The question escaped before she could soften it.
“Scholarship,” I said.
“What scholarship?”
“Hawthorne.”
Recognition moved slowly across her face. Briarwood students knew that name.
“You won Hawthorne?”
“Yes.”
She sat down across from me without asking.
“Maya,” she said softly, “why didn’t you tell anyone?”
I looked at my sister, the girl who had been given center stage so often I wondered if she ever noticed the spotlight had edges.
“Because I wanted it to be mine first.”
She looked hurt. Then thoughtful. Then ashamed.
“I didn’t know,” she said.
“You knew some of it.”
She swallowed. “Maybe.”
That honesty surprised me.
“I have class,” I said, gathering my books.
“Wait. Are you okay?”
It was the first time in years I remembered Amber asking and meaning it.
“I’m getting there,” I said.
I left before the conversation could become anything else.
Outside, my phone began vibrating.
Missed calls from Mom. A text from Amber: Please answer them. Another from Mom: Maya, call us. Then one from Dad: Call me.
For years, silence had belonged to them.
That night, silence belonged to me.
I turned my phone over and studied until midnight.
Dad called the next morning as I crossed the courtyard.
I answered because I was not afraid anymore.
“Maya?”
