Page 8 of Shattered Ice
My eyes scan the text.…the publisher has updated the required materials for this course. An online access code for the ‘Performance Analytics & Biometric Data’ simulation softwareis now mandatory for the completion of all remaining lab reports and the final exam. Students can purchase the code through the university bookstore portal for a fee of $285…
The number hangs there on the screen, glowing. $285. The air leaves my lungs in a single, silent punch. It glows like a brand, searing ownership into my skin. It’s not just a number. It’s a wall. A locked door. An executioner’s axe.
The blood drains from my face in a cold, sickening rush that leaves me lightheaded. The quiet hum of the library seems to roar in my ears. I minimize the window, but the number is still there, seared onto the back of my eyelids. My hands tremble as I pull up my banking app, my fingers fumbling on the trackpad.
The screen loads, showing the pathetic, meager number in my checking account: $47.18.
That has to last me another nine days of food, toiletries, laundry. There is no room. There is no magic pot of money. There is no one to call. My mom is already working double shifts to cover the rent, her exhaustion a constant, heavy weight on my conscience. This is it. This is the razor’s edge Genny is always talking about.
I can’t pass the class without the code. If my grade in my most important major-specific course drops, my GPA will fall below the 3.8 requirement for my scholarship. If I lose my scholarship…
The thought is a black hole. It doesn’t just mean I can’t be here anymore; it means every sacrifice my mom made was for nothing. Every sleepless night, every missed party, every ounce of my life I have poured into this single-minded goal—gone. Every sacrifice I’ve bled for now dangles over a pit, frayed by $285.
A hot, metallic taste floods the back of my throat—the physical taste of injustice. I think of Adrian, of the casual way he exists in the world, never once having to think about the cost of a book orthe balance in his account. His problems are about performance and ego. Mine are about survival. And now, my survival is chained to his. A number on a screen, and suddenly he’s in my bloodstream. The irony is so bitter, so cruel, it almost makes me laugh.
I can’t focus anymore. The neural diagrams on the page blur into meaningless squiggles. The library, once my sanctuary, now feels like a cage, its silent, book-lined walls pressing in on me. The fluorescent lights hum as if they resent my breathing. I shove my books into my backpack with clumsy, jerky movements, earning an annoyed glance from the girl at the next table. I don’t care.
The walk back to my dorm is a blur. The campus, usually so beautiful at night, now looks menacing. Old oak trees claw at the path, their skeletal fingers reaching for my throat. Every rustle of leaves sounds like footsteps behind me. The fear is back—a quiet, unwelcome roommate whispering reminders of how quickly a life can be shattered.
Back in my dorm room, the ten-by-ten box feels even smaller, the walls closing in. The radiator hisses, as if resenting my breath. I dump my bag on the floor and lock my arms around myself like armor, holding the fracture in. I pull out my phone, my thumb hovering over my mom’s contact. I could call her, but every word would be another stone on her back. She would listen. She would tell mewe’ll figure it out, her voice weary but strong. And then she would pick up another overnight shift, sacrificing another piece of her own health for my future. I can’t do it. I won’t. My success is supposed to be her relief, not another burden.
I scroll through my texts instead.
Zoë: Movie night tomorrow. Your pick. No excuses.
I stare at the words, at the cheerful, oblivious affection behind them. They don’t know. They can’t know how close I am to the edge. How could they? Their lives are built on foundations of solid rock. Mine is a tightrope walk over a canyon, and the wind is picking up.
I toss the phone onto my bed and sink into my desk chair, pulling my knees to my chest. The weight of it all—the money, the grades, Adrian, the constant, grinding pressure to be perfect, to be reliable—settles over me like a shroud. For the first time since my father died, I feel the cold, terrifying certainty that my best won’t be good enough. Loneliness feels like a predator circling.
But the words grind out anyway, steel scraping bone.
I don’t get to shatter. I get to sharpen.
Chapter 6
Clara
Thelasthourofmy shift at the Briarcliff Café is its own brand of purgatory. The frantic afternoon rush has bled away, leaving a sterile, echoing space haunted by the ghost of a thousand six-dollar lattes. I wipe down the gleaming espresso machine for the third time, the scent of cleaning solution sharp as ammonia in my nose, trying to scrub away the underlying stench of burnt coffee and entitlement. My body aches from the grind of six hours on cracked linoleum, but my mind is unraveling—strung too tight, one careless thought away from snapping.
On a small table tucked behind the counter, my laptop screen glows with Adrian Hale’s hockey stats. Each impossible number is another cold slap of dread. Goals, penalty minutes, shots ontarget—it reads like a rap sheet. Not a student, not a teammate. A force of nature. Something that can’t be reasoned with. And I’m supposed to tame that with conditional probability?
This is a mistake.I can’t do this.He’s not a problem set; he’s a storm looking for something to destroy. And now my entire future has been chained to his. Even the numbers on the screen feel like shackles, glowing digits that cinch tighter every time I read them.
The bell on the door chimes, a jagged sound tearing the hush. I look up, ready to deliver my automatic, “Sorry, we’re closing,” but the words die in my throat.
“Nope. No. Absolutely not.”
Zoë stands just inside the door, defiant as always. Two high pigtails bounce with each shake of her head. Her sweatshirt blares ‘Good Girl with Bad Habits’ in neon pink. She stabs a perfectly manicured finger toward my laptop, her perfume cutting through the bitter tang of espresso, her expression a mix of disgust and wild amusement.
“We are not letting you spend your one free night drowning in the existential void of Captain Ice Veins. Clock out, Harrington.”
Before I can muster an argument, Genny follows her in, sidestepping a wet patch on the floor with practiced elegance. She brings a gust of cold autumn air with her—sharp, cleansing, but never quite enough to cut through the rot that clings to these walls. She leans against the polished counter, composed in a cashmere sweater and dark jeans, her presence as deliberate as a chess move.
“She’s right,” Genny says. Her voice is cool as cut glass. A blade sliding free. “You look like you’re waiting for an execution, not a tutoring session.”
“It feels like an execution,” I admit, tossing the rag into the sink with more force than I intend. “My execution.”
Zoë hops onto a stool, spinning once, the metal squeaking in the nearly empty space. “Alright, spill. We got your 911 text that read, and I quote,‘My life is over.’What’s the crisis? Did you finally get a B-plus? Did the café run out of oat milk?”
