I passed. Not just scraped by—passed. Fueled by a strong desire to keep my new found spring and rid myself of the unforgiving winter, I did it. A clean result, top quarter in the whole school. Enough to land me in Class B. Enough to get my father to look at me a little longer than usual.
He held the paper in his callused hand like it might disappear if he blinked. His brow furrowed in that unreadable way of his, jaw tight, lips twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or frown. Then he chuckled, low and surprised. “Didn’t think you had it in you,” he said. That was the closest thing to praise I’d ever gotten from him.
But even with all that effort, even with the studying and the long nights and the notebooks filled with desperate scribbles, I wasn’t in the A Class. That was reserve
