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“Oh. I saw. So what?”
“I think it’s you he’s looking for.”
“Well, he’s out of luck. All he cares about is copyright and the risk he could get sued.”
“Did you hear me say ‘a million dollars’?”
“I don’t care. He’s probably lying. And he’s a dick.”
I hang up, miserable.
Chapter Twelve
Ram
The grand hall in the old Sykes-Coughan mansion is hushed. I managed to slip in, unseen and unnoticed. I stay in the shadows at the back, out of view.
I can hardly contain myself to wait, but I stay patient and still. It frustrates me that I can’t see her. But I won’t interrupt. I know what this moment means. To all the students here, not only to her.
On a platform in front of the grand staircase, a bearded man looks like the perfect kindly English professor from Central Casting.
He smiles with a twinkle. “The judges have reviewed all the submitted works. It has been even tougher than usual to choose a single work as deserving of the scholarship, because there were many.”
He compliments a collection of poems, a piece of historical fiction, some crime stories and a sci-fi epic. Then he talks at length about a rap piece and he calls the writer, ‘a star in the making.’
“But,” you could hear a hair fall as he says, “the judges agreed unanimously in the end. The prize and the scholarship go to Ms. Ella Farrow for her story, “King of the Pride.”
I hear a yelp. I would know that golden tone anywhere.
The room erupts and echoes in deafening applause.
My eye is oddly moist as Ella steps up to accept a scroll, a laurel, and a check. All of the group are on their feet cheering. No class I was ever in ever cheered a winner so hard, knowing it wasn’t them. Her hair is brushed back. Without makeup, the natural glow in her cheeks and the innocent, fiery sparkle in her eyes all make me want her. Her curves roll under loose jeans and a faded turquoise sweatshirt. I need her so much.
She takes a bow. Makes a pretty speech. And I hang back. It’s hard for me to keep still and quiet, but I want her to have every part of this moment for herself.
As soon as she steps off the platform, the other students close around her, hugging her, patting her on the back. Smiling, I am baffled. Where is their spirit of competition? The sounds and the obvious feelings are all so warm and positive, though.
I wait. Forcing myself to be patient.
Eventually, I can see her. She’s made her way through most of the crowd. She looks up. And she stops as her eyes fix on mine.
A hush drops like a thick blanket over the grand hall. All the heads and eyes in the room slowly turn to me. Her face is like thunder.
When she says, “What do you want?” my heart aches.
“I came to congratulate you.”
“You didn’t know I would win. You heard Professor Giscard. Nobody knew.”
“I meant on the million dollars. It’s yours.”
She shrugs. Her lips twist. “Anything else, Dickie?”
“Mm.” I shrug. About to turn. “Oh, one thing. Call me ‘Dickie’ all you want. I love the way you don’t take any shit from me. Nobody stands up to me like you do. No one ever did.”
“You need it.”
“I know. You showed me that.”
