Chapter 2 - My Scholarship Didn’t Have A Name
Coach Brody closed his office door.
His desk had three framed championship photos behind it.
I was in two.
“You want to explain what happened downstairs?”
“No.”
He stared at me.
“Wrong answer.”
I sat.
He remained standing.
“The cafeteria video is already everywhere.”
My stomach dropped.
“Who posted it?”
“Does it matter?”
Yes.
It absolutely mattered.
But not enough.
Coach folded his arms.
“You dumped food on a school employee.”
“He's my dad.”
“That improves nothing.”
I looked at the floor.
Coach waited.
I said:
“I'll apologize.”
“To him or to me?”
That irritated me.
“To him.”
“Good.”
He finally sat.
“The head of school will probably want you benched for the first quarter tonight.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“You publicly humiliated an employee.”
“He doesn't even want that.”
“You've spoken to him?”
“No.”
“Then stop deciding what he wants.”
My father could have said the same thing.
I hated that Coach got there first.
I leaned back.
“Why does he work here?”
Coach's face barely changed.
“I don't discuss staff employment with students.”
“He's my father.”
“Then ask him.”
“Jordan says it's tuition.”
Coach looked toward his computer.
“Jordan talks too much.”
“You knew.”
“I know a lot of things about players' families.”
“Is my tuition paid?”
He looked back.
“That is not a basketball conversation.”
“You told me my grant covered it.”
“It does.”
“Then why is Dad working lunch?”
Coach's jaw tightened.
“You have a game in seven hours.”
“So?”
“So I am not letting you turn whatever argument you're having with your father into an excuse to blow up your senior season.”
“I asked a question.”
“And I'm telling you where to put your attention.”
He stood.
Meeting over.
I didn't.
“What is my scholarship called?”
Coach stopped.
“What?”
“The grant.”
“Tyler.”
“What is it called?”
He rubbed his forehead.
“Founders assistance.”
I had never heard that phrase.
“You always called it my basketball grant.”
“Because that's how you got here.”
“Is that the actual name?”
Coach's voice hardened.
“You're seventeen. Your father handles tuition. You handle basketball.”
That sentence should have ended it.
For three years, it probably would have.
I stood.
“Did you tell my dad to take the cafeteria job?”
His expression changed.
Not guilt.
Annoyance.
“No.”
“Did you tell him not to?”
He opened the office door.
“Get to class.”
I walked out.
Jordan was waiting near the trophy case.
“You followed me?”
“No. Coach texted me too.”
“Why?”
“Because I was standing in the video.”
I looked at him.
“You said employee tuition.”
Jordan sighed.
“My mom gets forty percent remission.”
“Forty?”
“For me.”
“That doesn't cover Hawthorne.”
“No.”
“So Dad still—”
“Different jobs get different packages. Depends on hours.”
He looked at me.
“Tyler, I don't know your numbers.”
“Then what do you know?”
Jordan glanced toward Coach's closed door.
“My mom saw your dad at orientation with Denise Park from HR.”
“When?”
“August.”
School started in September.
Dad had told me he started cafeteria work two weeks ago.
Jordan continued.
“I didn't know he'd actually taken the job until I saw him serving lunch.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
He gave me a look.
“Because I assumed you knew where your dad worked.”
Fair.
Then:
“My mom says staff kids don't get assistance unless HR has the dependent paperwork.”
I stared.
“So?”
“So your dad wasn't randomly filling in.”
The hallway bell rang.
Neither of us moved.
I asked:
“Why would he lie about when he started?”
Jordan frowned.
“He did?”
“He said this was temporary. Said he was helping because they were short.”
Jordan looked uncomfortable.
“What?”
“My mom said he took the full employee orientation.”
That was not the part that scared me.
The scary part came later.
I skipped third period and went to the bursar's office.
I knew I shouldn't.
I also knew nobody stopped a starting point guard easily the day of the biggest game of the season.
The receptionist recognized me.
“Tyler?”
“I need to know my tuition balance.”
She smiled.
“Your parent can access that online.”
“I can't?”
“Not until you're eighteen.”
“Is it paid?”
She hesitated.
That was enough.
“Am I behind?”
“No.”
“So it's paid.”
“Yes.”
“By my scholarship?”
She looked at the screen.
Then at me.
“I can't discuss the account structure.”
“Is there a scholarship?”
“Tyler—”
“I've been told for three years there is.”
She stood.
“I’m getting Ms. Larkin.”
The financial-aid director came out five minutes later.
Elaine Larkin.
She closed the office door behind me.
“What are you trying to understand?”
“My dad works here for tuition.”
She didn't respond.
“I have a scholarship.”
She still didn't.
“What is it called?”
“Your current aid package is a combination of need-based assistance and employee-dependent remission.”
Current.
I caught it.
“What was it before?”
Her face tightened.
“That isn't a conversation I can have without your father.”
“Why?”
“Because the earlier arrangement is under review.”
My mouth went dry.
“Under review for what?”
She looked at me carefully.
“Who told you to come here?”
“No one.”
“Did Coach Brody?”
“No.”
That answer seemed to matter.
She stood.
“I’m calling your father.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because part of your tuition arrangement changed this summer, and he specifically asked that you not be dragged into the review until there was something definite.”
I stared.
“Review of what?”
She wouldn't answer.
But as she reached for her phone, I saw the old file open on her screen.
One line.
MERRITT FOUNDATION — DESIGNATED SUPPORT.
I knew Merritt.
Everybody in Hawthorne basketball did.
Thomas Merritt sat courtside at home games.
He hosted the booster dinner every fall.
Coach Brody called him “the reason programs like ours survive.”
I looked at Elaine.
“Did a booster pay my tuition?”
Her silence answered before she did.
May you like
Then she said:
“Your father asked us to stop using that money.”
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