The Boy I Was Never Supposed to Love

The envelope was wedged beneath a grocery flyer and a water bill. Lena almost threw it out. She had one hand in the trash can, fingers already pinching the envelope, when she noticed the school crest stamped in dark blue across the corner. She stopped. The kitchen light buzzed overhead. Once. Twice. Then it settled into its usual faint electrical hum. "Lena?" Her mother's voice came from the living room. "Yeah?" "Your brother spilled cereal again." "Of course he did." She pulled the envelope free. The paper had gone soft at one edge from sitting under the leaking milk carton. There was a pale ring of dried milk on the grocery flyer beneath it. Lena wiped the envelope against her sleeve. Her name was printed across the front. LENA CARTER No nickname. No mistake. She turned it over. The seal hadn't been broken. Her thumb slid under the flap. Not yet. She carried it upstairs instead. The house was small enough that she could hear almost everything from the second floor. The television downstairs. Her brother arguing about the last clean spoon. The washing machine kicking against the wall during its spin cycle. Her room was at the end of the hall. The door scraped against the carpet when she shut it. On her desk sat three textbooks, a half-empty bottle of water, two pens that no longer had caps, and a cracked calculator. Her college brochures were stacked beneath a geometry workbook. She put the envelope on top. For a minute, she just stood there. Then she opened it. Her eyes went straight to the first line. Dear Ms. Carter, She sat down. The paper trembled once in her hand. She flattened it against the desk. She read the letter. Then again. Then a third time, slower. The scholarship committee had selected her as a finalist for the Blackwood Academic Scholarship. Full tuition. Four years. Housing included. A university that had been sitting on a list taped above her desk for nearly three years. Lena lowered the paper. The radiator clicked behind her. She counted to five. Picked the letter up again. At the bottom, beneath all the formal language, was one sentence. You are invited to attend a final interview on September 8. Tomorrow. She checked the date printed in the corner. September 7. "Oh." The word came out thin. She leaned back in her chair. The ceiling had a water stain shaped roughly like the state of Texas. She'd stared at it during enough late nights that she could have traced every crooked edge from memory. Four years. Full tuition. No loans. No telling her mother that college wasn't possible. No staying home because rent came first. The door flew open. Noah stood there with a spoon in his mouth. "Mom says dinner." He looked at the paper. "What's that?" "Nothing." He pulled the spoon out. "You got into college?" "No." "Then why do you have a college letter?" Lena folded the paper. "Because schools send letters." "That makes no sense." "You're twelve." "Thirteen." "Still twelve." He stepped into the room and grabbed the letter before she could move it. "Hey." He ran his eyes over the first few lines. His eyebrows climbed. "Lena." "Give it back." "Is this the giant scholarship?" She reached for it. He held it over his head. "Mom's going to freak out." "Give it." "You're going to college." "I haven't won it." "But you're a finalist." "Which isn't the same thing." He dropped his arm. For a second, neither of them moved. Then Noah shoved the letter back into her hand. "You're going." He said it like he had already checked. Lena looked down at the paper. "We'll see." From downstairs: "Both of you! Dinner!" Noah disappeared into the hallway. "Come on, genius." "I'm coming." She slid the letter beneath her geometry book. Then she paused. Pulled it back out. She folded it once, carefully, and tucked it inside the back cover of her English notebook. That was safer. She went downstairs. Dinner was pasta, the cheap kind that came in a blue box. The sauce had been stretched with half a can of diced tomatoes and too much black pepper. Her mother stood at the stove in an old gray sweatshirt. "You got mail," she said. Lena took her seat. "From school." Her mother glanced over. "Good news?" "Maybe." "Maybe?" "I made the final round for a scholarship." Her mother's hand stopped over the pot. "For where?" Lena told her. The spoon in her mother's hand touched the side of the pot with a small metallic clink. "That's the one with the full tuition?" "Yes." "And housing?" "Yes." Her mother turned the burner lower. "How much is the application?" "Nothing." "The interview?" "Tomorrow." Her mother wiped her hands on a towel. "Then you'll go." Lena looked at her. "I have work." "Call the café." "I can't just—" "You can." Her mother pulled out a chair. "Sit." Lena sat. "You have been working every evening since June," her mother said. "One missed shift isn't going to destroy the world." "They need someone to cover." "They'll find someone." "The manager already hates me." "He doesn't hate you." "He hates everyone." "Then you'll fit right in." Noah snorted. His mother gave him a look. He immediately became interested in his food. Lena picked up her fork. The sauce had dried against the edge of her plate. Her mother sat across from her. "You're going to that interview." Lena pushed one piece of pasta through the sauce. "What if I don't get it?" "Then you apply somewhere else." "What if I don't get anything?" Her mother didn't answer right away. The washing machine thudded once upstairs. Finally she said, "Then we'll figure it out." Lena looked at the hands folded beside the plate. There was a burn mark near her mother's wrist from the restaurant. Another one on the knuckle. Old. New. She looked back at her food. "Okay." By seven the next morning, Lena had changed outfits three times. The first shirt had a stain near the collar. The second looked too formal. The third was the one she wore for important things. White blouse. Dark skirt. Black flats. The flats had a thin c***k near the heel. She filled it with a swipe of clear nail polish. It would hold. Probably. In the kitchen, her mother packed toast into a paper bag. "You need breakfast." "I'll eat later." "You say that every morning." "I'm late." "You've been late before." Lena grabbed the bag. Noah stumbled in with his backpack hanging from one shoulder. "You look like a lawyer." "Thanks." "I wasn't complimenting you." "Eat your toast." He opened his mouth. She shoved half a piece into it. "Mm." "Good talk." The bus smelled like wet coats and old rubber. There was a seat near the back. Lena sat by the window. The scholarship letter was inside her bag, tucked between two textbooks. She checked for it twice before the bus reached school. Still there. She took it out once. The print hadn't changed overnight. Neither had the date. September 8. Final interview. The school appeared at the end of the road, brick buildings glowing orange under the morning sun. Students crowded the entrance, half-awake, carrying coffee cups and gym bags. Lena stepped off the bus. Someone shouted her name. Mia Collins jogged across the parking lot, one sneaker half untied. "You didn't answer my texts." "I was asleep." "At eleven?" "I like sleeping." Mia grabbed Lena's arm. "You need to tell me something." "What?" "I have information." "About?" "Blackwood." Lena stopped walking. Mia grinned. "Ethan's back." "So?" "So?" Mia stared at her. "The Ethan Blackwood." "There are several?" "You are impossible." "I'm busy." "You'll have to forgive me for being fascinated by the fact that the most annoying human being in school is your problem again." "He isn't my problem." Mia pointed toward the main entrance. Ethan was standing there with three guys from the basketball team. Tall. Dark school jacket. A coffee in one hand. He was laughing about something one of the boys had said. A girl passing by turned her head. Then another. Mia watched Lena. Lena adjusted the strap of her bag. "He's in our class." "Exactly." "Then why are you telling me?" "Because you're sitting next to him." Lena blinked. "What?" Mia's smile vanished. "You didn't check your schedule?" "No." "Please tell me you're joking." Lena pulled the folded timetable from the outside pocket of her bag. She unfolded it. Room 204. English Literature. Seat assignment. Carter, Lena — Row 3, Seat 4. Blackwood, Ethan — Row 3, Seat 5. Mia leaned over. "Oh, this is going to be good." "No." "Why?" "Because I'm changing seats." "You can't." "Watch me." The warning bell rang. Students started moving through the doors. Mia caught Lena by the sleeve. "You have your scholarship interview tomorrow." "Yes." "And Ethan Blackwood in your seat today." "Yes." "That feels like a sign." "It feels like bad scheduling." They walked inside. The hallway smelled faintly of floor wax and somebody's burnt breakfast. Lena checked the clock above the office. 8:11. Late. She picked up her pace. By the time she reached Room 204, class had already started. She knocked once. Mr. Harris looked up from his attendance sheet. "Ms. Carter." "Sorry." "You have a fascinating relationship with clocks." A few students laughed. Lena kept her face straight. "Seat." "Yes, sir." She walked to Row 3. There was one empty chair. Next to Ethan. He moved his backpack off the floor. "That's yours." Lena set her books down. "Thanks." She pulled out her notebook. Ethan leaned back. "You always this friendly?" "I'm usually worse." His mouth twitched. Mr. Harris turned toward the board. "Today we're discussing the unreliable narrator." Lena uncapped her pen. Ethan leaned slightly closer. "I'm Ethan." "I know." He paused. "You know?" "Everybody knows." "Right." He looked at her notebook. Her handwriting filled half the page already. At the top she'd written: Scholarship Interview — Questions Then crossed it out. Then written it again. Ethan looked away. For the next twenty minutes, neither spoke. Lena took notes. The classroom heater clicked on. Someone behind them whispered. A pen rolled off a desk and hit the floor. Mr. Harris kept talking. "The important question is not whether the narrator is lying." Lena wrote faster. "It's whether we know when the lie begins." Ethan tapped his pen against the edge of his desk. Once. Twice. Three times. Lena glanced over. "Can you stop?" He stopped. "Sorry." She went back to writing. A minute later, something slid across her desk. A small yellow sticky note. She looked at it. You have a coffee stain on your sleeve. Lena looked down. There it was. Dark brown, near the cuff. She rubbed it with her thumb. It got worse. She stared at the stain. Then at Ethan. He was looking at the board. Like he hadn't written anything. Lena folded the sticky note in half and pushed it back toward him. He opened it. Under his sentence, she wrote: Thanks, detective. He read it. A grin appeared. She turned back to the board. Mr. Harris called on her. "Ms. Carter. What makes an unreliable narrator effective?" Lena stood. The classroom went quiet. She looked at the passage on the board. Then at the clock. 8:36. "Because," she said, "you don't notice the lie until you already believe them." Mr. Harris nodded. "Exactly." Lena sat down. Her pen touched the paper. Beside her, Ethan stopped tapping his pen. For the rest of the period, he didn't make a sound. At 8:47, Lena's fingers slipped into her bag and touched the scholarship letter. Still there. Good. She closed the zipper. Then Ethan's voice came quietly from beside her. "Tomorrow." She looked over. "What?" He pointed toward the corner of her notebook. The interview date was still written there. September 8. "You've been staring at it all morning." Lena closed the notebook. "It's none of your business." "Didn't say it was." The bell rang. Students stood, chairs scraping across the floor. Ethan picked up his backpack. "Good luck." Lena glanced at him. He was already walking away. Three steps. Four. Then he turned. "And, Lena?" She waited. He lifted his coffee. "You really do need a new shirt." He disappeared into the hallway. Lena looked down at the brown stain on her sleeve. She grabbed the nearest paper towel. Scrubbed. Nothing. The bell rang again. She scrubbed harder.