She pulled her laptop onto her knees and started drafting a response to Takahashi's second email. Measured, understanding, no pressure, leaving the door open. She did not tell him she needed him. She did not make him feel guilty. She simply told him she appreciated his honesty and that she understood.
She pressed send and closed the laptop. It was 3:00 in the afternoon, 3 days before the weekend, 9 days before the hearing, when Avery came back from her financial aid office appointment with red eyes and very still hands. She set her bag down with unusual care, like she was trying not to disturb the air. She sat on her bed, said nothing for a moment, then she said, "I got a message last night. Anonymous.
It said my financial aid application was going to face an administrative review if I kept posting publicly about your case. " The room was quiet. "They can't do that," Zoe said, though she said it knowing that the word can't had very little meaning when the wrong people had enough leverage. "Maybe not," Avery said, "but I can't" Her voice broke slightly and she pressed her lips together. "My family can't afford this school without that aid. I can't risk it, Zoe.
I'm so sorry. " Zoe crossed the room and sat beside her. She put a hand on Avery's arm. "Stop," she said firmly. "Stop apologizing. You are not doing anything wrong.
I feel like I'm abandoning you. " "You're not. " Zoe's voice was steady and deliberate. "You have to protect yourself. I mean that. I won't let you bleed for this. " Avery wiped her eyes quickly, embarrassed by them. Zoe wasn't embarrassed by anything.
She sat with her dormmate until the red left her eyes and the still hands relaxed. And then she walked back to her own desk and sat down alone. She thought about Grandpa Robert after a regional loss when she was 15. She'd been furious, certain she'd been cheated by a bad call, ready to take the whole system apart with her bare hands. He'd sat across from her in the car, engine off in the parking lot, and said it so quietly she'd had to lean in to hear.
"You don't win on the mat in 10 seconds. You win in the 2 years before you ever step on it. " She opened her notebook. She started writing down everything she remembered, in order, with dates and times. She was going to need it. Thursday morning arrived quieter than the ones before it.