Page 55 of Don’t Forget Me

Probably the only good thing my mother had left me.

“Thanks,” I replied. “When can I start?”

I was in desperate need of money.

“We need to go over a few papers, contracts, benefits, that sort of deal. Leave your phone number with me, and I’ll call you once we have the paperwork ready for you to sign. Most likely, you will be serving tables here in about a week.” Miriam slid a notepad and a pen toward me from across the bar.

I nodded, swiftly scribbling my name and number on it. “Here’s my number.”

Once I’d written it down for her, she gave me a business card with her name and contact information printed on it.

“Great, see you in a few days, Lys.”

I walked out and let out a deep breath. People brushed past me. It had been a tiresome week searching for a job, hopefully they wouldn’t prolong the paperwork process.

When I arrived at the school, I was met by Ezra. He was perched beside the fountain situated in front of the double paned doors of the academy. He seemed to have been examining the stone.

“You don’t have anything else to do but stand by the door like a golden retriever?” I remarked, crossing my arms.

“Not when it comes to you. I’ll wait as long as I have to.” He gave me the cheekiest grin. I rolled my eyes, strutting past him and toward the threshold of the foyer.

We strolled down the hallways of Blackthorn. Statues were placed atop white columns at the edges of the corridors, vintage paintings hung from the mahogany walls, and benches were occupied by plaid-wearing students.

“What is it that you want, Van Dorren?” I asked.

“I wanted to see if you had any plans tonight,” he questioned.

“What’s it to you?”

“There’s this place I want you to see,” he began.

“Hmm, I don’t know. You’d have to check with my assistant. She can respond to your inquiries,” I teased. We made it deeper into the school. Plaid, black boots, vests, and scarves flashed past my peripheral vision.

“Will you give me the pleasure of your company?”

“Mmm, fine.”

“I’ll drop by your room at 7 p.m.” A mischievous grin appeared across his face before he walked into another hall.

I furrowed a brow before walking back to my room. As I trudged inside, I found Camille doing her homework on her desk with a lamplight beside her. She scribbled tirelessly on one page, then to another, and then went back to the first page.

“Are… you okay?” I questioned, hanging my key on the holder near my bed.

“I can’t believe the professors in this place. I love the classes and all, but help me understand where they find so much homework to assign us. How does everyone have good grades here?” she yelled, setting her hands on her temples. “How am I supposed to find a job if I can’t even do my homework?”

I chuckled. “I felt the exact same way at the beginning of the semester. But I found a way to get all of assignments done to have free time on weekends.”

“Please, tell me how you did it,” she begged with a deep pout.

“Well, first, I have no social life. And secondly, I do my homework during lunch and right after class. That’s the only way I can mentally recharge Saturday and Sunday.”

“But—”

“The people here pay their way into graduation. We are here because of a scholarship. We don’t have the same kind of privilege to do that, the only choice we have is to focus on getting our assignments finished and learning what we can to pass our tests.”

She groaned, slumping her shoulders.

“It’s just—there’s this guy. He actually seems interested in me, even though I’m American, and the only times he can hang out are during lunch and after school. I don’t know if I can survive my high school years without having a social life. Also, the amount of xenophobia I receive in this place is baffling!” she hushed. Camille returned her focus to the sheets before her and began to write on the pages.