Take the Fall(51)

“She’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

I grab the Windex and wipe down the display case full of pies. “What are you doing after you graduate? You going to wave your business degree in Noah’s face and tell him what to do?”

She laughs, then looks back toward the empty kitchen. “Trust me, I’ve thought about it, but . . . I actually want to start my own restaurant. Not here; maybe a couple towns over. There was a nice space in Fayetteville I looked at last week.”

My eyes widen. “You’re serious? You’d leave? What about Mom and Noah?”

She shrugs. “They’ve hired people before. They’ll have to get someone when you go to school.”

“Yeah, but they’re family. How can you—” I stop when I realize I sound just like my mother.

Dina smiles and squeezes my shoulder. “When we were growing up, this place was always going to be Noah’s. Marlene was okay with that, but . . .”

“It’s not enough for you.”

She nods. “I knew you’d get it.”

I’ve never understood why my mom doesn’t want more. How she can stay on her feet day in, day out, working a meaningless job for someone else.

“Your mom is happy,” Dina says, reading my mind. “She got everything she didn’t even know she wanted when she had you.”

I straighten the salt and pepper shakers along the counter. “What about money? Are you going to have to get another loan?”

Dina’s lip curls. “I’ll be digging myself out of debt till the end of my days. But it’ll be my debt. Hopefully I’ll have something to show for it.”

I smile, but it fades as I think about what she said. Dina has made big things seem possible my whole life, even when everyone else around me was saying no. Our conversations have always been about hard work and making something from nothing. But I’m not sure how to focus on long-term goals when I don’t know what will happen tomorrow.





TWENTY-THREE


I HEAD STRAIGHT FOR THE guidance office early Friday morning. I got a message from my guidance counselor asking me to come in first thing to discuss “concerns” about my scholarship, and whatever they are, I want them sorted out right away.

Ms. Dixon ushers me in and asks me to have a seat.

“First, I want to ask how you’re doing personally, Sonia. I was concerned when I didn’t see you in here last week.”

I stare at the mug of pens on her desk. “I’m holding up, thanks . . . I guess I’m just processing things my own way.”

She studies me with warm brown eyes, her lipstick bright pink against her dark skin. “You know my door is always open, not just for academics, if you ever want to talk.”

“Thanks, Ms. D.” I tug at a loose curl.

“All right then, well . . .” She shuffles a few piles of papers until she comes up with an orange folder, but when she looks at me again, her face has shifted from compassion to unease. “I’m sorry to have to bring this up now, but I got a phone call from the dean of admissions at Penn yesterday. There’s some confusion there over a website that has your name on it.”

I shake my head, waiting for her to continue. “A website?”

She looks at me over her glasses. “They seem to think you’ve been selling essays online for cash.”

I blink. Twice. There’s no way I heard that right.

“Sonia?” Her face grows serious. “If you know anything about this—”

“I’m sorry, did you say selling essays? Like, for money?”

“Apparently it was set up three or four weeks ago. Yours is the only name traceable on the site.” She types on her keyboard, swiveling her computer screen toward me.

“They have to be mistaken. I would never do anything like—”

The browser loads and I find myself staring at a familiar green and white screen. My breath hitches. A cold, slithering feeling seeps into my veins.

“Sonia.” Ms. Dixon fixes me with her Do Not Attempt to Bullshit Me face.

My heart races. This was never supposed to be real. “It—it was a project, for her ethics class.”

“Whose ethics class?”

“Gretchen’s.” I close my eyes, but my nostrils flare. “It was her idea of a joke.”

Ms. Dixon lets out a fatigued sigh. “Are you telling me you knew about this, but it isn’t your website?”

“Yes, sort of.” I scramble to collect myself, try to make sense without completely losing it. “I didn’t know it was live—it shouldn’t have been. You can ask Mr. Hanover.”

Ms. Dixon removes her glasses and rubs the bridge of her nose. “I will. But first you need to explain this to me, from the beginning.”

“Okay.” The edges of my vision go black. “She got the assignment a couple of months ago. The idea was to present a fictional example of an unethical business practice. Gretchen’s was supposed to look like one of those sites that sells essays and term papers. She asked if she could use some stuff I’d written for content. She thought it’d be funny since that was so not me. . . .” I curl my fists in my lap. “She swore they’d never be posted online.”

The room is silent apart from the hum of the computer and the roar in my ears. Ms. Dixon has always been laid-back, open, someone I could easily confide in, but the way she avoids looking at me now . . .