Page 25 of The Golden Boys

“A small crew from the custodial team are on their way to clean up the …artworkin the hallway. And since you seem determined not to share what you know, now seems like as good a time as any to discuss another pressing issue.”

When she folds her hands on her desk, my heart sinks. No good conversation ever starts that way.

“With the incident that took place before you left South Cypress, it’s made the job of helping you secure your future a bit more difficult, but it’s not a lost cause.”

I flex my once-fractured knuckle with the reminder, then stare as Dr. Pryor reaches for a file with my first and last name printed on the tab. She begins to pour through the stack of documents inside, while I sit wondering what this is about.

“I know this must have come up before now, but I don’t have anything on file regarding your plans to pay for college. You were accepted to Cypress Valley University, which is a great school, but I see nothing about covering expenses beyond what you’ll be able to acquire with financial aid. Am I missing something?”

Her question deserves an answer; I simply don’t have one.

When the stretch of silence between us grows, Dr. Pryor sighs and eventually closes the folder.

“Listen, Ms. Riley. I’m aware you’ve had a rough go at life, but I know a little more about that than you might think,” she shares. “Branch Street, born and raised.”

My eyes flash toward hers curiously. “That’s only a few blocks from my house. You lived there?”

She nods, and that stern look softens a little. “I was the first in my family to attend college, and I swore that once I finished I’d find some way to make a difference in that community, give kids from the south side a chance no one else is willing to offer. It’s the whole reason I started this program.”

Before this, I knew she was invested, but had no clue she was the founder of the program itself.

“So, while you might feel a little like a fish out of water here, know you’re not in this alone. I’m doing everything in my power to help you, but you have to meet me halfway.”

Another dim smile brightens her face, and it’s then that I realize she’s actually beautiful. Not at all the wicked witch I assumed she’d be, based solely on the fact that I naturally conclude such things about authority figures.

“I see here you played basketball all three previous years.”

Nodding, I agree. “That’s right.”

“I’m guessing you’ll be trying out while attending Cypress Prep as well?”

My lips part, but I choke on my words. In truth, I don’t want to spend the extra time out of the house, away from Scar. Last season, Mom and Hunter were still around, so that made aslightdifference. However, now that they’re gone and I work whenever possible, joining the team will mean my schedule becomes even fuller.

“Actually, I thought I’d sit it out this year,” I begin, but I never get to finish.

“That won’t work. You need to try out,” she asserts. “You’ve got to get involved in as much as you can to pad your transcript. I’ve got a few leads on scholarships you might qualify for, but the requirements are strict. Which means we’ve got our work cut out,” she shares. “They’re not huge amounts, but possibly enough to cover your first year‘s overages for tuition and textbooks. So, aside from not getting into any more trouble, I need you to get involved in at least two auxiliaries. Basketball will cover one, but you’ll need another.”

Another thing to add to my plate.

Perfect.

“…Like what?” I ask, trying not to let my frustration show.

She reaches into her drawer and pulls out a flyer. “The school newspaper is short on help this year. I already told Mr. Dansk to expect you to drop in after school to introduce yourself.”

I could practicallysmellmy future boredom. “Isn’t there something else? Something less time consuming? Something less … lame?”

Her brow quirks. “The Mathletes have room. Is trigonometry on weekends any less lame?”

And now I know she’s heavy on the sarcasm when provoked. Duly noted.

“School newspaper it is,” I concede.

The flyer is shoved across her desk for me to take. “Remember, Mr. Dansk after school. Then, basketball tryouts in November. Do you need a form for your physical?”

I shake my head. “Got one during orientation. Out of habit, I guess.”

She nods and then goes back to the mountain of paperwork on her desk. Halfway to the door, I glance back.

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