Page 21 of Heart Check
“Principal Castillo’s gonna have to print more of those,” I say, nodding at the almost-empty file.
Marissa grins wickedly. In today’s hot pink turtleneck, wide-leg pants, and sterling silver pendant in the shape of a quill (made by yours truly), she looks like Lawyer Barbie, ready to take on any corrupt administration foolish enough to stand in her way. “She probably didn’t expect to get so much interest in her initiative. What is this, try… forty-seven?”
“Forty-eight, I think.”
She passes me a paper and we get to work. We’ve filled them out for a lot of things—more accessible testing policies for diabetics like Marissa, later school start times in accordance with the scientific studies on teenage biorhythms and chronotypes, more wheelchair ramps so people don’t have to go out of their way to use the singular accessible entrance—but the subject of today’s petition is simple. Spread the wealth, Hamilton Lakes. Could you maybe create some funding for more business classes, or a full-time journalism teacher? And after my conversation with Liv and Miguel, the theater department’s top priority, too.
No wonder I got on the hockey team’s shit list.
I frown, remembering Dawson’s ridiculous line of questioning the other day. He’s welcome to come here and fill out a petition to get his coach reinstated, but since when do I seem like a possible ally? Has he been stewing this whole time, convicting me based on one throwaway joke? It’s insulting. Marissa and I are here to double down on our requests after Red’s firing. Like, clearly the team doesn’t deserve the funding it’s been getting so far, and do we really think they’re going to deliver on it with a supposedly subpar coach this year?
Even if there’s no reason to think we’re going to gain any ground. Not with the new hockey facility and, you know, the casual embezzling draining any extra funds that might’ve been lying around. Not to mention the undying loyalty everyone around us seems to have to the team. Still, old habits die hard, and this is about the only chance Marissa and I have to hang out these days. People weren’t joking about how brutal junior year is.
Good thing we still bond over the important things. Like taking down jock culture in service of the underdogs on campus.
“What’re you up to after school?” she asks as she fills out the field asking her to state her concern.
“Working.” I grimace.
“Whichworking?”
It’s a good question, honestly. If I’m not at the diner, I’m hunched over my computer or my jewelry-making station in my room, trying to keep my business afloat.
I sigh. “Both.” I can feel my scratchy, midnight-oil eyelids and taste the burned coffee already.
“Do your parents ever see you? Or is it only me who dreams of writing you letters at war?” Marissa’s voice is light, but the joke makes me wince.
“Barely.”
My conversation with Mom rings in my ears.You should live a little this year!Maybe it’s the sleep deprivation, but it kind of stings. My parents are both working all the time too, trying to make ends meet between Mom’s teacher salary and Dad’s work at the garage. They’ve never outrighttoldme I need to find my own way to pay for college, but I can read between the lines. We all know I need to bust my ass to get all the scholarships and grants I can.
Still, I feel bad Marissa and I haven’t gotten more time together lately. “Maybe we can hang out Thanksgiving weekend? The diner will be closed day of. Hopefully we won’t have too much homework?”
Marissa purses her lips skeptically. “A girl can dream. But yeah, let’s. I’m busy this week withHeraldstuff anyway.”
I flip my petition over.Please describe the solution you’d like to have implemented.“Have they decided who next year’s editor-in-chief is?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet. I threw my hat in the ring, though.”
“You’re a shoo-in. They’d be idiots not to choose you. You’ve been working on that thing since you were a freshman, everyone there loves you, you’ve done almost every beat—”
“Except sports.” She makes a face. “You know my readership isn’t as good as Logan’s. And if I end up competing with him, there’s no question whose fans are going to be louder.”
“Damn Hawks,” I mutter. Because she’s right, and it’s how things always work in this school, and—
My pencil gouges a hole in the paper. Marissa grabs another copy from the file without saying a word.
I frown. “It’s enough to make a girl want to knock them out of the sky.”
Someone makes an outraged noise behind me. I turn around, eyebrows raised, which maybe doesn’t do much to convince the freshman in the Hawks baseball cap that I was just joking and am not actually contemplating violence against the hockey team. Again.
“No one can stop the Hawks!” the kid finally manages. He’s about my height, but he’s got majortake down the bulliesenergy, squaring his shoulders and glaring at me accusingly. I guess I’m the bully.
Marissa and I exchange a glance. The brainwashing starts early, huh?
“We’ll see, I guess,” I say, turning back to my petition. I need to concentrate if I’m not going to rip this one in half, too.
But he won’t let it go. “I know you’re trying to sabotage them, but it’s not going to work! We’ll get Coach Red back! Or they’ll be even better without him!”
