1


I don't notice the big fat envelope until later in the day.

My Wednesdays are a routine: wake up five-thirty in the morning to prepare breakfast for Dad and Saint, all the while blasting Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong from the speakers in the living room, the knobs turned down to its lowest volume. While the rice is cooking (it's Asian cuisine day) and the table has been set, I bound back upstairs to shower, then fix my backpack. There's no need to cram schoolwork: I always finish them days in advance.

My hair is still dripping wet as I take two steps at a time on the way back down, a windbreaker thrown haphazardly over one shoulder. I hear the sound of frying before I round the corner to the kitchen.

"Thought I'd help you out." Dad smiles from where he stands by the stove, a hand gripping the handle of the pan. The air smells odd. I'm suddenly suspicious of what he's cooking, but I try not to show it. "You've been working hard last night."

"Yeah, it's our first test for precalc later," I say. There's definitely something wrong about the smell. "But I didn't pull an all-nighter, so I should be good."

Dad snorts. It's a good-natured snort. "When have you ever needed an all-nighter?"

"I got it from you," I tell him, and it's my turn to smile.

Before the stove can explode from whatever's cooking, I squeeze myself beside Dad, peering into the pan. The small pork cuts are limp even if the fire's on high. I turn the knob down. "You didn't put enough oil," I say.

Dad raises his hands in surrender. "I obviously suck at anything other than good ol' American food, so I'm not even going to try anymore."

"You can do the fried rice. It's just mixing."

"It better be just mixing."

Thirty minutes later, we hear the sound of an alarm coming from upstairs. Dad wipes his hands on a dishcloth and slips out of his apron. "That must be Saint. I'll go help him prepare for school."

I nod, bringing the food out to the dining area. When the both of them come down, with Saint practically causing a potential earthquake with his bouncing, a dramatic groan escapes his lips. "That just smells heavenly," he groans a second time.

"Thanks, squirt."

He snorts. It's not a good-natured snort. "Bet Dad did everything."

My smile has become a sneer. Dad has to cover up his laugh.

"Your sister prepared all this," Dad supplies. "I was useless."

Saint just shrugs, and whether he believes it or not, it doesn't seem much of a concern to him anyway. He's only ten, but he has the deviousness of Satan. The irony of his name does not escape me.

Breakfast is a merry affair and the food turns out better than I expected. Saint keeps finding ways to insult me, and I know better than to retort, but I do anyways. Dad, meanwhile, is eating his fried rice somberly, knowing there's no end to it but to wait it out. Saint and I—we're both like our mother in that way. She passed away when I was only ten and Saint three; I remember her boundless energy and whiplash tongue, which my brother and I have obviously inherited. Saint looks more like her, though, with his unruly black hair and blue eyes.

"Clara, are you planning to ride with us?" Dad asks, pausing our Civil War. His attention is to the window, where the sky is coloring to gray. It's going to rain, or it's probably drizzling already.

I shake my head. "Nah. It's going to be traffic on the east side, so I should stick to my bike." Saint goes to the all-boys' school where Dad teaches high school at, on the east part of town, while I go to Parkview, which is in the opposite direction. The traffic is always bad where Saint's school is because of the road construction that's been going on for years, and it's going to be worse especially if it's raining today.

"Are you sure?" Dad casts me a worried glance.

"Of course," I say brightly. "I have an umbrella and a hood."

"And she's fat." Saint chews his sweet and sour pork. "So her immune system can battle out the colds."

Dad sighs as we launch into another war.

.

I'm shivering when I reach school. It wasn't the rain I should have worried about; I couldn't have looked sillier on the road, the harsh winds snapping my umbrella, my bike wobbling as I struggled to keep my bearings. The sudden warmth of the school corridors is a welcoming feeling as I hop inside in a hurry.

It's awfully cold for August. I'm still zipped up to my neck. Adjusting the straps of my backpack, I head for my locker, greeting a few people I know in the process. I have twenty minutes before first bell.

Someone bumps into my back. "Sorry, sorry!" a frantic voice says. A frantic, familiar voice. I whip around, and true enough, it's Tamarah.

She hasn't noticed me yet. Her long yellow hair is all over her face. She's already in front of me, completely unaware of her surroundings. "Tam!" I call out. "Tam!"

Tam jumps in recognition. She turns around immediately. "Oh, Clara, it's you." There are faint black circles under her eyes. Oh, no.

"Are you okay?" I ask. I know she's not. Tam may have been born calm and collected, but when she's stressed over something, she embodies the verb. "Are you worried about precalc?"

"Yes. I mean, yes, I'm not. Wait, no. Wait, what did you say again?" Her brows scrunch up.

I shake her arm. "Tamarah, you got this. We've reviewed everything in the chapter!"

"Easy for you to say," she bites back. "I wish I had your brain."

"Pffft. My brain and your brain are the same because we studied the same thing."

"Pretty sure that's not how it works."

"Doesn't matter. Just don't freak out too much or you'll forget everything."

She sighs. "You're right." Her eyes lock on me, as if registering how I look. "What on earth happened to you?"

I pick on my damp hair. "It's the weather."

"I can drive you home later. You're going to catch a cold."

"It's okay, you don't have to." I pause. "Have I gotten fat?"

"What? No. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing." I loop my arm through hers and grin. Before she can protest, I lead the way to homeroom, skipping excitedly, her violent threats drowned by my off-key singing.

The rest of the day goes on smoothly. The precalc test was easy—Tam nearly cried after in agreement with me—and the quiz results for Advanced Chemistry were finally returned. To my embarrassment, I was announced the highest (the third time in a row) and I had to suffer through Mrs. Landon's lecture of how stoichiometry should be solved—"Ms. Breton did it this way," was one of her favorite interjections.

Tam and I steer our lunch trays to our usual seat by the windows. The rain has gotten stronger, swaying branches and flooding gutters. I hope it's going to die down by last period, but I highly doubt it. I remind myself to text Dad later to ask him to fetch me, since Parkview allows students to store their bikes in the gymnasium when there's a storm.

"I was telling my parents last night where I'd intern next summer," says Tam. "You know, for my résumé for college applications."

My mouth's full with my chicken sandwich and fries, so I only nod. Tam obviously disapproves of my manners—judging from the slight curl of her lips—but continues on with her story. "I was telling them about John Hopkins."

I force myself to swallow, which takes nearly thirty seconds to do. "What did they say?"

For as long as I can remember, Tam has always wanted to be a doctor. She has these health magazines she steals from her pediatrician's clinic whenever she visits for her annual checkup and her Google Chrome history is full of Wikipedia research on diseases and their symptoms. Others would find her a hypochondriac, and to be honest sometimes I think that, but I know she's really into the whole "saving lives" thing. Case in point: when we were in sixth grade and it was my first time to get menstrual cramps, she told me to apply hot compress to my stomach and eat leafy vegetables. "If it still hurts, you should ask your dad to get you pain relievers," she said then.

The thought of asking my dad for pain relievers because of dysmenorrhea mortified me. I stuck to the hot compress.

Tam's tone doesn't change, but her eyes lower a bit. "They're up for it, but only if I get in. It's as if they don't believe in me."

I feel a rush of overprotectiveness. "Don't listen to them, Tam. You're gonna get in. It's you."

"Yeah, but I mean, I'm sick of them pushing me for law. They're not going to let go of it. And I bet they think I don't have what it takes to be a doctor."

"Then prove them wrong." I've lost my appetite. I can't stand it when Tam's made to feel anything less than what she is. I love Mr. and Mrs. Sanders to death, but even I know how forceful they can be.

Tam laughs. "Don't get all worked up. Because you believe in me, I can believe in myself too, Clara. Your support is everything to me."

I'm secretly pleased. "Well, what can I say?"

"Nothing. Just don't say anything that's not true."

I burst out laughing. I'm popping three fries in my mouth when Tam asks, "How about you? Have you decided?"

She's talking about college. And after that. I chew slowly, the greasy fries dangling over my lips. "Not yet. I'll figure it out."

"Your dad saying anything?"

"Nope." I shake my head. "He knows I have a lot of time to work it out. I'm considering psychology, though. Not fixed on it, but it's one of my options."

Tam's face softens. She knows what it means to me: my mother was in counseling. She may have had a big mouth, but she had a patience for listening and a gentleness that could calm little colicky Clara. I remember her blue eyes, how tender they were when she'd read me stories in the afternoon, how she'd comb her fingers through my hair as she did so.

It hurts to be missing her. I try to change the topic. "Saint says I should just drop out of school. Says the world would be a better place that way."

"Of course he'd say something like that."

"Yeah. I told him the world had gotten bad in the first place because he was born."

Tamarah chokes on her orange juice and laughs loudly. We finish the rest of our food in pleasant chatter, and when the bell rings, we part ways. Tam has English while I have Physical Education, which is such a sucky class to have considering I'm coming from lunch break.

At least Coach Andrew gives me a grace period of thirty minutes to settle my stomach, so I get to sit on the bleachers and watch everyone else jog around the gym for warm-ups. It's a coed PE, and when Coach announces we'll be playing basketball, the girls burst into protests as the guys hoot and clap each other's backs.

"It's not fair," Savannah Carter says. "The guys have the upper hand."

"Are you being sexist by saying girls can't play as well as guys?" Coach Andrew raises an eyebrow.

"It's biologically proven."

"It's not graded anyway, Ms. Carter. We'll see how this goes and then we'll mix genders for game two."

I hear Savannah Carter grumble "Then what's point of game one?" as she makes her way to where the girls stand. They confer amongst themselves for ten minutes, and Coach Andrew blows his whistle when the time's up.

Game one turns out to be very bad. There's a lot of pushing involved and a lot of fouls called that Coach has to end it when John McMahon elbows Halle Trubeck in the stomach. The jerk doesn't even apologize. He bumps Savannah on the way back to the sidelines.

Coach pinches the bridge of his nose. "Oh, man, that was a bad idea. Let's draw lots for game two. Ms. Trubeck, are you okay back there?"

Halle nods, her face pale. She looks fine, but she's still gripping her stomach. I hear a short laugh. John's grinning as he whispers something to four other guys, who all smirk. I have to pull my eyes away from them.

I get grouped with eight girls and seven guys. I'm not especially athletic, but I did attend soccer camp for free as part of some neighborhood Christmas charity thing when I was thirteen. That doesn't mean I'm any good, though: imagine fifty kids charging after a ball that we couldn't tell was meant for our court or not. I felt bad for the goalie. The kid came out black and blue.

When Coach signals the start of game two, I volunteer to play first. It's three guys and two girls on our team, and all guys on the other, with John McMahon taking the lead. I try not to look so mocking.

The odds are tipped in our scale in the first quarter. The three guys in my team are really good and I do a decent job as center. We lead by six points. Josie Corving, who's on my team, sets up for a three, but is pushed by Greg Chan at the last minute.

Coach whistles. "Chan! That's a foul! Free throws for Corving."

We all take our formations. I wipe sweat from my forehead. When I pull my arm down, I see John signal something to the guy closest to Josie, who's dribbling and sizing up the ring. Just as she's about to throw, the guy opens his mouth.

I don't hear what he says. I only see Josie turn a deep shade of red and miss the ring.

The second time around, she's better equipped and makes it. Also the third. I'm fuming, but I keep a clear head. The last thing I need is to be distracted. We're on the defensive side now, and the guy I'm blocking is too slow that it's easy. So when the ball slips from John's hand, I'm already running and scooping it up, charging for our side of the court.

It's a difficult trail, but I manage. I fake to the right, and it's then that I see it: Josie is trying to find open space, but John is too good, so when she tries to duck under his arm, he grips her breast and pushes her back, hard.

The ball shoots out of my hands. It goes straight towards John and smacks him right in the face. Nobody does anything at first—it takes them a while to register what's happened. John is clutching his bleeding nose when I reach him, writhing on the floor and sprouting profanities.

"You fucking bitch!" he spits out. He's about to say something else, but I grip the front of his thin cotton shirt and pull him up to my face.

"The next time I see you disrespect a girl, I'll cut off your dick myself," I tell him. I'm burning hot, and it's not the heater that's making me so. I let go of him harshly, feeling his heavy weight drop to the ground. People have already gathered around us. The others try to lift John up, but it's the girls who are watching me with awe.

"Breton!" Coach Andrew is red. He's shaking in fury. "Principal's office. Now."

"Only if McMahon comes with me." I'm surprised I have the nerve to be so stubborn. Coach doesn't look one bit pleased.

"Now!"

.

"I'm very disappointed in you."

I don't dare say anything.

"Clara, look at me."

I brace myself. What will I see in Dad's face? Anger? Coldness? The rain has turned into violent sheets that slam and blur the windshields despite the wipers' furious job. From the corner of my eye I see lightning, and the rumble of thunder that follows affirms it.

I was kept in the principal's office for the rest of PE and my last two classes, which sounds pretty dramatic, but was only because I had to convince Principal Banks that John should be brought in as well. He finally conceded after the first hour. When John came in, he flashed a surreptitious finger at me, and Banks, who had not seen the exchange, had to grip my arm to prevent me from pouncing on John.

I should have been home three hours ago. I asked Dad to get me at six, hoping for the weather to be better by then, but there was no difference. So now he's mad that I physically assaulted someone and asked to get fetched late.

But the look on Dad's face freezes me in my spot. He doesn't look angry. I can tell he's trying to smooth his features into sternness, but it's there, that giddiness in his green eyes and the tension forming on his mouth. He's fighting back the World's Largest Smile.

Is he proud I've stood up for someone? My brows furrow. Then what was with his earlier statements?

A shutter suddenly falls over his features. He must have seen my confusion. "Clara Marie Breton, what have I always told you?" His voice is neutral, devoid of any emotion as he takes a right on Cherry Avenue and starts to drive uphill. The sky rumbles with thunder again.

"Uh, a lot...?"

"No, about your temper," he says evenly.

I grimace. "'Tolerate idiots'?"

Dad's lips twitch. "Those are not my exact words, but close enough. 'Tolerate ignorance and handle diplomatically.' Have you done any of that?"

"No." I'm suddenly feeling glum and in need of hot chocolate. Leave it to my dad for being the biggest guilt-tripper.

"I would have understood if you called out the young man a few times beforehand. But going straight to the physical?" He shakes his head. "What if he didn't know he was doing something wrong?"

"Dad. He's seventeen. Unless he was born with his head stuck down a toilet and locked in a closet for the rest of his childhood, he wouldn't know sexual and verbal abuse was wrong."

"I'm speaking generally. It's better to think before you act." I lower slightly in my seat. "And I'm not condoning what he did. I'm glad you did something, but there are better ways to go about it."

"I'm sorry." I hate disappointing him. He looks as if he's had a rough day, too: he's still in his brown tweed suit, something he's had since I was little and which is beginning to fray around the edges, and the white dress shirt he wears underneath is now crumpled. His dark green tie hangs loose around his neck. There is an air of resignation in the small space of his Toyota, and yet when I look closely at his face, all I notice is the smile hiding beneath his eyes.

I can't help it. "Is...is there something you want to tell me?" I ask cautiously.

"What?" he asks, a bit too quickly. "No, there's nothing. How was the rest of your day?"

I let it slide. There's nothing interesting much to share that he doesn't already know, so when we get caught in a bit of a standstill, I allow myself to take a short nap. Dad nudges me awake fifteen minutes later, indicating we're already home.

I'm not surprised Saint has heard of what happened. Dad must have told him before he left the house to get me (I told Dad through the phone). Saint's grin irks me as he shifts his attention from the TV to where we stand. He must be seriously evil to be glad I've hurt someone.

"That was pretty cool," he says giddily.

"You're really weird."

"Okay, children, please." Dad is bracing himself even as he slips out of his jacket and removes his tie. My brother flashes another approving grin my way, and I'm not used to it, it creeps me out.

"I'll just shower before I fix dinner," I call over my shoulder, heading towards the stairs. The little table next to it is cluttered with both opened and unopened mails. I'll have to sort through them later.

A violent, coughing sound makes me turn around in surprise. Dad's cheeks are flushed pink and he still stands where I left him, bouncing lightly on his feet, brows slightly furrowed in frustration, but mostly raised in excited impatience. Behind him, on the couch, Saint's eyes are on me. I can't read the expression on his face. I don't even notice that he muted the TV until silence stretches on.

"Spit it out. Now. What the hell is up with you two?" My voice is forceful. It's a don't-try-to-bullshit-me voice.

"Aren't you going to check the mail?" Dad asks, voice high and squeaky.

"Why? Is there something there for me?"

Another cough, this time sputtering and nervous. "I don't know."

"What the f—" I stop myself before it comes out. I'm certain Saint has already heard it somewhere, but still. I even my breathing. "Fine. Whatever is in the mail, I will deliberately not know unless I feel like it, which I highly doubt I ever will."

I've taken two steps up the stairs when Dad blurts out, "It's from Hayes University."

"What?" I ask irritably, twisting around.

"It came in nearly a month ago. I only saw it this afternoon."

I'm lost. Hayes is one of those schools for billionaires, and we're far from that, obviously, so it doesn't make sense at all. "Why do we have mail from Hayes University?" I ask, no longer irritated, just plain confused.

Dad looks surprised. "You don't remember?"

"Is there something I should remember?"

Someone caws in laughter. "God, you're stupid."

"Shut it, Saint."

"Clara," Dad reprimands. "Saint."

But I'm not listening anymore; I've rounded the banister, already clawing through the shitloads of envelopes piled high on the table. The thin ones are sealed, probably irrelevant brochures and subscriptions, and the ones that are opened are electricity bills and water bills and some Christmas cards from our family friends a year ago. Then I see it. The envelope is not cheap; it has texture and scent. It's bulky in my hands. The flap's been open, and someone—Dad—has stuck tape to seal it back again.

I flip the envelope. There, in the center, in serif typeface, is my name: Clara Marie Breton.

And on the upper left corner: the seal of Hayes University.