Chapter 11: She Can Go Later
I waited until we were all in the kitchen again because I didn't want Linda to be able to say I'd misheard her.
It was the next morning, Tuesday. The trash bin had been emptied, a new gray liner hanging over the edge. Linda was at the counter with her coffee, arms not crossed for once, hands wrapped around the mug like she was holding her position in place. Robert was leaning against the fridge, still in his work shirt, keys in his hand like he was about to leave but hadn't.
I had the envelope on the counter next to me. It was still crumpled, the blue seal creased down the middle. I hadn't smoothed it out on purpose.
"You said I could go later," I said to Linda. My voice didn't shake this time.
She looked up. "You can. Next year. When the twins are in kindergarten."
Robert glanced at me, then at her.
"When exactly?" I asked. "What date? Fall of next year? Spring?"
Linda took a sip of coffee. "When things settle. When your father isn't working doubles every week. That's what family does, Maya. You wait your turn."
"How would that work with the scholarship?" I asked. I kept my hand flat on the envelope so it wouldn't slide. "Did you check if I can defer it?"
She frowned. "You just tell them you need a year. Colleges do that all the time. It's not complicated."
"Have you ever done it?" I said.
"What?"
"Deferred a scholarship. Called an admissions office. Filled out the form."
Her mouth tightened. She set the mug down a little hard. "Don't get smart. I'm trying to keep this house running and you act like it's a personal attack."
That was the evasion. It had no detail in it. No date, no number, no form. Just "later" as a word to make now go away.
Robert shifted his weight. "Linda, if she's asking—"
"It's common sense, Robert," she said quickly. "Plenty of kids take a gap year. She can work, save money, help with the twins. Then she goes."
I didn't argue with her. I'd tried that last week and it just turned into volume. I pulled my phone out instead.
"I'm going to call my counselor," I said. "Ms. Alvarez. She has the paperwork."
Linda stared at my phone like I'd pulled out something rude. "Right now? At breakfast?"
"Yes," I said.
Robert didn't stop me. He just nodded once and stayed where he was.
I put it on speaker before it rang. The kitchen was so quiet I could hear the fluorescent light humming above us. Ms. Alvarez picked up on the third ring.
"College and Career Center, this is Ms. Alvarez."
"Hi, it's Maya Jackson, senior," I said. "I'm on speaker with my parents. I had a quick question about my acceptance letter. The one with the blue seal, from State."
"Of course, Maya. I have your file right here. What do you need?"
Linda's jaw moved but she didn't speak.
"If I didn't enroll this fall, could I defer the scholarship to next year?" I asked. I looked right at Linda when I said it.
Ms. Alvarez didn't hesitate. "No, honey. Not that one. That Chancellor's award is tied to fall enrollment. It's written right on the offer. You have to accept and enroll for this August, or you forfeit it. They don't hold merit money for a gap year. If you came back next year you'd have to reapply completely, no guarantee."
The words landed flat in the kitchen. No music under them. Just the hum of the fridge.
I asked the follow-up anyway. "Is there a form I could fill out to hold it?"
"Not for that scholarship. The admission itself you could theoretically defer with a petition, but the money goes away. It's use-it-or-lose-it. That's why we put that May first deadline on your calendar."
"Okay," I said. "Thank you."
Linda's hands had gone from the mug to crossed over her chest again. The same posture as that first day by the counter. Only now she wasn't looking at me.
Robert was. His brow was furrowed the way it had been when I'd held the envelope up to him that first afternoon. He stared at the phone as if Ms. Alvarez were still on it.
"Ms. Alvarez, this is Robert Jackson, her father," he said, leaning a little toward the phone. "You're saying if she waits a year, the scholarship is gone."
"Yes, Mr. Jackson. Entirely. The tuition piece, the housing stipend, all of it. The letter says it clearly on the second page. Fall 2026 or not at all."
"Thank you," Robert said. His voice was lower.
I hung up. The screen went black. Nobody moved to touch the envelope.
After a second Linda said, "Well. She doesn't know every—"
"She read the letter," Robert cut in. He didn't raise his voice. He just said it plain. "You heard her."
"It's one counselor's opinion," Linda said, but it sounded thin, even to her. She looked at the counter, at the coffee. "There are other ways. She could reapply. She could—"
"What later were you talking about then?" I asked. It wasn't angry. It just was. "If later means I lose the scholarship, what was your plan for paying for it?"
She had no answer. She opened her mouth, closed it, looked at Robert for help that didn't come.
Robert rubbed the back of his neck, his shaved head catching the light. He looked at me, then at the crumpled envelope, then at Linda.
"Later means never, doesn't it," he said. It wasn't a question for me. He was saying it to himself and realizing it was true.
May you like
Linda didn't answer. The silence after that was longer than any of the other silences in that kitchen had been.
I left the envelope where it was and walked out before anyone could try to reword "never" back into "later" again.
