Chapter 4 Priya's Opening Move

The week after my appeal was denied, Priya Shankar made her first move.

I should have seen it coming. Zara had warned me. She had a whole chart with arrows and categories and Priya's name circled in red. Second tier. New money. Desperate to climb. That kind of person doesn't sit still when someone gets in their way.

And I had definitely gotten in her way.

It started small. A whisper here. A look there. Priya was good at this. She didn't leave evidence. She didn't make scenes. She just planted seeds and let them grow.

By Tuesday, people were looking at me differently in the hallway. Not the usual ignoring me kind of looking. The kind where they actually saw me and didn't like what they saw.

"What did I do?" I asked Zara at lunch.

"You exist," Zara said. "And you exist near Callum Ashford. That's enough."

She stabbed her salad like it had personally offended her. "Priya's been telling people you're getting special treatment. That the only reason you're still here is because someone on the board felt sorry for you."

"That's not true."

"I know it's not true. You know it's not true. But Priya says it with a smile and a shrug and people believe her because it's easier than believing a scholarship kid earned her spot."

I looked across the cafeteria. Priya was at her table, surrounded by her friends. She was laughing at something. Her hair was perfect. Her uniform was perfect. Everything about her was designed to look effortless.

Then she caught me looking.

She smiled. Raised her water glass in a little toast. Like we were sharing a joke. Like she hadn't just spent the last three days trying to poison the whole school against me.

I didn't smile back.

---

Wednesday was worse.

I showed up to my locker and found a note taped to it. Handwritten. No signature.

Go back to the east side. Nobody wants you here.

I crumpled it up before anyone could see. Stuffed it in my bag. Acted like it didn't bother me.

But it bothered me.

It bothered me because someone had taken the time to write it. Someone had walked up to my locker and taped it there while nobody was looking. Someone in this school hated me enough to put it in writing.

I knew who it was. I couldn't prove it. But I knew.

That afternoon, Ms. Whitmore stopped me in the hallway. She had an envelope in her hand.

"The scholarship mixer is next Friday," she said. "It's an opportunity to meet the board members. Network. Show them who you are."

"Sounds fun."

"It sounds necessary." She handed me the envelope. "I know you weren't on the original list. Someone made sure of that. But I spoke to a few people. You're on the list now."

I opened the envelope. Inside was a formal invitation. Gold lettering. Thick paper. My name spelled correctly.

"Someone tried to keep me out?"

"Someone always tries." She gave me a look. "The question is what you do about it."

I tucked the invitation into my planner. "I show up."

Ms. Whitmore almost smiled. "That's what I thought."

---

Thursday night, my mom came home early.

That never happened. My mom worked two jobs. Sometimes three. Early meant something was wrong.

She sat down at the kitchen table. The wobbly one. The one we'd had since I was little. She didn't say anything for a long time.

"Mom?"

"The diner cut my hours," she said. "They said business is slow. They said they'll call when things pick up."

"When?"

"They didn't say."

I sat down across from her. The kitchen was quiet. The refrigerator hummed. Outside, the streetlight flickered.

"How bad is it?"

She looked at me. Her eyes were tired. Not the normal kind of tired. The kind that had been building for years and was finally starting to show.

"We'll be okay," she said. "We always are."

But she didn't say how. She never said how. Because the how was me and my scholarship and the thin thread that kept us tied to Harrow. The thread that was already fraying.

I didn't tell her about the note on my locker. I didn't tell her about Priya. I didn't tell her about the appeal being denied.

I just sat there and held her hand and promised myself I would fix this.

Somehow.

---

Friday afternoon, I went to the library.

My spot was open. Third floor. East side. Behind the periodical shelves. I spread out my notes and tried to focus. Biology. Chemistry. History. The scholarship mixer was a week away. I needed to be ready. I needed to be perfect.

Eleven minutes in, Callum sat down at the table next to mine.

I didn't look up. Neither did he. We existed in that strange silence we'd been building. Two people who weren't friends, weren't enemies, weren't anything at all except two bodies sharing the same air.

Then he spoke.

"I heard about the mixer."

I looked up. He was still reading. Or pretending to read. His jaw was tight.

"What about it?"

"Someone tried to block your invitation." He turned a page. "That's not how it's supposed to work."

"Since when do you care how things work?"

He didn't answer. But his hand tightened on the book. Just slightly. I noticed because I was noticing everything about him now. The way he breathed. The way he moved. The way his silence was heavy with things he wasn't saying.

"Priya's mother is on the board," I said. "She's the one who kept me off the list."

"I know."

"You know?"

"I know a lot of things." He finally looked at me. His eyes were gray. Or blue. I couldn't tell in the library light. "You got back on the list. That's what matters."

"Ms. Whitmore got me back on the list. She fought for me."

"Good."

"That's all you have to say? Good?"

He closed his book. Stood up. For a second I thought he was going to leave without another word.

Then he paused. Looked down at me.

"Priya is going to keep coming after you. It's what she does. She finds weak spots and presses until something breaks."

"I don't have weak spots."

"Everyone has weak spots." He held my gaze. "Figure out hers before she figures out yours."

He walked away before I could respond.

I sat there for a long time, staring at the space where he'd been. The afternoon light moved across the floor. The library settled back into silence.

Callum Ashford had just given me advice. Real advice. Advice that sounded like it came from experience.

I didn't know what to do with that either.

---

Saturday morning, I was at the diner wiping tables when the bell above the door chimed.

I didn't look up. The breakfast rush was over. Only a few regulars were left. Old Mr. Peterson in the corner with his newspaper. Mrs. Alvarez with her tea.

"Be right with you," I said.

"Take your time."

I froze.

Callum Ashford was standing in the doorway of the diner where I worked. Wearing jeans and a hoodie. No entourage. No car waiting outside. Just him.

He looked around the room. The cracked linoleum. The flickering lights. The jukebox that skipped on track four. He saw all of it.

Then he looked at me. In my apron. With the cleaning rag in my hand.

"Can I sit somewhere?"

"Why are you here?"

"Because I wanted to see where you go when you're not at school."

"That's not an answer."

He walked past me and slid into a booth by the window. The one with the torn seat. He picked up the menu like he had all the time in the world.

"I'll have coffee," he said. "Black."

I didn't move.

"Nora." He looked up. "Coffee. Please."

I got the coffee. Poured it. Set the cup down harder than necessary.

"You followed me."

"I asked around." He wrapped his hands around the cup. "You work hard."

"You said that already."

"It's still true."

He drank his coffee. I wiped tables. The jukebox skipped. Mr. Peterson turned a page.

And for reasons I still don't understand, I didn't kick him out.

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