Chapter 37
Summer's POV
I couldn't stop thinking about Harrison's face. The way he'd looked at Kieran like he was something dirty
that needed scrubbing off the kitchen floor. The way he'd said poor scholarship kid like it was a diagnosis, like poverty was something contagious.
I'd left the cafeteria yesterday with water stains on my uniform and dirt under my fingernails, but Harrison's voice had followed me home, echoing in my head through dinner, through my attempted homework, through the long hours I'd spent staring at my ceiling fan instead of sleeping.
You need to work twice as hard as everyone else. That's what being a scholarship student means.
No. That wasn't what it meant. What it meant was that people like Harrison could abuse their power because they knew kids like Kieran had no choice but to take it.
I sat in the library's computer area, supposedly doing research for English class. Ms. Peterson had assigned us a paper on romantic imagery in Victorian literature, which normally would've made me roll my eyes. But today I barely remembered what the assignment was.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, then I pulled up the school's employee directory.
It felt wrong, sneaky. Like I was crossing some invisible line. But I kept thinking about Kieran's hands in that freezing water, the way his right fingers couldn't grip properly, the way he'd just accepted it like he deserved to be treated that way.
I typed Harrison into the search bar.
Richard Harrison. Dining Services Manager. Employee ID #4721. Direct supervisor: Jennifer Walsh, Director of Student Life. Email: [email protected].
I stared at the screen, my heart pounding. This was real information. Official channels. Not just me throwing money at a problem like I used to do—like I'd done my whole first life, thinking cash could fix everything.
My mother's voice echoed in my memory, something she'd said years ago when I was maybe fourteen: "Summer, you can choose to eat bitterness or you can choose to make the people who hurt you eat it instead. But you can't do both."
I'd thought it was harsh at the time. Dramatic. But now, sitting here with my phone in one hand and Harrison's employee record on the screen, I understood what she meant.
I couldn't help Kieran carry his burdens if I let the people creating those burdens just keep piling them on.
I took a screenshot of Harrison's information—quickly, guiltily, knowing it wasn't exactly allowed. Then I opened Gmail and started a new draft.
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To: [email protected]
Subject: Formal Complaint Regarding Dining Services Management
My fingers shook as I typed. I deleted the first three attempts, each one too angry, too emotional, too obviously written by a seventeen-year-old girl who was way too invested in a boy she barely knew.
Except I did know him. I knew him in ways that mattered.
Fourth attempt:
Dear Ms. Walsh,
I am writing to formally report concerning behavior by Dining Services Manager Richard Harrison toward student workers in the cafeteria.
Better. More professional. I kept going.
On multiple occasions, I have witnessed Mr. Harrison assign physically demanding tasks to a student employee who is recovering from a documented hand injury. This includes requiring the student to wring out heavy, waterlogged cleaning rags despite obvious difficulty with fine motor control.
I paused, remembering the way Kieran's fingers had trembled, the water dripping endlessly while Harrison stood there watching with that cruel little smile.
Additionally, Mr. Harrison has used discriminatory language when addressing this student, including references to "poor scholarship kids" and implications that students receiving financial aid should be held to different—and more punishing—standards than other employees.
My throat felt tight. I kept typing.
This behavior creates a hostile work environment and violates the school's stated commitment to dignity and equal treatment for all students, regardless of financial background.
I sat back, reading it over. It was good. Factual. The kind of complaint that would get filed and reviewed and maybe, eventually, lead to some kind of official warning.
Maybe.
My cursor hovered over the send button. Then I thought about Kieran's face yesterday, the way he'd looked at me when I said he mattered to me. Like he couldn't quite believe it. Like nobody had ever said something like that to him before.
I scrolled down and added one more paragraph:
My mother, Victoria Hayes, CEO of Hayes & Co., has been a proud donor to St. Jude's, including funding for the recent Arts & Athletics Building. I trust the administration will uphold the values of dignity and fairness that this institution claims to represent.
My hands were shaking again, but for a different reason now.
This was it. This was me using my mother's name, her money, her influence—everything I'd told myself I wouldn't rely on anymore. Everything that had made me shallow and useless in my first life.
But this wasn't about buying a new handbag or getting out of trouble for skipping class. This was about protecting someone who couldn't protect himself. Someone who'd been protecting everyone else his whole life and never had anyone stand up for him.
I whispered to the empty library: "I'm sorry, Mom. I'm using your name again. But this time it's for someone who deserves it."
Then I clicked send.
The email whooshed away into the digital void. My heart hammered against my ribs. I stared at the "Message Sent" confirmation, feeling equal parts terrified and exhilarated.
What if Harrison found out it was me? What if Kieran found out and got angry that I'd interfered? What if the administration just ignored it?
What if it actually worked?
I closed the browser tab with shaking hands, grabbed my bag, and practically ran out of the library.