Page 13 of Always Knew It Was You

In a world of sharks, there’s always a bigger shark.

I go to the window at Laketown. Quaint streets dusted with petals and leaves from the trees framing them. Slow-moving people talking, laughing, holding hands. All the buildings are red brick or colonial-style architecture. Not a single glass skyrise in sight.

I refuse to be trapped here. I refuse.

CHAPTER FIVE

CARLY

Depression weighs heavy on me that afternoon.

I’m lying on a quilted couch blankly watching Judge Judy reruns as a fan circles lazily above me. It’s a cool afternoon and I feel it, even though the thermostat is fully functional. Maybe the chill is from the inside. Maybe I’m just imagining my bones turning to ice.

I glance away from the TV to the pruned Christmas tree by the fireplace. The Christmas lights around it blink hypnotically, but it’s not enough to distract me from the tears stinging my eyes. It’s already spring but I know that tree is probably not going down till summer. Mrs. Peach is clearly still in the holiday spirit and I hate to be a downer on her good mood. I just didn’t know where else to go.

Apart from Emma, Mrs. Peach is the person I’m closest to in the world. She lives down the street, a few houses away from mine, and was the only one in the neighborhood who made a concerted effort to visit our family when I was younger. She was on the church charity committee with my mother and even when mom managed to alienate just about everybody else with her constant lying and anger issues, Mrs. Peach stuck around. That was until mom was banned from the church for stealing from the charity fund.

Still, though she didn’t come around after that, Mrs. Peach would always call out when she saw me walking home from school, and invite me in for some cookies. She had a bunch of old detective novels in her bookshelf and I spent most of my childhood reading them or watching TV reruns with her while she made dinner. Sometimes we would talk about books or she would tell me stories of when she was younger. I thought she was probably just lonely since she didn’t have any family, but she would also tell me often how fond she was of me, though I wasn’t sure why. Maybe she felt sorry for me. Either way, she always made sure I ate something before I got home.

Once in a while, she asked me what I now recognize as probing questions about whether or not my mother was physically abusive to me. Mom wasn’t, but I knew if she was, Mrs. Peach would have called CPS. It’s why I hid the worst of my mother’s later abuse from her, because as volatile as Mom could be, I didn’t want to be taken into foster care.

Anyway, since that first day, I pretty much show up at Mrs. Peach’s house at least once a week, especially now that she’s getting older. I help her with her gardening and occasionally cooking when she’ll let me.

Mrs. Peach is in the kitchen now and I hear her clattering around. From the scent of it, she seems to be making one of her famous apple pies, which are usually my favorite, meaning she could probably tell how down I was despite my efforts to hide it. And I can’t even bring myself to be excited about the apple pie.

I haven’t been excited about anything since I got that email from the school about losing my scholarship.

The second I was done reading through the email, I dashed out of the pharmacy horror adding a spring to my step. I stood at the side of the road and flagged a cab to take me about thirty minutes out of town to the community college in Bayview.

I read through the email again as we drove, scanning it until I could make sense of it. This was all thanks to my damn calculus class. It was taught by the toughest professor in the school, Dr. Lindon, who took particular pride in handing out bad grades. I tried so hard to stay on top of the class all semester, but that last test had been brutal.

And it just cost me my scholarship.

I need to talk to Lindon, get him to give me another chance. It was the only thought I held onto as I arrived at the campus and ran to his office.

He was stepping out of his office when I arrived, and the minute he saw me, his lips downturned in disapproval.

“If this is about your grade, Miss, I suggest you don’t even bother.”

“Please.” Desperation must have shown on my face, and leaked out of my voice. “Please, sir. Just give me another chance. It’s been a tough month for me and–”

“You think I care about any of that?” He raised an eyebrow. “Plenty of people have tough months. You fail a test, you fail a test. And that’s all there is to it.”

Yes, but it’s also kind of ridiculous that a single test is fifty percent of your final grade. That means that every single other assignment I’ve done almost doesn’t even matter.

And what made me feel worse was that he was right in a way. I was having a bad month but I shouldn’t have let that distract me from my goal. I was just so unbelievably disappointed with myself even as I begged, “Please. I’ll do extra coursework or something. Anything.”

“I’m afraid that’s not how I operate.” He turned to lock his door behind him. “You’ll have to accept the grade or repeat the class in the fall.”

It isn’t retaking the class I’m worried about. With that grade on my resume, it means that my GPA slipped below 3.8, which means that I am going to lose my scholarship.

And without a scholarship, there is no way I can afford to go to school.

“Oowee.” Mrs. Peach comes out of the kitchen now, her short round form waddling across the rug. “You still moping on the couch, dear?”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“Well, while you do that, can you stir the stew every few minutes while I go to the bathroom? I just popped a Miralax and don’t want it to come out the other end.”

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