Lena’s POV
The last bell rings with a finality that feels heavier than usual. I gather my books with mechanical precision, shoving them into my backpack without caring about bent corners or creased pages.
The hallways empty in their usual chaos, everyone rushing toward parking lots and bus lines. I keep my chin tucked into my scarf even though it's not that cold, replaying everything on an endless loop.
Noah Mercer's shadow cutting between me and Trent yesterday. Today, Evan at lunch, sliding his card across the counter like it was nothing, making the cafeteria feel like a private room with that movie-star smile.
Two brothers. Two very different ways of making my heart forget its normal rhythm.
"Lena! Wait up!"
I turn to see Priya jogging down the hallway, her backpack bouncing against her shoulders, dark hair escaping from her messy bun.
"Hey," I say, managing a smile. "Thought you had debate practice?"
"Cancelled. The coach is sick." She falls into step beside me as we head toward the buses. "You okay? You've been weird all day."
"I'm fine."
"Liar." Priya bumps my shoulder. "You barely touched your lunch, and you didn't raise your hand once in Calc. That's like you being sick or something."
The bus is filling up ahead of us. I hesitate, then make a decision. "Want to come over? I need to talk to someone."
Priya's eyebrows shoot up. "Serious talk?"
"Yeah."
"Okay. Let me text my mom."
The bus drops us at the corner, and we walk the three blocks to my house with my backpack heavy on my shoulders, as Priya chatters away.
Our mailbox leans slightly to the left, has for years, and I flip it open out of habit more than expectation. Bills, usually. Grocery store circulars. Sometimes something for my mom from the hospital where she works double shifts.
But today there's an oversized envelope, thick and cream-colored, with a crest embossed in the corner that I recognize from a thousand daydreams, a thousand college website visits, a thousand moments of letting myself imagine a different future.
My hands shake as I pull it out to see the content, and a gasp leaves my mouth,
Priya grabs and reads it, her finger tracing the embossed university crest.
"Lena. This is incredible." She looks up at me, eyes shining. "Do you know how hard this is to get? My cousin applied here twice and didn't get in."
"I know." My voice comes out flat.
"Then why do you look like someone died?"
I flip to the second page and point at the numbers. "Financial aid breakdown. See?"
Priya's expression shifts as she scans the figures. "Oh."
"Yeah. 'Oh.'" I pull my knees to my chest. "The merit scholarship covers maybe sixty percent. The rest is... it's more than my mom makes in half a year, Priya."
"But there's work-study, right? And loans—"
"Work-study pays minimum wage. I'd have to work forty hours a week just to make a dent, and that's assuming I don't need to, you know, sleep or study." I press my forehead against my knees. "And loans need a cosigner with good credit. My mom can barely keep up with the bills we have."
Priya is quiet for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is careful. "What about more scholarships? There are still some out there—"
"I've applied to everything I can find. Deadlines have passed for most of them, and the ones still open..." I gesture helplessly. "Either I don't qualify, or there are thousands of people applying for like five hundred dollars. The odds are terrible."
"Okay." Priya sets the letter down and turns to face me fully. "So we brainstorm. What about fundraising? We could set up a GoFundMe or something—"
"Who's going to donate to the girl who eats lunch alone?" The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. "Everyone at school thinks I'm weird. The girl who raises her hand too much. The girl who's 'saving herself' like it's some kind of joke. You think those people are going to open their wallets for me?"
"I would," Priya says quietly.
My throat tightens. "I know. But you're working part-time at the library to save for community college. You can't—"
"I didn't say I could give you thousands of dollars, Lena. I said I would help." She reaches over and squeezes my hand. "You're not alone in this, okay? Okay, what else can we do? There are websites for this stuff, right? Emergency funding resources?"
"Let me look." I pull out my own phone and start searching, fingers moving quickly. Priya leans in to read over my shoulder.
"'Emergency student aid,'" I read aloud, clicking through. "Okay, this one says... you have to be enrolled already. This one is only for students who had a death in the family or natural disaster. This one—" I click the link. "This one is a scam. Look at this website design."
"Gross." Priya scrolls down. "What about this? 'Alternative funding sources for college students.'"
I click it. We both scan the page in silence. Work-study programs I'm already planning to do. Federal loans I don't qualify for. Private loans with interest rates that make my stomach turn.
"Seventeen percent interest?" Priya's voice pitches up. "That's insane."
"And it gets worse the longer you take to pay it back." I keep scrolling, clicking through link after link. "Here's one about side hustles. Freelance writing—but you need a portfolio and experience. Graphic design—same thing. Online tutoring—pays like eight dollars an hour. Selling crafts on Etsy—"
"You don't do crafts."
"Exactly." I click another link, then freeze. The page that loads is sleek and professional, but something about it makes my skin crawl. "Priya..."
"What?"
I tilt the phone so she can see. The website is advertising "arrangements between benefactors and students." The language is careful, euphemistic, but the meaning is clear enough.
Priya's eyes widen. "Oh. Oh no. Lena, close that."
"I'm just looking—"
"Close it." Her voice is sharp now. "That's not an option. That's not even close to an option."
I close the browser, my face hot. "I wasn't going to—I was just curious what else is out there."
"What else is out there?" Priya repeats. "Lena, those kinds of sites—that's not a solution, that's dangerous. And gross. And—"
"I know." My voice comes out small. "I know, okay?”
I pull away and stand, walking to my window.
"You have to tell your mom." Priya advises me.
“She can't afford it,” I say quickly, turning round to face her.
“Still, you still have to tell her.”
"I know." My voice cracks. "But she'll blame herself. She'll think she failed me somehow, and she hasn't. She's done everything right. We're just... we're just broke, Priya. And being broke means you can be smart enough and work hard enough and still not be enough."
"That's not fair."
"No." I turn away from the window. "It's really not."
Priya pulls me into a hug, and for a moment I let myself lean into it, let myself be held together by someone else's certainty when my own is crumbling.
"We'll figure it out," she murmurs into my hair. "There has to be a way. There's always a way."
I want to believe her. But as I hold the acceptance letter later that night, alone in my room after Priya's gone home, all I can think is that sometimes the way forward requires a price you're not sure you can pay.