I stare at her so long I’m surprised she keeps the smile on her face. Of course I understand the words she’s saying, because I speak English and she’s talking in plain English. There’s nothing to decipher here, but I don’t exactly get it.

“Edward Reese?” I say flatly. She nods. “He’s not my dad. He’s nothing to me.”

Her cheerful expression falls. “Well…I know it may seem different since he’s not your biological—”

“No,” I say, cutting her off. “He’s nothing to me. He’s a guy who used to be married to my mom and now he’s not and apparently, he married you, but I didn’t know that.”

“He didn’t tell you?” she says, her tight lipped smile turning into a frown.

I shake my head. “He doesn’t talk to me.”

She sighs, her hands folding back in her lap. “He wants to be a part of your life, you know.”

“No, he doesn’t.” I stand up. This sudden revelation came from so far out of nowhere that I’m not sure how to process it. Who even is this lady? We’ve never spoken in my life and now she’s married to my ex step-dad and thinks we can be friends? Um, no. “Can I go now?”

“No, dear, sit down.” She motions for me to sit and I do, although I’d want nothing more than to march out of this office then out of the building and all the way back home. But although I don’t care about school at all, I do care about getting into trouble, so I sit down and stay where I am.

My mind wanders back to thoughts of my ex step-dad. Has it really been about three years since we last talked? He had reached out to me shortly after moving out. He left me a voicemail saying I can call him anytime I want. But the next day, Mom cancelled our phones and moved us to a prepaid plan to save money, so he lost our numbers. Good riddance, though. We live in the same house, so if he’d wanted to see me, he could have. Mom said it would be a huge hassle to change our last names, so we never did. I didn’t really care about it because Reese is the only last name I’ve ever known. Now I kind of wish I had.

Mrs. Reese—ugh, I can’t stand calling her that—begins discussing my poor attendance record. She’s reading off absences from a printed piece of paper, but I don’t pay much attention. I already know I’ve missed a lot of days. I’ve tried to excuse most of them because I’m sick of detention.

“So needless to say, you’ll be making up time.”

My head snaps up when she says these words. “I’ve already made up time for my unexcused absences,” I say. “The rest of my absences have been excused.” Detention sucks for the normal high school student, but it’s even worse when you have a store to run in the evenings. I cannot waste any more of my life sitting in this stupid school.

Mrs. Reese presses her lips together. “Have you been listening, Natalie? After eighteen missed days in a semester, you’re no longer covered by excuse notes. The state requires that you make up the time regardless of the reason you were absent.”

My body deflates. Shit. “So how many days do I need to sit here and waste my life when I could be working instead?” I say, the sarcasm evident in my voice.

“Tuesday and Thursday, two hours each day.”

“That’s not too bad,” I say. Last time I had to make up time for four hours on a Saturday and that totally sucked.

“For the next two months,” Mrs. Reese adds.

My jaw drops. “Are you serious?”

“I’m afraid so, dear. It’s either making up time or summer school.”

“And how long is summer school?” I ask, secretly hoping she’ll say one week or something equally impossible.

“All summer long.”

This revelation is even worse than hearing that my dad has remarried and still doesn’t even talk to me. Two days a week for two months? What the hell? This is total bullshit.

I grip the textbook in my lap and struggle between totally losing my shit and screaming or trying to stay calm. I choose to stay calm. “What happens if I can’t do this?” I ask politely. “Like…if I have a store I have to work at or else I’ll be homeless?”

“The board of education doesn’t see that as a valid reason to avoid making up time.”

I frown. “Is detention still in the library?” I ask. Maybe I can spend it on the computers looking up new marketing techniques to bring people into the store.

“Yes, but that’s not all. There’s another thing we need to discuss.”

I swear if she tells me she’s about to have a baby, I’m going to lose it.

She reaches across her desk and takes a manila file out of a stack. My name is printed at the top and the edges are a little bent as if this folder is old. I stare at it, wondering if this is the infamous permanent record file that people talk about. I always figured these things are kept on the computer now.

Mrs. Reese sets the folder in front of her and opens it up. “I’d like to take a minute to go over your freshman questionnaire with you, Natalie.”

My chest tightens as she picks up the paper inside. I totally forgot about those stupid things they made us fill out on the first day of school my freshman year. I don’t even remember what I wrote on mine.

Mrs. Reese clears her throat. “The question asks what you’d like to be when you grow up. Your answer: I want to own a coffee shop in the meeting room next door to my mom’s store.”

I swallow. I remember that now. It’s always been my dream, turning that unused section of the store into a separate business. It would have its own door on the strip but also, it’d be open to the shop so I could sell people coffee and then they could browse The Magpie.

I don’t say anything, even when she takes a moment to peer at me over the top of my paper. “The next question asks how you plan to achieve your goal.”

I lean forward slightly, wondering what I wrote four years ago. It was probably something stupid, knowing me.

“I will graduate high school with scholarships already won and then I will get into Sam Houston State University with my tuition either mostly or fully paid for from the scholarships. I’ll complete a four year bachelor degree in business so that I’ll be better educated to run a business and to help my mom and dad with their business.”

This part hurts. Not only were my parents still married back then, but I’d had all these goals of attending college and getting scholarships. Something twists in my gut, making me nauseated. So much has changed in four years.

My mom is divorced.

I have exactly zero scholarships.

My application to SHSU hasn’t even been filled out yet.

“How have your goals now changed from back then?” Mrs. Reese asks. Her eyes watch me with a seriousness that means she might actually care what my answer is.

“They haven’t changed,” I admit. “I still want to run a coffee shop, but that won’t happen, most likely. You need money for that kind of thing. And I’d still like to go to college, but I have no scholarships and as you’ve already mentioned, my grades are bad.” I let out a sigh that makes my heart hurt.

“I think your goals are very achievable,” she says, closing my folder and placing it on top of the stack. “I think you just got a little off track this year, but there’s still a way to get everything you want.”

I lift an eyebrow at her. She continues, “I’m very good friends with the admissions people at Sam Houston. They often accept students like you who had a good record with a little slip ups along the way.”

I lean back into my chair. Outside, the bell rings, signaling the end of forth period. “I’m not too concerned with getting accepted as I am with paying for it. My mom and I don’t have any money, and the store is more important than college anyway.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” she interjects. “You said so yourself in your paper. If you have an education, you can run the store better. As far as finances…there are grants and scholarships, and I’m sure your father—”

“Ex step-dad,” I say, throwing her a look. “And no. I will never ask him for money.”

She actually looks a little sad for a minute but then she regains her composure. “I’ve already spoken with Sam Houston, and they’re expecting your application before the school year is over. Can I tell them you’ll be sending it in?”

I shrug. “I guess.”

Whatever I need to say to get her to shut up.

“Wonderful.” She beams. Her eyes start to sparkle a little as she leans in, as if she’s about to tell me a fantastic secret or something. “I’m not supposed to go around telling students this but…” She winks at me. “I have recommended you for a scholarship and you’re now a finalist for the Sterling SBA scholarship!”

“SBA?” I ask. Briefly I wonder if this woman would be so nice to me if she wasn’t married to my ex step-dad. There’s no way she puts this much thought into every student in the school.

“Small Business Association,” she clarifies. “Since your mom owns a small business in town, the organization loves giving scholarships to students of business owners. I put your name in and they’ve told me you’re at the top of the list. All you have to do of course, is graduate. That means pass all your classes.”

I frown. “I’m not sure I will pass with how far behind I am.” It sucks to admit it, but the idea of failing school is not something I want to live with. I’m not an idiot or some drop out loser. Why did I let myself screw up so badly this year? I do want to go to college. I want to make something of myself and earn a skill that will help me get a job if the business goes under. I don’t want to live my life like Mom does, constantly stressed out about being self-employed. I hang my head in my hands. “This sucks. I didn’t realize how bad my grades had gotten.”

“I thought of that too,” she says. She looks like she’s about to tell me I won the lottery or something. “Your math and chemistry teacher are pretty set on failing you and seeing you in summer school, but I’ve worked out a deal with them. During your detention to make up time, you’ll be in the library receiving tutoring. Tutoring for two days a week, as well as not missing any more school—” she says, giving me a long look, “will be enough for your teachers to pass you.”

“Tutoring?” I say the word like it’s a curse word. I can think of no worse way to spend my time after school than being retaught everything I didn’t learn in class. I should spend that time coming up with ideas for the store, not listening to some old woman drone on and on about fractions.

I chew on my lip. “I don’t…”

“I’ll stop you right there,” Mrs. Reese says, holding up a manicured hand with a wedding ring that must have cost a fortune. Way more money than it would take to keep the store afloat. “I’m afraid this isn’t a negotiation, Natalie. You will attend make up time twice a week to avoid being arrested and tried by the state of Texas for truancy. You will also receive tutoring during this time period if you want to graduate and not flunk out of school in your senior year.”

“I get it,” I say. “Can I go now?”

“One more thing.”

Mrs. Reese slides a piece of paper across her desk and then hands me a pen. “The school needs your full cooperation in this matter of truancy. Short of being hospitalized, you’ll be expected to attend school every day. Do you understand?”

I nod.

“Great,” she says, pushing the paper close to me. “Now sign this document saying I’ve warned you of the consequences of missing any more school this year.”

It’s some stupid thing, probably not even a legally binding contract. My eyes skim over it, the stupid wording saying I solemnly swear to attend every day unless a catastrophic circumstance should occur. I sign my name quickly and drop the pen on the table.

I grab my book and turn to leave. “Come see me any time you need,” she calls out after me.

“Sure thing,” I say, as I make a promise to myself that I’ll never step foot in her office again.