Page 122 of Forever We Fall

“Hotaru Kido speaking.”

“Mr. Kido, hello. This is Latrice Whittmore with the admissions office at Harvard University.”

“Hi, Miss Whittmore. Thank you so much for calling me back.”

“Yes.” She drags the word out, and I already know there’s bad news coming. “Unfortunately, all our scholarships and funding have been assigned.”

My throat burns.

“You are one of those recipients, Mr. Kido.”

I grit my teeth. “It is only a partial scholarship.”

“And many students would be grateful to have it,” she shoots back with no attitude, just sincerity.

“I am grateful. I’m also disowned by my father and have less than a thousand dollars to my name. A thousand dollars won’t pay for room and board or the rest of my tuition or books,” I plead.

“There are student loans available to you.” She sighs. “Have you looked over the attachment I sent over?”

No.“Yes.”

I can’t in good conscience chain myself to, conservatively, one hundred fifty thousand dollars for only a four-year degree. Especially when I can get the same degree for free at another school.

“Are you sure you looked at all the study programs available?” I push.

“I did.” Her voice is firm with no give.

“Surely, you haven’t met your quota for Japanese students.” I plow my free hand into my hair.

“Sir, that is uncalled for.” The third person I’ve spoken to in the admissions office at Harvard in the last two days gasps.

I know it’s uncalled for, but I’m beyond desperate. The first part of the week I spent hunting down the wrestling coach, and then trying to convince him that he needs me on his team enough to foot the bill.

Turns out, he’s skeptical of having me on the team at all since I’m a foreigner. Yes, he has a point that the UK’s wrestling program is piles of decades behind the one in the States. He didn’t like when I offered to come beat any of his wrestlers the second he provided me with a plane ticket.

“I apologize. That was in poor taste,” I say. “What about the scholarships already earmarked for students who choose a different university? Could that be reallocated?”

“Whatever money is already allocated will be gobbled up by the departments, going to students already enrolled and assigned financial aid.”

I don’t understand the logic. I open my mouth to dig deeper. She can tell it’s coming.

“Mr. Kido, I can’t do any more for you.”

No, I’m sorry. No, wish I could help, really I do. Nothing. And I probably deserve that.

“Thank you, Miss Whittmore.”

I hang up before she can say another word and close my laptop with care when all I want to do is slam it closed. I have to take care of it. It has to get me through college.

Then reality hits.

No, it won’t. I’ll have to sell it to buy a plane ticket to the US.

I huff. My shoulders slump.

A plane ticket to a place where Arlo won’t be. Tears gather in my eyes. I hiss a breath and stare at the phone. There is one last desperate call to make before all hope is lost.

I dial the number I’ve known since I was a child. Many afternoons, I’d call my father’s phone to see when he might head home. An odd chime greets my ears. At first, I don’t recognize it.

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