Chapter 4 - Rachel Martin
Ava went home before noon.
She did not want to.
Staying felt like proving Kayla had failed to push her out.
Then Ben said:
“You don’t earn a medal for surviving algebra while your brain is on fire.”
So she left.
Martin Auto Repair smelled like rubber, metal, and the coffee Ben forgot to finish every morning.
Their apartment sat above the shop.
Ava had complained about that since sixth grade.
Kayla once called it “living over a garage like a sitcom poor person.”
Today the insult felt smaller.
Ben made grilled cheese.
Ava sat at the kitchen table.
“Tell me about Mom and Dana.”
Ben looked toward the stove.
“Can we eat first?”
“No.”
He sighed.
“You inherited that from Rachel.”
“What?”
“Terrible timing.”
Ava waited.
Ben turned off the burner.
“Your mother and Dana Whitmore were both Harrison finalists in high school.”
Ava stared.
“The same scholarship?”
“Yes.”
“Who won?”
“Your mother.”
The room went completely still.
Ava had never known.
“Mom won Harrison?”
“Yes.”
“Twenty thousand dollars?”
“It was five thousand then.”
“What did she do with it?”
“College.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Ben leaned against the counter.
“Because your mother hated turning her life into a trophy case.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It did to her.”
Ava frowned.
“What happened with Dana?”
“She came second.”
“Harrison only picks one.”
“Exactly.”
Ava thought of Kayla.
Olivia Whitmore had won three years earlier.
Now Kayla expected to win.
Was the scholarship some inherited family contest?
“Did Dana hate Mom because she won?”
“Not exactly.”
Ben brought the sandwiches over.
“There were rumors.”
“What rumors?”
“That Rachel only won because her father had died the year before.”
Ava stared.
“A sob story.”
Ben nodded.
The same phrase Kayla had used.
Ava lost her appetite.
“Dana said that?”
“I never heard her say it directly.”
“Mom did?”
“Once.”
“What did Mom say?”
“That Dana congratulated her with a smile and then spent two years making jokes about how foundations loved tragedy.”
Ava looked down.
“Kayla said the same thing.”
“Yes.”
“You knew.”
“I suspected where she heard it.”
“From Dana.”
“Maybe.”
Ava became angry.
“Why do adults always say maybe when something is obvious?”
“Because obvious and proven aren’t the same.”
She hated that every responsible adult had learned the same irritating sentence.
Ben continued.
“Your mother also said cruel things about Dana.”
Ava looked up.
“Like what?”
“She called her a human campaign poster.”
Despite everything, Ava laughed.
“That’s kind of funny.”
“It was.”
Ben smiled.
“Rachel was not a saint.”
Then he became serious.
“But she never believed money made Dana bad. She believed Dana was terrified of losing.”
Ava stared at the untouched sandwich.
“And Mom?”
“Terrified of needing help.”
That sounded familiar too.
“What happened to the scholarship money?”
“Tuition. Books. A used car eventually.”
“So there’s no inheritance.”
Ben looked at her.
“Money? Not much.”
Ava frowned.
“What does that mean?”
He stood.
Went to the desk in the living room.
Unlocked the bottom drawer.
Ava had seen him open it maybe twice.
Inside were Rachel’s journals.
He removed a thin blue notebook.
“I wasn’t saving this for some dramatic moment.”
“That sounds exactly like what people say during dramatic moments.”
“Be quiet.”
He returned.
“This was your mother’s college budget notebook.”
Ava opened it.
Numbers.
Rent.
Books.
Food.
Crossed-out totals.
On one page Rachel had written:
Harrison money remaining: $612.44
Beneath:
If I have a kid someday, I hope I leave her more courage than bills.
Ava stopped breathing.
Ben looked away.
“She wrote that before we met.”
Ava traced the faded ink.
“She didn’t leave me money.”
“No.”
“You said not much.”
Ben pulled a small envelope from the notebook.
Inside was a savings bond.
Five hundred dollars.
Rachel had bought it the year Ava was born.
“For college,” Ben said.
Ava stared.
“This is my inheritance?”
“One part.”
She almost laughed through the tears.
“Kayla’s right. Her family probably leaves houses.”
“Probably.”
“And Mom left five hundred dollars.”
Ben sat beside her.
“Your mother left you a name nobody in this town can use to make me ashamed.”
Ava looked at him.
“She left journals. Recipes. Half the stubbornness currently ruining my life.”
“Dad.”
“She left people who still tell stories about her.”
He touched the notebook.
“And yes. Five hundred dollars.”
Ava wiped her eyes.
“Why is that making me cry more?”
“Because grief is stupid.”
She laughed.
Then Ben said:
“I need to tell you something else.”
Ava groaned.
“There’s always something else.”
“The Harrison committee knows who your mother was.”
Her smile disappeared.
“What?”
“You mentioned her in your essay.”
“Not the scholarship.”
“No.”
“Then?”
“Dana Whitmore serves on the foundation’s fundraising council.”
Ava stared.
“Kayla’s mom is part of Harrison?”
“She cannot score applications. But yes.”
Ava pushed back from the table.
“So this whole thing is rigged.”
“We don’t know that.”
“She hates Mom.”
“Did.”
“She taught Kayla the same ‘sob story’ insult.”
“Maybe.”
“Dad.”
“I know.”
Ava stood.
“I don’t want the scholarship.”
Ben looked at her.
“What?”
“I’m withdrawing.”
“No.”
“You can’t tell me no.”
“You’re right.”
He took a breath.
“But you are not deciding today.”
“Why?”
“Because right now Kayla has shoved you out of a bus seat, tried to frame you as a thief, insulted your dead mother, and made you want to walk away from something you earned.”
He pointed toward the chair.
“You can withdraw tomorrow.”
Ava stared.
“Today, you eat.”
She almost told him that was ridiculous.
Instead she sat.
Not because he ordered her.
Because she realized he was right.
Kayla had already taken one seat.
May you like
Ava did not want to hand her another.
---
