Chapter 6 - The Questions Camille Couldn’t Answer
The showcase coordinator emailed Monday afternoon.
Camille had withdrawn her submission and acknowledged using material she had not created.
The university would review the matter under its incoming student procedures. I was not entitled to every detail, but the coordinator confirmed that my documentation had been added to the record and that my scholarship application would be evaluated independently.
I read the email twice.
There was no triumphant feeling.
Mostly, I was tired.
Camille didn’t contact me for three days.
Mom did.
I hope you’re proud of yourself.
I placed my phone facedown and returned to my project notes.
Pride wasn’t the word.
Relief came closer.
At least nobody could put my name beneath silence and call it agreement.
The scholarship committee invited me for an interview the following week.
I borrowed a blazer from Leah. One sleeve sat higher than the other, and Grandma spent twenty minutes adjusting it while I practiced explaining my work without apologizing for the store being small.
“What if they ask something I don’t know?” I said.
“Tell them.”
“What if that costs me the scholarship?”
“Then pretending wouldn’t have earned it.”
The interview took place in a conference room overlooking Westbrook’s central lawn.
There were three committee members.
Professor Shah asked most of the technical questions.
“How did you decide which factors mattered?”
I explained my approach.
“What would you change with more time?”
I told her about the limited sample, inconsistent records, and the need for a longer trial before making strong claims.
She nodded and asked another question.
Nobody asked whether I was the more natural fit.
Nobody called me creative as a reason to stop listening.
At the end, a committee member asked about my education plans if funding remained incomplete.
“I’m still working that out,” I said. “I want to be honest about that.”
On the bus home, I cried quietly against the window.
I wasn’t certain I had done well.
I was overwhelmed by the experience of being taken seriously.
That evening, Elaine met with Grandma and Dad.
I joined by video from the guest room.
The conversation was tense and painfully ordinary. There were documents to review, competing interpretations, and questions about the signed gift letter.
Elaine explained the risks and expense of a legal dispute without promising anyone an easy victory.
Grandma was clear about what she wanted.
“The money intended for Jessica needs to be restored for Jessica’s education.”
Dad rubbed his forehead.
“Some of the current balance reflects market growth. It isn’t as simple as dividing the original deposits.”
“Then have the accountant calculate it,” Grandma said.
He looked at me through the screen.
“Would you really take this to court?”
Before I could answer, Grandma spoke.
“I’m the person who made the gift agreement with you. Stop asking Jessica to carry responsibility for your choices.”
Dad lowered his eyes.
They agreed to exchange a proposed accounting and discuss a written resolution.
It was progress.
It didn’t feel like forgiveness.
Later that night, Camille came to Grandma’s house.
She was alone.
We sat on the porch beneath the yellow light that attracted moths.
“I have to complete an academic integrity process before classes start,” she said. “They removed me from the showcase.”
I nodded.
“I told them it was my fault.”
“Was that difficult?”
“Yes.”
I watched a moth circle the light.
“It was difficult for me too.”
“I know.”
“No,” I said. “I don’t think you do yet.”
She accepted that.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then she said, “Dad used to tell me I needed more help because you were stronger.”
I turned toward her.
“He told me that too.”
“I liked hearing it,” she admitted. “It meant I didn’t have to feel bad.”
The honesty hurt. It also mattered.
“I don’t know how to fix this,” she said.
“Start by not asking me to make it easier for you.”
She wiped her cheek.
May you like
“Okay.”
It was the first answer she had given me that asked for nothing.
