Chapter 3: Candy, Promises, and Goodbyes

She held my hand. “My dad gambled and owes a lot of money. Basically, he sold me. But what can I do? He’s my dad. If he can’t pay, they’ll hurt him. I can’t just watch that happen.”

Her voice was barely a whisper, but her eyes were fierce. I wanted to scream. Tell her to run. But I knew she wouldn’t.

I didn’t know what to say.

Words stuck in my throat. Useless and heavy. I squeezed her hand, hoping she could feel all the things I couldn’t say.

“Maybe this is my fate? I heard the man I’m marrying looks okay, he’s honest, gave our family five grand as a dowry. Anyway, at this point, honest or not doesn’t matter. Mariah, tell me, I made it to high school—how come I’m only worth five grand?”

Her laugh was bitter, her eyes shining with unshed tears. I wanted to tell her she was worth the world. But I couldn’t find the words.

Before I left, Jamie gave me a bag of wedding candy with a note inside. “Help me, escape to a good place.”

I tucked the candy and note into my backpack. I promised myself I’d never forget her dream.

Time passed quickly. My stepmom’s precious younger son didn’t even pass the middle school entrance exam. Even then, she couldn’t bear to hit him—a softness she never showed me.

She paced the kitchen, wringing her hands, her voice rising with every word. My younger brother just stared at the floor. Unmoved.

“How can you not study?” she said first thing.

My younger brother pouted. “Whatever, I can go work.”

He shrugged, picking at the peeling wallpaper. Already checked out of the conversation.

I don’t know where I found the courage, but I actually said, “Didn’t you say studying is useless? Just as well, he wants to work.”

The words slipped out before I could stop them. My heart raced as everyone turned to stare at me.

My stepmom slapped me, but for once, I felt oddly happy. It didn’t matter, as long as she didn’t beat me to death.

My cheek burned. But inside, I felt a strange sense of victory. For once, I’d spoken up for myself.

She cried and begged my dad to pull some strings for my younger brother. My dad is selfish and cares about appearances—asking him to beg for my brother was harder than pulling teeth. He pushed my stepmom away. “If he can’t pass, let him work. He can be an apprentice at my garage and help out.”

Dad’s voice was gruff, his pride wounded. But not enough to fight for him.

When my stepmom heard this, she collapsed on the sofa, sobbing. “How can you say that? Isn’t he your son? He’s so young, how can you let him work in the garage? All these years, I’ve never let Austin do any hard work! He can’t even wash dishes!”

Her wailing filled the house. Echoed off the cracked walls. I watched from the hallway, feeling invisible as always.

She made a huge fuss, pestering my dad for days. He finally gave in, paid a lot of fees, and got my younger brother into a middle school. The fees were expensive, so my stepmom took it out on me: “Let’s be clear, even if you get into college, the family has no money to support you.”

I expected her to say that. Still, I was anxious. I stayed at school as much as possible, never going home during holidays, afraid that if I did, I wouldn’t be allowed back to school.

I kept my suitcase packed under my bed, just in case. I’d rather sleep in the library than risk it.

In senior year, I made it into the honors class. The studies were intense, but I was satisfied. I was fighting for my dream, escaping the nightmare. It was hard, but fulfilling.

Late nights in the study hall, surrounded by the hum of fluorescent lights and the scratch of pencils, I finally felt like I belonged somewhere.

My brother took a week off to be with me during the SATs, booked a motel near the school, and bought me all kinds of good food. I asked him why he was so good to me when we weren’t related by blood. He just said it was what he owed me. I knew he meant because of my stepmom, but they were never the same kind of people—I never blamed him. I was grateful to him.

He made sure I ate three meals a day. Quizzed me on vocab. Even walked me to the test center every morning. When I tried to thank him, he just ruffled my hair and told me to focus on my future.

It was a miracle for a rural high school to have a student admitted to a university, let alone a top one. But I believed in myself. What I forgot was my bad luck.

I carried my lucky pen, the one Jamie gave me, and whispered a prayer before every test. I tried not to hope too much. Afraid of jinxing myself.

Halfway through the last exam, my stomach suddenly felt like it was being stabbed. I didn’t stop writing—I just pressed hard on my stomach, let the sweat drip down my face, and focused on the test. As soon as the bell rang, I collapsed, curled up on the floor, still in pain. Everyone in the exam room was scared. In less than three minutes, I forced myself to stand up because I heard someone say they were calling an ambulance. Ambulances were expensive—one trip cost a hundred bucks, and I had no money. I gritted my teeth and endured it.

My vision blurred, but I forced myself to breathe, counting the seconds until the pain faded. I’d made it this far. I wasn’t about to give up now.

I sat outside the school for a long time, not going back to the motel until the pain stopped. My brother didn’t ask how I did. And of course, I didn’t dare tell him. He was packing to leave—still not on good terms with my stepmom. Now he had a good job in Chicago and didn’t go home for holidays. At the train station, he patted my head, just like always. “Get into Chicago, come be with me.”

I watched his train pull away, my heart heavy and hopeful at the same time. I promised myself I’d make it to Chicago. No matter what.