Page 18 of Ruthless Court

I hide it inside another folder labeled FINAL EXAM REVIEW.

Dad never opens anything with exam in the title.

* * *

For the next three weeks, I apply for money from everywhere.

Women’s clubs.

Community foundations.

Local businesses.

A retired teachers’ association.

An organization offering two thousand dollars to students interested in cultural preservation.

One scholarship asks me to write about a place that shaped me.

I write about a basketball gym without mentioning basketball.

I describe the cracked blue bleachers, the flickering light above the west basket, and the lounge where I learned that you can love a place while hating what it took from you.

Another asks about leadership.

I write about invisible labor.

The people who take notes, fix mistakes, remember deadlines, and keep everyone else moving while receiving none of the applause.

Most of the essays ask the same four questions wearing different clothes. I write one strong answer for each, then cut, paste, reshape, and polish until my fingers ache.

I do most of it after school in Dad’s athletic lounge.

Tonight, I have a package of Twizzlers open beside my laptop and three scholarship tabs across the screen. Practice is loud beyond the glass. Sneakers squeak. Coach whistles. Boys shout.

Dad sticks his head through the door.

“Thought you had finals.”

“I’m studying.”

“You eating dinner?”

I lift a Twizzler.

“This contains fruit.”

“That contains red dye.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

He leaves before I finish speaking.

Two minutes later, one of his players comes in.

Tall. Blond. Starting forward. Pretty enough to know it.

He drops into the chair across from me and steals a Twizzler.