Her Royal Highness (Royals #2) - Rachel Hawkins Page 0,6
a mouthful of cinnamon bears. “You could be there tomorrow if you had a passport and enough money.”
I stare at her for a second, then look back at the screen. She’s right. Scotland is a real place. A place that’s relatively easy to get to. A place with a school that already let me in.
“Yeah,” I say to Aunt Vi, but I’m still looking at the screen, my heart thumping hard in my chest.
Getting away from here. Not having to deal with seeing Mason and Jude kiss against lockers. Not hearing Darcy’s I Told You So, or seeing Lee’s sympathetic looks.
I could just go somewhere else.
Start over.
Me.
Scotland.
CHAPTER 4
“We’re back on Scotland?”
My dad stands by the stove, a frown creasing his brow, spatula in one hand—yay, Pancake Wednesday—and I wave a handful of papers at him.
“Not just Scotland, but Scotland school,” I say. “You’re a teacher, Dad. Anna’s a guidance counselor. We live and breathe school.”
Before he can respond to that, I sift through the printouts. In the past few days since the Jude Incident and my epiphany at Aunt Vi’s, I’ve been a one-woman Financial Aid Research Machine.
Finding the paper I want, I pull it from the stack, brandishing it. “Gregorstoun offers all kinds of scholarships. And it’s one of the best schools in the world, Dad. Gregorstoun ‘has educated kings and princes and prime ministers,’ and this is the first year they’re admitting women. I’d be part of the first female class ever allowed, which means technically I’d be part of history. My picture would probably be in history books.”
“Scottish history books,” Dad counters, and I nod.
“Even better. Have you ever read up on Scottish history? It’s wild. Gonna be me and Braveheart, side by side.”
That makes Dad smile, as I’d suspected it would, but when he turns back to the stove, he’s shaking his head. “I guess I just thought this was off the table, kid. You seemed so set on not going just a couple of weeks ago.”
Dad only busts out the “kid” thing when he’s feeling out of his parenting depth. Which isn’t very often. Although sometimes I wonder what kind of dad he would’ve been if Mom were still around. But that feels unfair to him or disloyal or something. Like I don’t think he’s enough.
Putting the papers on the table, I go stand behind him, my hands on his shoulders. “I just . . . changed my mind,” I tell him. “The more I thought about it, the more it felt like I’d turned it down too fast. I got freaked out by the idea of how far away it was, but I can’t let being scared keep me from doing something awesome.”
Leaning closer, I add, “And again, it’s school, Dad. It’s not like I’m asking to go follow some band around Europe for the next year.”
He scoffs at that, twisting a little to look back at me. “I feel like I’d know how to handle that better than this, if I’m being honest. That I can understand.”
Smiling, I give him a firm pat with both hands before stepping back. “Maybe this is my way of rebelling. Tragically uncool daughter of very cool parents.”
“I think you’re very cool,” Dad counters loyally, flipping a pancake. “So cool, in fact, that I was thinking we might go camping this weekend? Just me and you, like we used to. I also saw an ad for a gem and mineral show in Houston next week that might be fun. Haven’t gone to one of those in a while.”
I give him a look. “Dad, are you trying to bribe me with science?”
“A little bit,” he acknowledges, then nods at Gus, my baby brother, who sits in his high chair, happily smacking his plastic spoon against the tray.
“I mean, if you leave, who can I camp with? This one is terrible at setting up tents. And you should have seen the mess the last time I asked him to gather firewood.”
Gus shouts a word that kind of sounds like “TENT!” and I chuck him under his chin. “The family honor of keeping up with tent stakes and the camping stove falls to you, my brother.”
Gus gives me a gummy grin, tilting his head to try to put my fingers in his mouth, and from behind me, Dad sighs.
“You don’t . . . If this is about Anna, or Gus, or you thinking—”
I cut Dad off with one raised hand. “No,” I say. “No tragic backstory at play here.”