"Nothing's too much for my son," my father said, and the Rotary men laughed and somebody said "Lord, Rick, adopt me," and my mother was crying and taking pictures with her phone, and Grant took the key fob from my father's hand because there was nothing else to do with it.
My best friend Tasha Greer was standing next to me. She'd come for the cake and to rescue me, which was our arrangement for all Calder functions.
"Girl," she said under her breath. "Your dad's docks business is doing that good?"
"I guess," I said.
But it wasn't. I knew it wasn't. In February I'd come down for water at midnight and heard my father on the phone in his truck in the driveway, the engine running for the heat, his voice low and furious, saying I know, I know, I'll have it by the end of the quarter, you've known me twenty years, Dale. And in March the guy from Lakeshore Aluminum, who supplied his lift frames, had come by the house in person on a Saturday and my father had walked him all the way down to the end of the street to talk. And my mother had started buying the store brand of everything. I notice things. I'm not always smart about what I notice, but I notice.
I didn't do the math that afternoon. I ate a piece of the football field, the end zone, all icing, and I hugged Grant and said happy birthday, and he held on to me a beat longer than he usually did, and said, into my hair, "Jo, I didn't ask for this."
"I know," I said, though I didn't know anything yet. "Enjoy it. You deserve something nice."
I meant it. That's the part that still makes my throat close up. I meant it.
* * *
The email came on Tuesday, during fourth period, which was AP Physics with Mr. Okonjo, while we were supposed to be doing a lab on rotational inertia with a bicycle wheel and a swivel stool.
It was from the Vanderbilt Office of Student Financial Aid and Scholarships, and the subject line said Revised Award Notification, Action May Be Required. I read it under the lab table. I read it again in the hallway. It said that my family had submitted updated asset information to the CSS Profile, and that as a result my financial aid award had been recalculated, and that the revised award was attached, and that if I had questions I could contact my assigned counselor, Mr. Desmond Hale.
I opened the attachment. My grant had gone up. Not a lot. About forty-one hundred dollars. I sat on the floor outside the physics room with my back against the lockers and looked at that number going up and felt something cold start at the bottom of my spine and climb.