Page 142 of The Jack*ss in Class

Mamá opened the cover with trembling fingers, revealing pages filled with flowing script, the ink faded but still legible.

“What is that?” Rosalind asked, peering over Mamá’s shoulder.

“This,” Abuela announced to all of us, “is your mother’sromance novel. Written when she was nineteen years old, full of passion and drama and love scenes that would make a telenovela writer blush.”

Mamá’s face flushed dark red. “Mamá, please?—”

“No, Luz. These children should know.” Abuela’s gaze swept over all of us. “Your mother once dreamed of being a writer too. Just like her Papá. She filled this notebook with stories of brave heroines who overcame all obstacles to find love. And she was good—incredibly good.”

I stared at my mother in shock. “Mamá? You wrote a book?”

“It was a childish phase,” Mamá said stiffly, though her fingers caressed the pages with obvious familiarity. “Nothing serious.”

“Nothing serious?” Abuela scoffed. “You had real talent.”

“And then Professor Collins told me it was trite, derivative, cliched trash,” Mamá shot back, a flash of old pain evident in her voice. “That no publisher would waste time on it. That it wasn’t respectable.”

“And you believed him,” Abuelo said softly. “You let a bitter old man kill your joy because you thought respectability was more important than happiness.”

The revelation hung in the air between us. Mamá stared down at the notebook, her expression unreadable.

“And now,” Abuela continued, her voice hardening as she turned to Rosalind, “you do the same to your daughters. You push them toward ‘respectable’ careers without asking what brings them joy.”

Mamá still clutched her old notebook, staring at it as if seeing a ghost from her past. Papá watched her withgentle understanding, while Abuela surveyed us all with the satisfaction of a general whose battle plan had succeeded.

Mamá let out a shaky breath and her gaze met mine. “I chose the path that seemed more certain. The most respectable... and perhaps I’ve been too determined to see my daughters make the same choice.”

The admission hung in the air between us, more powerful for its rarity. My mother was not a woman who acknowledged mistakes easily.

“I don’t want that for you,” she said, looking at each of us for a moment before continuing. “Any of you. I don’t want you waking up at fifty-five, wondering what might have been if you’d followed your heart instead of your head.”

Abuela raised the tablet she’d been holding. “Which brings me to the second matter. Rosalind, would you care to explain these emails?”

Rosalind’s face drained of color. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?” Abuela’s eyebrow arched dangerously high. “Perhaps I should read them aloud then. This one to the editor of The Dracarys campus paper. ‘I have definitive proof that DSU student and KAT member Tempest Navarro is the trashy romance author Miranda Milan...’”

My heart stuttered in my chest. Hearing the literal confirmation of her betrayal felt like a physical blow.

“Rosalind?” Mamá’s voice was sharp with disbelief. “You did this?”

Rosalind lifted her chin, though her lips trembled. “Someone had to. She was living a lie and making us all look bad.”

“It wasn’t your truth to expose,” Flynn said quietly, his arm tightening around my waist.

“You betrayed your sister,” Abuela continued, her words cutting.

I found my voice at last. “I deserved to come out as Miranda Milan on my own terms, when I was ready.”

“And when would that have been?” Rosalind challenged. “Another year? Five? Never? Better to come out now when we can mitigate the fall out.”

“At what cost?” Abuela demanded. “The trust of your family? The respect of your sisters?” She shook her head, disappointment radiating from her. “In this family, we protect each other. We do not betray each other for our own agenda.”

Rosalind stepped back as if she’d been physically slapped. “What’s done is done. I can’t take it back.”

“No, you cannot,” Abuela agreed coldly. “And now you must face consequences. I’ve already spoken to my friend Senator Organa,” Abuela continued, ignoring Mamá’s interruption. “I explained that, unfortunately, you would not be able to accept the summer internship position in her office.”

The color drained from Rosalind’s face. “What? No, you can’t—that internship is everything?—”

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