29

Aster

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I can count on one hand the number of pieces of paper mail I’ve received this year, so as I walk past the row of mailboxes on my way to the elevator, I do an exaggerated double-take when I spot the edge of a white envelope peeking through the glass on my box.

I dig out my keys from my pocket and retrieve the envelope, staring at the handwritten address in confusion. It’s made out to Aster Lindsey at Holsom College, then the town name and state. No zip code. No building name or room number. But there’s a stamp, and it couldn’t have gotten into the mailbox without following the official channels.

I don’t know why I feel nervous, but as I unseal the flap during the ride up in the elevator, my heart starts to pound. Who would write me a letter? I don’t have any prison penpals. I don’t have anybody.

Once in my room, I lock the door and sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the opened envelope. Then, with trembling fingers, I pull out the single sheet of lined paper waiting inside.

Aster, I read. It’s me.

I fold the paper in half, and in half again, then cram it back into the envelope and drop it on the floor, like it’s possessed and folding it up a bunch of times will help.

It’s from my father.

He knows I’m at Holsom because when I got accepted to the school, they wouldn’t send the enrolment documents to the prison and I had to give them a home address. I didn’t know where my mother was living so I gave them my dad’s address and he passed along the papers. No message, no note, just a forwarding stamp on the front of the envelope, followed by the prison address.

I have no idea why he would be trying to contact me now, and if the sweat pooling in the small of my back and my shallow breathing and my tiny heart attack are any indication, I don’t want to know.

I’ve only seen him once since the night I fled with my mom and Ramsay. We didn’t have enough money to go far, so we just lived on the opposite side of town and stuck to the sketchier corners we knew he didn’t visit. About a year after we’d left I was leaving a drug store with a two hundred dollar store credit to my name, when I almost walked into him in the parking lot.

He’d steadied me with a hand on each shoulder, holding my gaze as I stared up at him in terror. “Watch it,” he said, then let go of me and continued walking, like he hadn’t recognized me at all.

I crumple the envelope and toss it toward the trash can near the desk. It bounces off the rim and rolls under the radiator, lurking in the shadows, a trite metaphor for my tragic back story.

I grab my textbooks out of my bag and start to read. This is my life now. Everything is different. Everything is better.

I live in the present, not the past.

* * *

“No responses,” Jim says, a couple of days later. Aidan and I sit across from him in the PPP office as he scans his email. Our next assignment is to interview a present day PPP student about their experience, but so far we haven’t managed to find anyone willing to talk to us. Jim had even sent out a mass email asking for volunteers, bribing them with the promise of counting the interview as one of their credits, but no takers.

Not even Aidan’s friends were willing to help.

I, of course, have no friends.

Being accepted into the program is a source of pride, but there’s also a strong stigma attached to it. Holsom is a nice school with nice kids, and nice kids don’t steal cars or go to prison or do whatever it is everyone in this program has done. It’s no mystery why no one wants to cooperate—I certainly wouldn’t agree to sit in front of someone and field questions about my life. Not that I have any answers.

“What if we just interview a recent grad?” I try. “Someone from the last year. We can talk about how they’re doing...presently.”

Jim smiles kindly at my lame effort, but doesn’t relent. “You’ve already spoken to Lindo, that’s the past component. But we want kids coming into the program next year to see the same names and faces from the campaign around campus. They need to see being here as a tangible source of pride and accomplishment, not just an idea. They show up with a chip on their shoulder and it’s our job to help whittle that down until it’s no longer an obstacle that holds them back.”

Aidan shifts in his seat beside me.

“Obviously everyone still has too big a chip if they’re not even willing to do the interview in exchange for the cooperation credit,” I argue. “And if the program is supposed to be anonymous, we can’t force anyone to help.”

“You’re right,” Jim says. “No one can be forced.” Then he looks between us meaningfully.

“What are you getting at?”

“You have plans for after you graduate, right, Aster? You’d like to go to law school?”

“Uh-huh.”

“And Aidan? Any plans for you?”

He shrugs, the ever-sullen kid in the principal’s office. “I don’t know yet.”

Jim folds his hands on the desk. “As you’re aware, so long as you continue to meet the enrolment requirements, the Promise & Potential program will cover the cost of your four-year degree. Any education beyond that is up to you to fund.”

“Right.”

“But.”

I sit up a bit straighter in my seat. I’ve been squirreling away whatever spare change I can in a weak effort to finance the upcoming three years of law school, but it’s not adding up fast. Combined with the fact that I have no real possessions to speak of and no one to co-sign a loan, I don’t have a whole lot of options.

But could be an option.

“There are grants,” Jim says. “For people who excel in the program. For people whose promise and potential would be limited by a four-year degree. We’re sometimes able to wrangle grants for those students, but they’re hard to come by, and so are the people willing to put themselves on the line for the opportunity.”

Aidan fidgets in his seat.

I already know what Jim’s getting at, but still I check. “What are you saying, exactly?”

“I’m saying we’re not allowed to force you to give an interview, but perhaps I can entice you. Knock this one out of the park, and I’ll put in a good word.”

“And by knock it out of the park you mean...”

“Be the interviewee,” Jim says. “You’d be a great spokesperson for the program, Aster. You’re smart, you’re friendly—”

Aidan shifts again, increasingly uncomfortable.

“—you’re the kind of hope these kids need. The light at the end of the tunnel. The promise and potential they want to see in themselves. I know it’s asking a lot of you. I know everyone has a past and sometimes that history isn’t the ideal fit with the life we’re trying to lead. But you don’t have anything to be ashamed of—none of you do. You’re here for a reason.”

Aidan’s staring at his tattooed knuckles.

Ride hard.

I close my eyes and summon my courage.

“Okay,” I hear Aidan say before I can. “I’ll do it.”

My eyes fly open.

Jim’s face mirrors my surprise. “You?” he says. “Aidan?”

“Yeah.” Aidan flicks a look at me, then stands, signaling the end of the meeting. “We’ll do the interview. No problem. Thanks for your time.”

I quickly say goodbye to Jim and hurry after Aidan out of the offices and down the empty hall to the stairs.

“Hey,” I say, snagging his arm when I catch up. “What are you doing?”

“Just getting the interview done. No big deal.”

“Why are you walking so fast if it’s no big deal?”

“Because I’ve got plans for us.”

I stop walking. “For us?”

His mouth quirks and he runs his hand through his messy hair, HARD stamped across the knuckles.

“Yeah,” he says. “Did you think I was doing this because I’m a nice guy? I’ll do it, but you’ve gotta give me something in return.”