Wicked Snow

Accepted Defeat

It took my father less than a day to get my scholarship taken away. I was glumly picking at a light lunch in my hotel room when the email came through. Only my father would be heartless enough to take my dream away from me the day after my mother’s funeral. He couldn’t have even waited a week before following through on his threat. My phone chirped and I set aside my unappetizing salad to check it, instantly wishing I hadn’t bothered when I opened the email.

The email apologized for having to take me off the scholarship program but claimed that I had not met the standards for continuing funding. According to the email, I had received a failing grade for my art history exam and for the portfolio I had to submit for my painting class. Because my scholarship relied on me getting good marks, they had decided to give my scholarship to a student who was more deserving. Considering I knew I had aced that exam and my lecturer had congratulated me on my good portfolio when I saw him in passing the week before, I knew the email held no truth.

Unfortunately, money talks and my father’s money had a lot to say. I still had three semesters left on my degree and with two failed classes and my father’s influence, I knew no college would take me. For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to me that the dean would have gone as far as failing me in order to justify kicking me out of the school.

Instead of the defeat I should have felt though, the email sparked rage. I was not about to let some corrupt and greedy men ruin my future, so I found the number for the dean at the bottom of the email and I called him. I had no plan for what I would say to him, but he was going to get a piece of my mind.

“This is Dean Martin’s office. How may I help you?” a friendly woman answered the phone.

Her chirpy voice did nothing to quench my anger and my voice came out angry and hard. “I just received an email from the dean about my scholarship. I need to talk to him.”

“May I ask who’s calling?” the receptionist asked, sounding a bit nervous. My tone must have been a bit disconcerting.

“Grace Thornton,” I told her through gritted teeth.

“Oh, he’s expecting your call,” she said as if she were making my day with that information. “Let me put you through.”

A click sounded while I was put on hold, but Dean Martin picked it up within seconds. “Hello, Miss Thornton,” he said and awkwardly cleared his throat. “What can I do for you?”

“How much did he pay you?” I asked him bluntly, refusing to beat around the bush.

“Ex-excuse me?” he sputtered.

“How much did my father pay you to get my scholarship revoked?” I asked him coldly. If he was going to allow himself to be bribed into something, he better f*****g own up to it.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Grace,” he said weakly.

“In that case, why don’t I call Professor Jacobs and ask him how I did on that exam? Or better yet, maybe I should ask Professor Kline what he thought of my portfolio,” I said with venom.

“Listen here, Miss Thornton,” he said with a bit more confidence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. We gave you an opportunity, and you failed to hold up your end of the bargain.”

“Are you really going to sit there and tell me that after getting straight A’s all semester, I failed two of my classes,” I spat out angrily. “You and I both know that there is no way I failed.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, but please feel free to reach out to your professors and ask them yourselves. They might just enlighten you on the matter,” he said pompously.

His words send a shiver of dread through my body. It wasn’t possible that my two professors could have been bought as well, right? I shook my head in denial, refusing to accept the possibility.

“I’ll reach out to them right now,” I said confidently.

“I’m sure they would be happy to clear it up for you,” Dean Martin replied. He sounded far too certain that they would corroborate his story for my liking.

I hung up, too angry to say anything more. I found the numbers for Professor Jacobs and Professor Kline, desperately hoping that they weren’t part of the whole scheme. I called Professor Kline, my panting lecturer, first, knowing that he would be the most likely to help me. He had always praised my work and seen potential in me. I wasn’t sure if he would get hold of him, but he picked up after the first ring.

“Hi Grace,” he greeted sounding guilty and resigned.

Somehow, I just knew from his tone that he wasn’t going to help me get my scholarship back.

“Why?” I asked simply. I couldn’t understand how he would allow it to happen.

“I’m so sorry, I really am, Grace,” he said with so much regret in his voice that I knew he was being sincere.

“Then why would you do it?” I asked him angrily. If he was so goddam sorry, then how could he have let them fail me out.

“My wife is sick, and we really need the money,” he explained solemnly. “I swear I would never have done this otherwise.”

His words caught me off guard and it took me several seconds to respond. “Don’t you have medical insurance?” I asked dumbly, not sure what else to say.

“It doesn’t cover her treatments,” he said with a sigh. “I know that what I did was wrong, but I would do anything for my wife.”

“I get that, but what about me? What am I supposed to do now?” I snapped at him. Deep down I knew that he was just as much a victim as I was, but I was just so angry.

“I don’t know what to tell you, Grace. I wish I could help you, but there’s nothing I can do,” he replied apologetically.

“You could tell the truth and get me my scholarship back,” I seethed.

There was a long pause before he crushed any residual hope I had. “I can’t do that. I’m sorry. My wife needs those treatments.”

Bitter tears formed in my eyes and I wanted to scream in frustration, but I knew he was a good person and that he didn’t deserve my anger. “It’s okay, Professor. I understand,” I managed to get out before hanging up. I couldn’t hold in the sobs any longer and I let them out.

I crawled onto the bed and cried and screamed into my pillow until my throat was raw and my eyes were stinging from the tears. I cried for my mom, for all of the lost time I thought we had left, and I cried for myself, for my dying dreams that were fading and withering before my eyes.

I could apply to all the art schools in the US, but I knew that none of them would accept me. America was run on money, and my father was one of the wealthiest people in the country. If he couldn’t buy the dean, then he would buy the whole f*****g university, as long as he got his way. I was stupid to think that he didn’t have the reach to get me kicked out of Yale.

The sad thing was I thought only bad people could be bought. I thought I would be free from his manipulations because my professors had all seemed like decent people, but my father had proved that even the best people have a price. For Professor Kline, that price was his wife.

I liked to believe that the world was fair and just, but I was starting to see that it was anything but. Greedy and selfish people like my father ruled the world, getting whatever, they wanted with just a snap of their fingers. The funny thing is, if my father had showered me with love and attention, I may have turned out just like him. For the first time in my life, I was relieved that he had been cold and unloving, because it meant I was raised only by my mother. She was the one responsible for the person I had become, and I couldn’t have asked for a better role model.

I may have been angry and bitter, but I promised not to let that change me, no matter how badly I wanted to fight back dirty. I wouldn’t allow myself to become like my father.

With a new-found determination, I got off the hotel bed and took a shower. I got changed into my usual skinny jeans, a black knitted sweater and black ankle boots and got ready to go see my father.

I was going to finish my art degree and then I was going to move as far away from my father as I could get. I had been supporting myself since I got out of high school, and I would keep standing on my own two feet no matter what my father threw at me. There was only one problem– if I wanted to finish school and get a decent job, I had to marry Kingsley Hall.

I wasn’t prepared to give up my goal of getting an art degree, even if it meant marrying a man twice my age. Of course, there would be many, many conditions to my agreement. There was no way the marriage would be real in anything but in name. I would marry Kingsley Hall, but that didn’t mean we would be sharing a bed, or anything else for that matter.

If I married him, I would ensure that our lives would be as separate as possible, and I would make it clear going in that it would last no longer than two years. We could pretend to be a loving couple for the press, but we would be nothing more than acquaintances. If Kingsley wanted a wife, then he better be prepared for one who had absolutely no interest in him whatsoever.

As for my father, he might have thought he had the upper hand, but I was going to make sure that he would have zero presence in my life after the divorce. With that in mind, I called one of my friends from Yale before leaving my hotel room. She was a law student and might just be able to give me some advice. We weren’t awfully close, but I knew I could trust her to keep the conversation between us, and if I was really going through with the sham of a marriage, I needed all the help I could get.