voice is only a little steadier than Lakshmi’s was, but I forge ahead. “It doesn’t help to hear ‘You’re not going to get do-overs in real life’ when all of us are already stressed out about choosing the right college and getting in and picking the right major and . . . and everything else.” No need to mention what’s specifically stressing me out. “All of us already feel like every decision we make is do or die, and could maybe ruin the rest of our lives, and . . .”

  I realize that everyone in the class is staring at me. This is not like me. I don’t talk back to teachers. No one expects me to stand up for myself.

  “. . . and . . . Mr. Hattimer, could I maybe go to the guidance office right now?” I ask.

  I expect him to say, “Of course not. You’re going to sit there until I beat calculus into your brain! Even if it kills us both!” But he just looks at me sadly for a moment and then says, “Yes, Becca, you may.”

  I must sound even more on edge than I actually am.

  Or maybe I really am dangerously on edge?

  I gather up my books and take the pass Mr. Hattimer hands me. I escape out the door and down the hall.

  When I get to the guidance office, I’m relieved to see that the door is open now. I rush in past the secretaries. I sweep right into Ms. Stela’s private office. She’s hunched over her computer keyboard, surrounded by stacks of papers on either side.

  “Ms. Stela, can you tell me, how long ago did the Court scholarship start? How many years has it been going on?” I ask.

  Ms. Stela turns and blinks at me.

  “Um . . . I don’t know, Becca,” she says distractedly. “I think it was before I got here.”

  When did Ms. Stela get here?

  I remember: She started my sophomore year.

  This proves nothing. Daddy could have been a fast worker, even from prison. He could have set up the fake scholarship my freshman year.

  I slump against Ms. Stela’s doorway. Ms. Stela starts watching me with more interest than usual.

  “Why do you want to know?” she asks.

  I ignore her question, and counter with one of my own.

  “Who would know when the Court scholarship started?” I ask. “I mean, someone here at school.”

  “Well, if it’s really that important to you, I could ask Mr. Bixby and get back to you,” Ms. Stela says.

  Mr. Bixby is one of the other counselors. I can just see Ms. Stela forgetting completely.

  “That’s okay; I’ll ask him,” I say.

  Mr. Bixby’s office door is shut, but I am full of boldness—or something—today. I open his door, poke my head in, and say, “Ms. Stela says you’re the person to ask about how long ago the Whitney Court Scholarship started.”

  Mr. Bixby frowns and mutters something under his breath about why Ms. Stela can’t handle her own section of the alphabet. But he looks at his computer, types a word or two—or, well, probably three—and then tells me, “Five years ago. This year’s will be the sixth one.”

  Five years ago.

  My knees go weak, and I have to clutch Mr. Bixby’s door.

  Five years ago I was just starting seventh grade at McCormick Middle School back in Georgia. Five years ago everyone thought Daddy was a wildly successful businessman, and nobody knew his secrets. He would have had no reason to start some strange scholarship in a totally different state just in case he ever got caught and sent to prison. Five years ago he would have had no reason to believe he would ever get caught.

  So the Court scholarship has nothing to do with Daddy, I realize.

  This news should send relief coursing through my body. That should be the reason my knees are weak. I should feel like jumping up and down and cheering—maybe even like kissing the top of Mr. Bixby’s very bald head. If the Court scholarship has nothing to do with Daddy, I can enter and win and accept the money without a single pang of conscience. I don’t have to worry about it being tainted.

  But my body doesn’t seem to know I should be deliriously happy. It feels more like I have to hold myself up because I’m unbearably sad. Tears spring to my eyes, and I can barely mumble “thanks,” before I have to turn away to keep Mr. Bixby from seeing.

  So Daddy didn’t make any secret arrangements for me? I wonder. Doesn’t he love me, after all?

  More now

  I time my exit from the guidance office badly: I hit DHS’s main hallway just as the final bell rings and everyone is dashing out of the classrooms. I walk through the cramped hallway with my head down, giving myself fierce instructions:

  Don’t let anyone see that you’re almost crying. Don’t let anyone see that you are crying. Don’t cry. Stop it!

  I wipe my face across my sleeve at a moment when I hope no one is looking. And then I slam directly into some other person.

  “Sorry,” I mumble without looking.

  Whoever it is doesn’t step aside. I feel big hands cupping my shoulders. I have to look up now: It’s my friend Oscar holding on to me. He’s the one I ran into.

  “Hey,” he says. “Are you all right?”

  I shrug because I don’t trust my voice right now.

  The truth is, Oscar is built a lot like an overgrown teddy bear, and it would actually be quite pleasant to put my face down against his shoulder and sob and sob and sob.

  Right, I think. And that would be so pleasant for him, too, some psycho girl slobbering all over his shoulder in front of everyone. . . .

  I step back to break Oscar’s hold on me. I want him to see I’m not just going to fall down.

  “Hey,” Oscar says, with a shrug of his own. “Everyone got an awful grade on that calc exam. And Mr. Hattimer will have to make it easier next time—you at least are bound to get an A.” He pauses. “Did you know Stuart got a forty-two? Doesn’t that make you feel better, to know your worst enemy totally failed?”

  “Stuart isn’t my worst enemy,” I say. “Competing with him just forces me to work harder.”

  “Oh,” Oscar says. “My parents really wish somebody would do that for me.”

  He grins. And there’s something so incredibly infectious about Oscar’s grin that I stop crying. I don’t think I’m even in danger of crying anymore.

  I discreetly wipe my hand across my face again. It’s time to do a little damage control.

  “I’m thinking maybe grades don’t matter anyhow,” I say. “Maybe I won’t even go to college. Maybe I’ll just join the Peace Corps.”

  “I already looked into that,” Oscar says. “They won’t take you unless you’ve got a bachelor’s degree.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, then . . . maybe I’ll just work at Riggoli’s the rest of my life. I’ll dedicate my life to bringing the finest pizzas and pasta to the
people of Deskins.”

  “They’ll never give you more than twenty hours a week,” Rosa says, stepping up beside me. “And they’ll never pay you more than minimum wage.”

  I look back and forth between Oscar and Rosa—did Oscar send some secret message to her: Help! Crying girl here! What am I supposed to do?

  It actually wouldn’t surprise me if Oscar had an app like that programmed into his phone, that he hit when I wasn’t looking.

  Rosa puts her arm around my shoulder.

  “I know how you feel,” she says. “Every time my grades slip even a little, I think, so if I do actually go to one of those big fancy schools I’m killing myself to get into—what if I can’t hack it? What if I’m not smart enough to do the work?”

  I refrain from telling Rosa that’s not why I was crying.

  But, great—thanks for giving me something else to stress about, I think.

  Oscar puts his arm around me from the other side. It’s like they want to turn us into a human chain: smart kids against the world!

  “Becca, you of all people—you don’t have anything to worry about,” he says. “You’re so smart, it’s like your brain was made for college!”

  Rosa rolls her eyes at him and jokes, “Oh, Oscar, I bet you say that to all the girls.”

  But I barely hear her, and if Oscar delivers a comeback, I miss it completely.

  No . . . it’s like Daddy shaped my brain to get me ready for Vanderbilt, I think.

  I remember him reading books with me before I could read myself; I remember him teaching me the multiplication tables in third grade. I remember him showing me computer tricks the other kids didn’t know, so even in elementary school my PowerPoint presentations were multimedia extravaganzas. . . .

  Tears well in my eyes again.

  “Oh, you’ve got it bad today, don’t you?” Rosa asks, patting my back.

  “You need . . . ice cream,” Oscar blurts.

  “Ice cream?” I ask, and my voice makes it sound like I’ve never heard of such a thing.

  “Okay, if you want to be all prissy and health conscious and everything, you can get Froyo instead,” Oscar says. “But this is a moment that calls for food.”