Graffiti Girl // Michael Clifford

|| 43 ||

There's a story in my veins, with scars at every page. It's written on my face, I'm a proud survivor. Staring in the mirror, I'm not holding back the tears. All the hurt that brought me here only takes me higher.

«Fighting» Saints of Valory

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And suddenly, within a matter of hours, my life became a swirl of applications and forms and essays.

By the time I woke up the next morning--after the night of swings and Michael--R and the guys were all filled in that I'd be trying for scholarships. That apparently I was once again trying. That there was new hope that I would be going to college. Even though none of the guys had even considered the prospect, it was now vital to them that I attend.

"But you want to go," Ashton argued. "You actually want to spend four years becoming a fancy smarty-pants and do artsy things and make an actual career for yourself."

"Yeah, we're comfortable screwing around on instruments until someone pays us a few bajillion dollars so we never have to do anything again," Calum said.

When I sat up in bed, they were all swarming around with devices, using their phones for research on the internet, and typing up lists of possibilities and application requirements, deadlines and contact information. Once R spotted my eyes open, I was surrounded with screens and voices trying to talk over each other. I finally had to spray them all until my bottle was emptied and they took twelve steps back.

From there, they told me I had ten minutes to get ready to leave. They had been waiting for me to wake so I could be well rested before going together to the public library so they wouldn't have to work off their phones and get some actual research done. I threw on some acceptable enough bottoms and a t-shirt that may or may not actually belong to me.

We met Evan and Ember there and the eight of us spent seven hours around a big table with printouts of every possible application we could find that I could ever be even remotely eligible for. The librarian showed us the college reference section and stacks of ridiculously thick books were loudly placed in front of me. She sat with us for a while offering advice and recommending different sites to check out, different schools across the country that were known for providing good financial help. I was handed prompt after prompt and I wrote until my hand lost the ability to write a legible sentence. I made Cal move to one of the library computers while I typed until my fingers relaxed enough to start on sketch outlines for some of the talent specific scholarships.

Finally, the librarian had to ask us to leave a half-hour after closing time. We thanked her for staying late for us and packed up our things. We realized we were all famished as we walked to the van, and decided to get some late dinner at the diner. We each ate more portions than we thought possible. By the time we got back to the warehouse, we all collapsed and were asleep as soon as our heads hit the pillows/cushions/bean bags.

Then we went back and did it all again the next day.

Today, we're supposed to split up and ask our favorite teachers and advisors if they know of anything else I'd be eligible for. Or any advice they could offer for substance in the applications.

Ashton is coming with me to talk to Mr. Berkins, and Luke and Ember are tagging along for Mrs. Trixie. Cal and R have Mrs. McNally and Mr. Tyson. Michael and Evan have Dr. Mafia and Mrs. Gavich. Luke is even asking Mrs. Rylen, for crap's sake.

"Hi, Mr. Berkins," I say meekly as I tap on the open door frame. He looks up from a pile of papers and smiles when he sees it's us. "Sorry to interrupt."

"No problem," he dismisses, standing from his behind his desk. He walks around the cheap uniform wooden table the school dutifully places in each classroom, and leans against the front. "What do you need?"