Betrayed by My Childhood Love novel · Chapter 3 of 32

Chapter 3: In Writing

In front of the senior class Esme makes Lyndon write down what he did, and her mother tells her she won't be their daughter if she goes.

I asked him nicely first.

I texted Lyndon from the Rice parking lot on Friday morning.

I need you to write one paragraph to Rice admissions. I'll send you the address.

He answered almost immediately.

Come home and we'll talk about it. Just us.

I wrote back that I didn't need to talk. I needed one paragraph.

He sent a heart.

Then nothing, all weekend.

On Saturday I drove back to Dallas and knocked on his front door.

On Sunday I saw him through his kitchen window, laughing with Annika over a bowl of strawberries.

He saw me too.

He reached over and closed the blinds.

On Monday morning, the senior class had graduation rehearsal in the football stadium.

Four hundred and twelve of us, in alphabetical order on folding chairs on the fifty-yard line.

Beaumont, Annika. Beaumont, Esme. Two seats apart.

Dellinger, Lyndon, one row back.

I had seven hours left.

When my row stood to practice, I didn't walk toward the stage.

I turned around and walked down Lyndon's row.

People pulled their knees in to let me pass.

He saw me coming and smiled, the easy smile he used on teachers.

"Hey, Essie. You feeling better?"

I held out a sheet of paper and a pen.

"Write it."

"Not here."

"Here's fine."

"You're making a scene."

"You're making me make one." I kept my voice level. "One paragraph. You declined my Rice offer without asking me. You sign it. I send it. That's all."

Annika had turned around in her chair.

She put her hand on her chest.

"Essie, please. Everyone's looking."

"Good," I said.

Lyndon laughed and looked at the boys around him.

"She's been like this since Thursday. She's mad I got her into a teaching program."

A couple of them laughed back.

I didn't.

I turned so the whole row could hear me.

I'm not loud. Gran always said I talk like I'm reading a parts list.

So I read it like one.

"Last fall, Lyndon made me do my college applications at his kitchen table. He typed in my passwords. He put the community college down as my first choice without telling me."

The laughing stopped.

"On Thursday at 3:12 p.m. he logged into my email and declined my full scholarship to Rice. He did it so I'd stay here and Annika could have my spot at Thornbury."

I held up my phone with the gray banner on it.

"Rice will give it back if he writes one paragraph saying he did it. He has until five. He's been hiding in his house since Friday."

Nobody said anything.

A girl from my chemistry class leaned over to look at my screen.

"Dude," she said to Lyndon. "That's a felony."

"It is not a felony."

"It's literally logging into someone's email," said a boy two seats down. "My cousin got expelled for that."

Lyndon's face went red from the collar up.

"I was helping her."

"Then write it down," somebody called from the row behind.

"Yeah, Dellinger. Write it down."

It went down the row and out across the chairs.

People were standing up to see.

The assistant principal stopped reading names.

"Is there a problem back there?"

Annika's eyes filled up, right on cue.

"He was just trying to keep our family together," she said, to anyone who would look at her.

The girl from chemistry looked at her for a long second.

"Weren't you the one who got her spot?"

Annika closed her mouth.

Lyndon snatched the paper out of my hand.

He wrote fast, pressing so hard the pen tore through in one place.

I declined Esme Beaumont's offer from Rice University on April 16 from her email account. She did not know and did not give permission. Lyndon Dellinger.

He signed it and shoved it at me.

"Happy?"

I read it twice.

"Put the date," I said.

He put the date.

I took a photo of it, attached it to the email I'd already drafted to the dean, and pressed send standing on the fifty-yard line.

Then I folded the original and put it in my back pocket.

"Thanks, Lyndon."

He didn't answer.

Somebody started clapping, and then a few more people did, which was mortifying.

I walked back to my seat.

My knees were shaking so hard I had to sit.

At 2:30 p.m., during sixth period, my phone buzzed.

Your offer of admission has been reinstated. Welcome to Rice, Esme.

I went into the girls' bathroom, locked the stall, and cried until the bell rang.

Then I texted Gran.

I'm in. For real this time.

She texted back a string of rocket emojis and a word I'm not allowed to repeat.

I came home at four.

My mother was waiting in the front hall.

She was still in her pearls from some luncheon, with her phone in her hand.

The screen showed a video. It was the fifty-yard line, from someone's chair, with my voice reading out the time stamp.

"Lyndon's mother sent me this," she said. "Do you know how many people have seen it?"

"He did something wrong. I asked him to fix it."

"You humiliated that boy in front of the entire school. You humiliated your sister."

"She's not my..."

I stopped.

My mother's face went very still.

"Say it," she said. "Go ahead."

I didn't.

She put her phone down on the hall table, very carefully.

"I'm going to make this simple for you, Esme. If you go to Rice, you're not our daughter."

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