Page 126 of Even in the Dark

"Unfortunately, no." I gesture at the binder. "If your name's not on this list, I can't let Finn leave with you. It's for the kids' protection."

Xavier runs a hand through his hair again, messing it up even more. "Protection? From what? Their own families?"

"Hey, I don't make the rules," I snap. "I just follow them. Like everyone else here."

He scoffs. "Right. Because everyone just blindly follows rules without question."

"When it comes to kids' safety? Yeah. Actually, they do."

"Yo, Xave!" A voice cuts through the tension. A guy leans out of a nearby jeep. "Stop chatting up the ladies, bro! Let’s bounce!"

I refrain from rolling my eyes.

Xavier ignores him, stepping closer instead. "I really don’t think anyone’s going to accuse you of endangering Finn by letting him leave with his own brother."

My cheeks burn with frustration. "Are you seriously asking me to risk my job for you?"

He scoffs, like it's a ridiculous insinuation. "It's not like anyone's going to care. Or like anyone would even know you—"

"I would know." My voice is firm now. "And I’m not about to compromise my integrity for some rich kid who thinks rules don’t apply to him."

His hazel eyes flash. "What the hell does money have to do with me being pissed that I can't pick my brother up from a summer playgroup?"

"It has to do with you thinking the world revolves around you and—"

"Look," he cuts me off. "Can you get a manager? This is bullshit."

"Are you serious right now?"

"Yes. Can you please call a manager."

I unhook the walkie talkie from my belt.

Crap.

Crap. Crap. Crap.

Xavier's entitled attitude hits me like a punch to the gut. Suddenly, I’m not at the Kid’s Club anymore—I’m back at that stupid art show two years ago, standing beside my dystopian floating city diorama, heart pounding. Months of work, every penny I’d saved poured into supplies—because the prize was a coveted spot in a prestigious summer art program with an artist I idolized.Nothing was going to stop me from getting that scholarship, dammit.

Then:

“What’s that supposed to be?” A girl in a crisp uniform sneered. “Some kind of trailer park?”

Laughter. Designer shoes squeaking on polished floors.

“It’s a post-apocalyptic cityscape,” I muttered, cheeks burning.

“So… trailer trash art,” her boyfriend scoffed.

And later, that same guy, the one who mocked my work—won.With his skilled but totally basic watercolor landscape. His grandparents' names gleamed on the donor wall behind him as he accepted the scholarship.

Now, looking at Xavier’s frustrated face as we wait for the manager I paged, that same anger flares hot in my chest. Just like them, he expects the world to bend to his will. To be able to push people like me aside in order to get his way. And it'll probably work—because I have something to lose, and he doesn't. I need this job. He just needs an attitude transplant.

He leans back against the desk, scrolling through his phone, totally unbothered. Dude’s like a truffle-stuffed olive at a dill pickle convention. Probably smug in his confidence that everything will get smoothed over as soon as a manager shows up and realizes who she's dealing with. It makes me want to ruffle his feathers. I refuse to feel demeaned in front of a guy my own age just because he's got money and an all-you-can-eat-buffet-sized ego.

"I was hoping you'd be wearing lobster-print khakis," I say conversationally, cocking a hip against the windowsill.

Xavier glances up from his phone. "What?"

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