several organizations.”
I stare at the papers in my hand, not seeing them.
“Couldn’t I just make a donation?” I ask, looking up at her. “I could make a donation right now on my phone. How much would you want? I could speak to my mom, and I’m sure she’d agree to a pretty sizeable one if it will help me graduate.”
“Abigail.” She’s gone from acting as the good cop to Coach Daniels’ bad cop to very firmly being in charge in the last couple of minutes. “This is non-negotiable.”
“But—”
“Coach wasn’t lying when she said we had to fight for this deal for you. Do you have any idea how bad your grades and your attitude look on paper? Technically you should have no chance of graduating at all, but if you pull your grades up and positively impact our community by raising money, Principal Roberts has agreed that you can graduate.”
I feel like I’m about to burst into tears.
“You will raise the money on school property, or if it’s not on school property, you’re going to tell me about it and I will swing by to see it for myself.”
I can’t even process what she means.
“Is that understood?”
I’m nodding at her, my mind reeling.
This cannot be happening. Please tell me this isn’t happening.
“You’re late for class,” she tells me, holding out a late pass. I glance at her clock and see that the bell for first period rang a couple of minutes ago; I didn’t even notice. “Off you go, and make sure you check in with your teachers today. They’re expecting you.”
I stand without saying anything else, unsure if I even remember to say goodbye to her as I leave her office and head down the hallway to my first class of the day. Before I get there, I have to stop and take a minute, leaning against the lockers, the cool metal cold on my forehead. If I don’t take a minute to pull myself together, I honestly think I might lose it.
Shit.
Shitttttt.
This is bad.
This is really, really bad.
I spend the rest of the day in a daze, not quite believing that I’ve managed to monumentally fuck up my life to the point that I might not graduate.
I don’t listen to Sarah as she rambles on in my ear about a sophomore girl who is into Brendon and asked for his number in front of everyone, I don’t listen as she walks beside me to the cafeteria at lunch telling me how desperate the girl was for doing that and how Brendon only gave her his number out of pity, and I don’t listen when she then pulls every item of her lunch out of her bag and proceeds to tell me how many calories are in each one.
There’s a wave of noise around me at our table in the cafeteria, as per usual. It’s packed, as always, and it’s where I’ve eaten lunch every day for the last three years, but I don’t take it in. I don’t even notice when Chase joins us after chatting with Livy for a couple of minutes by her table (they seem to have some unwritten rule that they never eat lunch together).
I must be feeling distracted if I don’t even notice Chase.
“My parents said we can have their house on the beach for senior week,” Jennifer announces to the group. “I think we can fit ten there, and then you guys can just get another place close by.”
There’s general agreement from everyone around us, and they all start launching into plans for senior week, the tradition where everyone spends a week on the beach after they’ve graduated. They start talking about what parties to attend and which bars might let us in and who else is likely to be around from the neighboring high schools.
I feel like I might vomit all over the floor.
I might not graduate.
I might not graduate. I might not graduate. I might not graduate.
Sasha leans over Sarah, who is typing something on her phone, and looks at me curiously. “Are you okay?” she asks quietly, so as not to draw attention. “You’ve gone really pale.”
Tears flood my eyes unwillingly, and her eyes widen in panic as she spots them.
“What are you guys gossiping about?” Aaron’s voice breaks in from across the table, and we both turn to see him watching us.
“No gossip,” Sasha says immediately. “Just talking about chemistry homework.”
I flash her a grateful smile for covering for me and quickly stand. “I forgot I have to