Out of My League - Sarah Sutton Page 0,1

worst fear before her words did, twisting into a sorrowful mask. “It’s required that applicants attend a school with an active journalism program. I’m sorry, Sophia, but yes, that means you—and the two other soon-to-be seniors in our class—will not be allowed to apply.”

I was going to pass out. Right there, with two minutes left in the last day of school. I was going to pass out, knock my head against the desk, fall into a coma, and have to be airlifted to the hospital.

And there wouldn’t be a school newspaper to report on it.

I needed that internship. My entire future depended on it. Besides the fact that interning with a major press would look great on my college applications, it was my dream to write for the Blade. Writing for the school’s meager newspaper had been practice. The Bayview Blade was the real deal. That would make me a real journalist; it would make everything I’d been working towards worth it.

And, come on, I had that internship. Tess and the other senior, Shelby, wouldn’t have applied. Heck, they were probably only in this class because all the other last period extracurricular had been filled. That internship would’ve been mine.

As if someone dumped my hopes in a toilet and pressed the handle, my dreams slipped down the drain. Slumping back in my seat, numb, I couldn’t do anything other than blink.

“If you’re not going to use your journals, please pass them to the front. Maybe they’ll bring this elective back down the line and the next group can refer to our potential ideas.”

Our journals. The ones we’d been given at the start of the year to record our possible article ideas. I’d filled mine with newspaper clippings, doodles, and lists upon lists of inspiring quotes and phrases. I refused—refused—to relinquish it. Mrs. Gao would have to pry it from my concussed, comatose fingers.

“Where do we go to appeal the board’s decision?” I demanded, trying to hold some thread of hope. “There’s got to be another step, right?”

It couldn’t just be over.

“This is the school board, not Congress. I’m afraid it’s out of my—and your—hands.”

A certain finality clung to her words, but my heart didn’t just sink. No, it rapidly swan-dove from a boat wearing a coat of concrete. The air in my lungs drowned right along with it.

The dismissal bell rang out, signaling the end of my junior year of high school, the end of the Bayview High Report. I sat still in my seat as the horrible sound echoed in my ears, watching the other students filter from the room. The other journalism students didn’t seem as weighed down as me, bounding past Mrs. Gao without a care in the world.

“Sorry to end the year with bad news,” she said to them. “Have a great summer. Make wise decisions.”

In a slow daze, I packed up my pencil case. Pencils and pens I’d used for the entire semester of this class, now never to be used in here again. My journal still sat on my desk, a beacon of hope that seemed silly now. If I got the internship—but what did it matter? That wasn’t even an option anymore.

Everything was over.

Mrs. Gao turned to me as I approached the door, her own expression unhappy. “I know you’re disappointed, Sophia. Trust me, I am too.”

I hugged my things closer, the loss of possibilities insurmountable. It was like mourning the death of a loved one. In a way, I guess I was—the death of my dreams. “How long have you known?”

“The school held a board meeting last night about cutting programs, but I had an inkling that our program would be on the list. I didn’t want to say anything until it’d been decided.” She reached out and touched the binding of my notebook. “You can keep this. I wouldn’t ask you to give it up.”

My chest felt hollow, like someone carved out all my ribs and organs until I was as empty as a pumpkin. What was the point of hanging onto this thing if there was no reason to use it? No newspaper to write for; no internship.

Though it practically killed me to do so, I released my death grip on the journal. “Like you said, maybe it’ll help others down the line.”

She watched me for a moment, but there was nothing left for her to say. No words of encouragement. “Have a good summer, Sophia.”

A good summer? I could’ve laughed as I made my way through the hall. My