Chapter 59
[Alexander's POV]
I blinked, not understanding. "What do you mean?"
"You qualify for the program, Alexander." She gestured to my spreadsheet, still open on the laptop between us. "You're a Sullivan family member, you're a student at Boston Prep, and based on your family's current financial situation, you meet all the need-based criteria."
My stomach dropped. "Wait, I don't—"
"Your father's assets are frozen. Christopher's assets are frozen. Your grandfather has formally divested himself of personal wealth." Rose's tone remained matter-of-fact, like she was explaining a physics problem. "According to Boston Prep's financial aid calculations, you currently qualify as a student from an extremely low-income household."
"No." The word came out strangled. "That's not—this program is for other people, not for—"
"The program is for students who meet the criteria," Rose interrupted smoothly. "And you, Alexander, meet all the eligibility requirements." She leaned back, watching me process this. "So congratulations. Your reward for designing this scholarship program is the opportunity to compete for the scholarships you designed."
I stared at her, then at my laptop screen, horror dawning as I actually looked at my own criteria with new eyes.
Presidential Scholarship—first place in overall GPA rankings.
I was ranked forty-seventh out of fifty-six students.
Dean's Scholarships—second and third place.
Still completely out of reach.
Subject-specific awards—top performer in individual subjects.
Maybe, possibly, if I got insanely lucky...
"But I can't..." My voice came out weak, the earlier pride evaporating like smoke. "I'm not anywhere near competitive for these awards. My GPA is trash, I haven't taken the right courses, I'd need to—"
"You'd need to work harder than you've ever worked in your life," Rose agreed calmly. "You'd need to prioritize academics over social status, studying over gaming, genuine effort over shortcuts." She paused, letting that sink in. "The question is whether you're capable of it."
My hands clenched into fists, crumpling the edges of my carefully formatted documents. "This was a setup. You knew—you fucking knew I'd design standards I couldn't meet myself."
"I knew you'd design standards based on what actually constitutes excellence," Rose corrected. "Whether those standards prove achievable for you depends entirely on how much effort you're willing to invest."
The silence felt suffocating. I'd spent all night building the most comprehensive, well-researched proposal of my life, and I'd accidentally created my own public humiliation. A scholarship program bearing my name, with criteria I'd never be able to meet.
"So what happens now?" Bitterness leaked into my voice. "We announce this thing with my name on it, and everyone watches me fail to qualify for my own scholarships?"
"What happens now is that you have a choice," Rose said quietly. "You can give up before you start, assume failure is inevitable, prove everyone right who thinks you're just a waste of space." She paused. "Or you can look at these criteria you designed and ask yourself if they're actually impossible, or just difficult."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to explain all the reasons this was unfair, how she'd manipulated me into this trap, how it was impossible to close the gap between where I was and where I'd need to be.
But something stopped me. Maybe it was exhaustion making me vulnerable, or maybe it was the tiny kernel of pride that refused to accept I was completely useless.
"The improvement award," I heard myself say, voice barely above a whisper. "That one's based on growth, not absolute standing."
"Five thousand dollars for greatest year-over-year GPA increase," Rose confirmed, reading my own criteria back to me. "No minimum starting position required."
"And subject-specific awards..." I pulled the laptop closer, scrolling through my spreadsheet with new eyes. "Top performer in individual subjects. If I focused everything on one area instead of trying to be perfect across the board..."
Physics, maybe. I was decent at physics when I actually tried. Or history—I'd always found that interesting even when I didn't do the reading.
"There's also the community service component," Rose added. "Leadership positions, volunteer work, contributions beyond just grades."
Basketball team. Tutoring program. Student government, maybe, if I could stand working with pretentious assholes like Ethan Harrison.
The transformation felt disorienting, like vertigo. Five minutes ago I'd been furious at being trapped. Now I was calculating odds, strategizing approaches, actually considering whether I could make this work.
"You designed these standards yourself," Rose said softly. "Which means you know better than anyone what it would take to meet them. The only question is whether you believe you're capable of that effort."
I stared at the spreadsheet, my exhausted brain trying to process this impossible situation. She was right—I had designed this. I knew exactly what needed to happen. The criteria weren't random or arbitrary; they were based on actual research into what constituted genuine excellence.
And if I couldn't meet standards I'd designed myself, what did that say about me?
"I need to think," I managed finally, gathering my materials with shaking hands. "I need to—I don't know."
"Take your time," Rose said, but something in her expression suggested she knew exactly what choice I'd make. "The program announcement is Friday."
I left without another word, my earlier triumph completely evaporated. The exhaustion hit me like a physical weight as I trudged back to my room, laptop and papers clutched against my chest.
What the hell had I just done to myself?
I must have passed out on my bed fully clothed, because the next thing I knew, afternoon sunlight was streaming through my windows and someone was knocking on my door.
"Alexander?" Alfred's voice, polite but insistent. "Mr. Sullivan requests your presence for dinner. He'd like to discuss your scholarship proposal."
Shit. I dragged myself upright, head pounding from dehydration and too little sleep. My laptop sat on my desk where I'd dropped it, screen dark, mocking me with all the ways I'd screwed myself over.
I splashed water on my face, changed into clean clothes, and headed downstairs with all the enthusiasm of someone walking to their own execution.
The dining room was already set when I arrived. Grandpa sat at the head of the table in his usual spot, Rose to his right. Christopher's chair remained empty—he was probably still holed up somewhere dealing with his Lauren disaster. Lily occupied the seat to Rose's left, small legs swinging, not quite reaching the floor.
"Alexander." Grandpa's voice held none of its usual disappointment. "Rose showed me your proposal. Sit down."
I sat, bracing myself for whatever was coming next.
"This is excellent work," Grandpa continued, and I nearly fell out of my chair from shock. "Comprehensive research, reasonable criteria, solid budget analysis. You've obviously put significant thought into creating something meaningful."
Pride tried to reassert itself, but the trap I'd built kept it in check. "Thanks, I—"
"I'm approving it for immediate implementation," Grandpa interrupted. "We'll announce the Sullivan Family Scholarship Program this Friday at the school assembly. Full media coverage, public relations campaign, the whole package." He paused, satisfaction evident in his weathered face. "You'll be there for the announcement, of course. It's your design—you deserve recognition."
The words should have felt good. Instead they felt like a noose tightening around my neck.
"One thing, though," Grandpa added, his tone sharpening. "Given that you're both a Sullivan and a student at Boston Prep, people will naturally watch to see if you qualify for any of these awards yourself."
My throat went dry. "I... yeah, I guess that makes sense."
"So I expect you to take your academic responsibilities seriously from this point forward." His voice went hard, the voice he used in boardrooms when people disappointed him. "No more embarrassing the family with failed classes and truancy. You set these standards—now prove you can meet them."
Something shifted in my chest. Not quite determination, but close to it. Maybe it was pride refusing to let me look weak in front of Grandpa. Maybe it was spite, wanting to prove Rose wrong about setting me up for failure. Maybe it was just exhaustion making me stupid.
"I will," I heard myself say, jaw setting with conviction I didn't quite feel. "I'm going to qualify for something, even if it kills me."
Grandpa's expression softened fractionally. "Good. That's the attitude I want to see." He picked up his water glass in what might have been a salute. "Welcome to earning your keep, Alexander. It's about time."
Dinner passed in a blur of conversation I barely tracked. My mind kept circling back to the spreadsheet, to the criteria I'd set, calculating and recalculating odds until the numbers blurred together.
After we finished eating, I excused myself and headed back to my room. But instead of collapsing into bed like I wanted to, I opened my laptop and pulled up my class schedule.
Physics. History. English. Math. Spanish.
I opened a new spreadsheet and started listing out what I'd need to do to improve in each subject. Reading assignments I'd skipped. Problem sets I'd half-assed. Essays I'd never bothered revising.
The list grew longer and longer until it seemed impossible. But I kept going anyway, adding tasks and deadlines and targets, building a plan that looked just as comprehensive as the scholarship proposal itself.
Because Rose was right about one thing—I'd designed these standards myself. Which meant I couldn't claim they were unfair or impossible without admitting I'd created something fundamentally broken.
And I wasn't ready to admit that yet.
My phone buzzed with another message from Mike, asking where I'd been all day. I stared at it for a long moment, then typed out a response:
Studying. Rain check on gaming for a while?
The reply came back almost immediately:
Dude are you feeling okay?
I smiled despite myself and sent back:
Not really. But I'm working on it.