(Sebastian)
Galas were the part of the job I disliked most, which was why I never missed one.
A man in my position couldn't afford to look like he held the room in contempt, even when he did. So I went every year. I shook the hands. I thanked the donors. I stood under the lights in the ballroom the company rented and I performed the version of myself that made rich people comfortable enough to write larger checks, and I counted the hours until I could leave.
This year I'd arrived early, before the crowd, because the scholarship kids came early.
That was the part almost no one saw. The fund brought in a dozen or so students every year, the ones whose tuition the company covered, and they arrived ahead of the donors for a private hour, a tour, a meal that wasn't rushed. My grandfather ha
