“Ms. Bell called today,” she said.
“The counselor?”
She nodded.
“She wants to meet tomorrow.”
“About?”
Emma took too long to answer.
That is one of the first signs you learn as a mother.
The pause before the truth.
“The Mercer scholarship.”
That name I recognized.
Arthur and Claire Mercer.
Money all over town.
Their family funded playgrounds, gala dinners, quiet plaques on brick walls, and the kind of donations that get announced from podiums by people who think generosity and control are cousins.
Claire Mercer.
The whispering mother.
Of course.
“How much?”
Emma named a number so big it made the room go still.
Not rich-people big.
Not life-is-easy big.
But enough to turn my stomach for reasons that had nothing to do with money and everything to do with what money can ask in return.
“Emma.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
She nodded.
“It’s a full ride to Halston Ridge.”
A private college with ivy on its brochures and students who looked like they had never had to check a bank balance before buying shampoo.
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