July 25, 2019
Clara, wake up! You're going to be late for school!" Claire shouted, looking at her wristwatch while shaking her little sister.
"Ugh, do I have to go?" Clara lamented, never getting off the bed.
Claire shook her head at what a lazy sister she had. "Come on, get up, if you're late one more time, Mom's going to ground us both! You've already been late twice this week!"
"Fine, I'm up. Stop nagging, OK?" she said, slouching toward the bathroom. In her sleepy haze, she forgot the bathroom door was locked and walked straight into it, sending consoles and gaming catalogs flying in the already messy room before landing on her backside.
"Ow!" she cried, rubbing her sore butt.
Claire stood above her, arms akimbo, frustration clouding her face. She wanted to scold her sister but instead stormed off, muttering something under her breath, leaving Clara in the now messier room.
Clara scratched her head and got up. The room looked like a hurricane had passed through—catalogs, game consoles, and textbooks were strewn across the floor. Photographs littered her bed, which looked like it hadn't been made in a week. She shrugged and walked into the bathroom.
Even that was a mess. Her towel was thrown carelessly over the sink, toothbrushes were scattered everywhere—some even in the sink—muddy footprints trailed across the floor, and dirty clothes were heaped in a pile. She kicked them aside and stepped into the shower.
After wasting more than 30 minutes singing "Dynamite" by BTS, she pulled on baggy clothes and worn-out sneakers while brushing her teeth lazily. She snatched a leftover PB&J sandwich from a plate on her bedside table, took a bite, and kicked her way through the mess as she exited the room.
Instead of walking down the stairs, she slid down the railing. Her parents glared at her disapprovingly. She raised her hands in mock surrender.
"Sorry."
They ate breakfast in silence. Afterward, her mom, Anne, said in a monotone, "Let's go. We're running late."
Anne was a prominent lawyer in New York—sharp, calculating, and always poised. She prided herself on discipline and academic excellence.
"Okay, okay, I'm coming," Clara groaned.
They walked to the garage, where Anne's blue-black Lamborghini awaited. Anne slid into the driver's seat, Clara into the passenger's. The engine purred to life, and they drove in silence.
Halfway through the ride, Anne finally spoke. "Listen carefully. Today's the last day of your exams. If you fail one more time, I'm sending you to a rehabilitation school. It's called Rockfurt. Very conducive. The air is fresh, and—"
Clara groaned. "I've told you a thousand times, Mom—I'm not delinquent. I just have trouble concentrating."
"I don't care. I won't have a failure living under my roof."
"I'm not a failure. I'm trying—"
"Oh, shut up, you moron. If you flunk your exams again, it's Rockfurt or juvie. That's final."
Clara stared out the window sadly, drawing invisible shapes on the glass with her breath. Anne handed her a brochure.
She took it reluctantly. The pictures showed a forested campus with old brick buildings.
"I don't like it," Clara muttered, folding her arms.
"It's very student-friendly. No disturbances. It's in Natchez, Mississippi. Quiet. Remote. Perfect for focusing."
"Mississippi?! That's across the country!"
"And you think I'll tolerate failure under my roof? No chance."
She sighed. "Listen, I'm only doing this because I love you."
Clara blinked. "Really?"
"Of course," Anne smiled, brushing Clara's cheek gently.
Clara looked away. Something twisted in her stomach. This didn't feel like love.
They continued the ride in silence. Clara's thoughts spiraled. What if I fail and end up there? With psycho teens? What if they eat me alive? Her imagination went wild—monstrous delinquents tearing her limb from limb.
Beads of sweat rolled down her cheek. Her hands trembled. She pulled out her notebook and started writing, trying to soothe her anxiety. Before long, she drifted into a trance, scribbling mindlessly.
Suddenly, Anne's voice cut through the silence. "Geez, you're wasting paper, you dumb child. Do you know how expensive those notebooks are? And you've got nothing to show for it."
Clara flinched like she'd been struck. Tears welled up in her eyes as she looked at the notebook—doodles, scrawls, nonsense. She hadn't even realized she'd filled pages.
"Oh, don't give me those crocodile tears. I'm sick of them."
Silence again.
They arrived at school a few minutes later. Anne, with her status, was treated like royalty by the school staff.
"Good morning, Mrs. Whitney. How are you today?" greeted Mrs. McCarthy, the principal.
"Very well, thank you. I'm here to get Clara's report card."
"Right this way, ma'am."
Mrs. McCarthy's office was warm and elegant—mahogany furniture, velvet armchairs, oil paintings framed in maple wood.
She gestured to a seat beside her desk. "Forgive the mess," she said, gesturing to the scattered envelopes and papers.
Her tone softened. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Whitney, but Clara has to repeat the 8th grade. If we promote her, it will damage her academic record."
"The card, please," Anne said stiffly.
She reviewed it. Four Cs. Three Ds. Two Fs.
Anne's face darkened.
She handed the card to Clara with trembling restraint. Clara's hands shook as she accepted it. Her head spun.
Her worst nightmare had come true.
Rockfurt was no longer a threat. It was her fate.
Clara walked back to her classroom in a haze. She didn't even remember exiting the office, didn't feel the sunshine on her skin or the way the hallway chatter died down when she passed. She just walked.
Inside the classroom, the walls seemed to close in. Posters of world maps and formulas blurred into the background. Her seat, third row from the back, had never felt so far away. She dropped into it, slumped over the desk, and let her hair curtain her face.
"Hey," a voice whispered beside her. "What happened?"
Clara didn't respond. She didn't have the words for it. Rachel, her only friend at school, leaned closer.
"Clara? Did your mom find out?"
Clara nodded, barely perceptible.
Rachel sighed. "What's she going to do?"
"Send me away. Rehab school. Mississippi."
Rachel blinked. "Wait, like... for real?"
Clara nodded again.
Rachel put a hand on hers. "That's insane. She can't just ship you off because you're not perfect."
Clara finally looked up. Her voice cracked. "She can. And she will."
The teacher entered, and the class began, but Clara heard none of it. Her mind wandered, back to the forested brochure, to her mother's chilling tone, to the stories she'd heard about rehab schools where kids never came back quite the same.
At lunch, Rachel gave her a note folded like a fortune. It read: "Meet me behind the library after school."
Clara obeyed. She waited under the shade of an old oak tree, hugging her backpack like a lifeline. Rachel arrived, holding two chocolate bars.
"If you're going to Mississippi, at least have something sweet before you go," she said with a half-smile.
Clara took it. They sat in silence for a while.
"You know," Rachel said eventually, "I don't think you're a failure."
Clara stared at her.
"You just... see the world differently. School doesn't measure that. Your photos, the way you notice stuff no one else does—that's not failure."
Clara's lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Thanks. That means a lot."
Rachel nudged her. "Don't forget me when you become some world-famous photographer."
"I won't. You're the only one who sees me."
They sat there until the sun began to dip behind the buildings. The last light of Clara's old life fading with it.