“Hmm, I never thought of it that way.” She took a sip of coffee, apparently placated. “I’m sure if you wrote a note to the administration, the school would make sure it went to the right person.”
“Yeah, I could do that.” Devon closed her eyes. If her worst fearwas true, that her scholarship was paid for by the Hutchins family, then writing a letter of thanks to them wouldn’t just be offensive, it would be plain stupid.
Thanks for my education. Oh, and sorry about exposing that your son murdered your other son over money. Cheers!
No way.
“Hey, you ever hear of the Hutchins family?” she heard herself ask. “I mean, before everything happened with Hutch?”
The movement on the other end came to another standstill. Devon’s mom’s voice was quieter now, more measured. “I feel so horrible for those poor parents. No parent should have to go through that.”
“So you don’t think they could secretly be super generous?”
“Why would you ask that? You think they’re connected to your scholarship? Devon, I’m not sure I like where you’re going with this—”
“I only want to find out if they’re really generous,” Devon said defensively, and mostly to herself. “I don’t think that’s a terrible thing to be accused of.”
A long sigh, and longer silence on the other end. “I’ve got to get to work.” Her mother’s voice was sharp now, tired. “Whoever provided your scholarship chose to remain anonymous, and we have to respect that choice. So please, let’s just be grateful for someone’s generosity and drop it. If you want to write a letter for the school, I’m sure they’ll get it to the right person.”
“Or people. Like you said, you don’t know it’s just one person—”
“It’s not our business, Devon.”
“This is my forty-thousand-dollar-a-year education. How is that not my business? Why are you being so weird about this?”
There was a sharp rattle; her mother must have put down her mug extra hard on the counter. “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said. I can hear you getting worked up. That’s not what we need.”
“We? Are we speaking in the royal ‘we’ now?”
“Devon, I have to go. Enjoy your Sunday. I love you, sunshine.”
“
We
love you, too, Mom. Bye.” She hung up and closed her eyes again.
Was her mom mad at her? She seemed touchy about the questions, or could Devon have been imagining that? No, her mom had definitely seemed off. Better question: Was her own mother sick of Devon’s questions? Or worse, was her mom keeping a secret from her, too? No, Mom was just playing the role of the grown-up. Respect the benefactor’s wishes, no questions asked.
Maybe Dr. Hsu was right. Maybe Devon was starting to get paranoid. But, could anxiety be considered paranoia if there were really good reasons for it? Or is that what paranoid people told themselves to justify further paranoia?
Now “we’re” in a downward spiral of paranoia
, Devon thought with a groan.
Lying in bed wasn’t going to help her get more answers. It was Sunday morning, and she had someone she needed to talk to.
C LEO ’ S ROOM WAS EMPTY , along with over half the other rooms in Morgan House. The black Calvin Klein bedspread was tucked in without a wrinkle. Cleo’s makeup was gone from her dresser, too. She must be out of town for the weekend. But she’d have to be back at some point today.
Devon caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on Cleo’s closet door. Her hair was spilling in all directions from her ponytail, and she had a pillow crease denting her left cheek. Yet it was just last night Bodhi had his fingers threaded through her hair while they kissed. Devon needed to see Cleo before she could think about Bodhi anymore. Was she to blame for Bodhi and Cleo breaking up?
No, that was impossible. Besides, both of them had told her the same thing in different ways, reiterating what she already knew: they were very different people, fashion vs. ocean,
“Yeah, I could do that.” Devon closed her eyes. If her worst fearwas true, that her scholarship was paid for by the Hutchins family, then writing a letter of thanks to them wouldn’t just be offensive, it would be plain stupid.
Thanks for my education. Oh, and sorry about exposing that your son murdered your other son over money. Cheers!
No way.
“Hey, you ever hear of the Hutchins family?” she heard herself ask. “I mean, before everything happened with Hutch?”
The movement on the other end came to another standstill. Devon’s mom’s voice was quieter now, more measured. “I feel so horrible for those poor parents. No parent should have to go through that.”
“So you don’t think they could secretly be super generous?”
“Why would you ask that? You think they’re connected to your scholarship? Devon, I’m not sure I like where you’re going with this—”
“I only want to find out if they’re really generous,” Devon said defensively, and mostly to herself. “I don’t think that’s a terrible thing to be accused of.”
A long sigh, and longer silence on the other end. “I’ve got to get to work.” Her mother’s voice was sharp now, tired. “Whoever provided your scholarship chose to remain anonymous, and we have to respect that choice. So please, let’s just be grateful for someone’s generosity and drop it. If you want to write a letter for the school, I’m sure they’ll get it to the right person.”
“Or people. Like you said, you don’t know it’s just one person—”
“It’s not our business, Devon.”
“This is my forty-thousand-dollar-a-year education. How is that not my business? Why are you being so weird about this?”
There was a sharp rattle; her mother must have put down her mug extra hard on the counter. “You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said. I can hear you getting worked up. That’s not what we need.”
“We? Are we speaking in the royal ‘we’ now?”
“Devon, I have to go. Enjoy your Sunday. I love you, sunshine.”
“
We
love you, too, Mom. Bye.” She hung up and closed her eyes again.
Was her mom mad at her? She seemed touchy about the questions, or could Devon have been imagining that? No, her mom had definitely seemed off. Better question: Was her own mother sick of Devon’s questions? Or worse, was her mom keeping a secret from her, too? No, Mom was just playing the role of the grown-up. Respect the benefactor’s wishes, no questions asked.
Maybe Dr. Hsu was right. Maybe Devon was starting to get paranoid. But, could anxiety be considered paranoia if there were really good reasons for it? Or is that what paranoid people told themselves to justify further paranoia?
Now “we’re” in a downward spiral of paranoia
, Devon thought with a groan.
Lying in bed wasn’t going to help her get more answers. It was Sunday morning, and she had someone she needed to talk to.
C LEO ’ S ROOM WAS EMPTY , along with over half the other rooms in Morgan House. The black Calvin Klein bedspread was tucked in without a wrinkle. Cleo’s makeup was gone from her dresser, too. She must be out of town for the weekend. But she’d have to be back at some point today.
Devon caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on Cleo’s closet door. Her hair was spilling in all directions from her ponytail, and she had a pillow crease denting her left cheek. Yet it was just last night Bodhi had his fingers threaded through her hair while they kissed. Devon needed to see Cleo before she could think about Bodhi anymore. Was she to blame for Bodhi and Cleo breaking up?
No, that was impossible. Besides, both of them had told her the same thing in different ways, reiterating what she already knew: they were very different people, fashion vs. ocean,
Similar Books
