We Are Us

Chapter 24 Worthington University

Spring Semester, Sophomore Year

It’s not long after I return to campus for the second semester of my sophomore year that I find out it might be my last.

I’m holding the official-looking letter in my hands, trying to read it in its entirety, but I’m standing in the middle of the mailroom. And no matter where I stand, I’m in someone’s way. “Sorry,” I say. “Excuse me, sorry. Sorry.” My hands are shaking, the words blurring. Some phrases jump out at me. We regret to inform you and your GPA has dropped below what is required to maintain and this decision is final and may not be appealed.

Last year was rough. After that night, I had a hard time concentrating on my classes. I barely slept and hardly studied. And once I got involved with TeenCharter, those first few months of working with Tucker, every interaction had left me weak-kneed and nauseous. My grades took a huge hit.

But I pulled myself together last semester. I did well. Better than well. But not, apparently, well enough to compensate for my freshman year.

Catching sight of a familiar blond head out of the corner of my eye, I crumple the letter inside my fist and begin walking toward the exit. But my vision is bleary and I stumble, bumping into the very person I was trying to avoid.

“Hey—” Wren gripes, the vehemence of her glare only intensifying when she realizes it’s me.

“Sorry,” I say, for the tenth time in the past few minutes.

“Poppy.” She looks me over and takes a step back. I can imagine what she sees—glassy eyes, blotchy skin, pink-tipped nose. But maybe she doesn’t notice because all she asks is, “I’ve been meaning to catch up with you. How did you manage it?”

Either my head is more clouded than I thought, or she’s not making any sense. “Manage what?”

“Convincing Tucker to stand me up on New Year’s.”

Winter break was a couple of weeks ago and I’m caught completely off guard by her question. Had I? No. Tucker could tell I wasn’t excited at the prospect of meeting up with Wren, but the decision had been his. “What makes you think it was up to me?”

Her eyes narrow. “Because I’ve known girls like you before. Girls who only want what they don’t deserve. Who think they can take what isn’t theirs.”

“Well, I hate to break it to you, but it was Tucker’s call.” I sniff, wishing I had a pack of tissues on me.

Wren frowns. “Are you sick or something?”

My problem can’t be solved with a trip to the infirmary and a bottle of penicillin. But it’s easier to agree. “Yeah. You should stay away from me, I’m probably contagious.” Hopefully, Wren will spend the next month worrying I gave her the flu every time she sneezes.

It’s only later, at a brainstorming session for future TeenCharter events, that I regret making the excuse. “What are you doing here?” Tucker asks.

I blink at him in confusion. “Where else would I be?”

“In bed,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets and rocking back on his heels. “I was going to bring you some soup after the meeting.”

Wren. Of course. Tucker may have ditched her on New Year’s, but they are clearly still close.

“I was wrong. It’s not flu.” I slide into a chair and pull my notebook out of my bag. “The nurse said it was just allergies.”

“Allergies? In February?”

I don’t have the energy to make up any more lies. “Can you please just drop it,” I hiss quietly.

Tucker’s expression changes, his features tightening with hurt.

I was going to bring you some soup.

Guilt hits me like an incoming tide. Ever since we spent New Year’s Eve together, Tucker has been nothing but kind and thoughtful. I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s my boyfriend… I don’t want to put a name to what we are, actually. I spent so much of last year forcing labels on things, on feelings, on people. Hiding behind doors and shoving my emotions into boxes I’d seal shut.

Sometimes Tucker and I study together. Sometimes we eat together. Sometimes we kiss and make out and have sex.

We don’t drink together. We don’t party together.

We don’t argue or tease or stay up all night telling secrets and sharing dreams.

What I have with Tucker is nothing like what I had with Gavin.

But that’s okay.

Because what I had with Gavin taught me that passion leads to pain. Promises turn out to be lies. And love… love hurts.

With Tucker, I know what I’m getting. We are careful and cautious with each other. On our best behavior.

After the meeting ends, and I have a page full of notes on possible future events for the TeenCharter kids, I smooth the wrinkles creasing the letter terminating my scholarship and hand it to Tucker. “I saw Wren just after I opened this. I’m sure I looked like crap, and when she asked if I was sick, I just went with it rather than explain why I was upset.”

I don’t mention the grudge Wren is holding against me. It has more to do with her and Tucker anyway, and I’m not dumb enough to get in the middle of them. As it is, Wren looked ready to scratch my eyes out in the mailroom. There’s no reason to put myself on her bad side any more than I have already. I have enough problems of my own.

He quickly scans the page. “But, why did you lie to me?”

I fight the sting of tears. “It’s embarrassing, Tucker. I can’t afford to stay here without a scholarship. And all I needed to do was maintain a B average. But…” I lose the battle and they overflow my lashes, not in a steady stream but slowly, one tiny droplet at a time. “I couldn’t. Last year, I just couldn’t.”

He holds my gaze, lifting his hands to cup his palms over my cheeks. His calloused thumbs are gentle as they wipe at my skin. “You’re not going anywhere, Poppy.”

I try to shake my head but Tucker’s hands prevent the movement. “I’m not a charity case.”

Technically, that’s not true. I’m a scholarship student. I am a charity case.

“The Stockton Family Foundation gives grants and scholarships all the time. All you have to do is apply.”

“But …”

“No buts,” he says. “Welcome to the real world, Poppy. Haven’t you ever heard the expression, ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know?’”

“Sure.”

“Well, now you know me. And I owe you.”

I pull away from him, my stomach churning. “No, you don’t.”

Tucker drops his hands, his thumbs wet from my tears. “Yeah. I do.”