Page 30 of Freckles

“What?” Francesca straightens, her voice sharp. “What does that mean?”

“Honestly, I’ve texted half a dozen times and got no response.” She clicks her tongue. “It’s here somewhere.”

“I didn’t receive any texts.”

The secretary’s eyes widen. “Because they were sent to your mother. Here!” She pushes across a few stapled pages, tapping a neon sticker. “If you could pass on the message, that’d be great. Honestly, it’ll only take five minutes to get it sorted.”

“My mum lost her phone. Can you change the number in the system to mine? Until she buys a replacement.”

“Not unless she makes the request herself. Does she have a work number I could try?”

Francesca ignores the question. “Can’t I sign these? I’m eighteen.”

“No, it’s your mother’s income, not yours.” The woman looks one second away from a breakdown. “Have her drop in anytime during the day. I’ll leave these in the urgent cubbyhole so anyone can help.”

“I could take them home.”

“The signature needs to be witnessed.”

I step forward, clearing my throat. “What happens if she can’t sign them?”

“That won’t happen,” the woman assures me. “Really, it’s not a big deal. One signature and everything’ll be sorted for the year.”

Given how tightly Francesca’s arms are wrapped around her torso, the secretary’s assessment of it not being a big deal seems well misplaced.

“But if she can’t?”

The woman sighs. “Without the government funding, the annual school fees will immediately come due.” She taps the page again. “None of us want that.”

“How much?”

“Don’t tell him,” Francesca snaps, showing her irritation. “That’s my private business.”

“The school fees are the same for everyone,” the woman counters. Then to me, “It’s eighteen thousand each half year, but since we demand payment in advance and we’re already in term three, that’ll be the full thirty-six thousand for the year.”

“Wow. That’s a lot.”

“As I said, five minutes for a signature and it’ll be sorted.”

“Otherwise… How many times does five thousand go into that? Would it be—”

Francesca pushes past me, but the secretary waves a red card. “You forgot your demerit.”

“Oh, come on,” I wheedle. “You’re not really going to put her on fatigues for wearing a sports jersey on competition day. Where’s your school spirit?” The woman shakes her head, and I lean forward, dropping my voice lower. “Issue her a uniform pass.” When she doesn’t immediately respond. “Now!”

“Of course.” She plucks a card from a different tray and holds it out the window. I snatch it, passing it across to Francesca, smiling at the static spark as our fingertips touch.

“Glad that’s sorted. Now if you—”

But she’s gone, storming through the double doors and into the quad, her body drawn with tense lines.

CHAPTERELEVEN

FRANCESCA

I march awayfrom the office, sick that my scholarship funding could disappear because of a missing scrawl on a piece of paper. Sicker still that Kincaid overheard my dilemma. I don’t know which is the bigger problem. Currently, they both threaten my ability to continue at Westlake High.

My feet stomp on the concrete path, imagining each step crushes his skull underneath my heel.

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