Page 1 of Pucked Into Position

Prologue

Lana

Three hours. That’s how long my acceptance letter from Rice University had been my golden ticket out of Los Angeles.

But now, the paper feels heavy in my hands.

“We tried, sweetie,” Mom says, lowering her gray eyes to where she’s pushing the last of her mashed potatoes around with her fork.

I glance at Dad. He looks more fragile than ever, even though he’s doing better. My eyes rest on the jagged edge of the scar peeking out from under his shirt, the skin still slightly sallow.

“It’s just…with your father’s surgery—” Mom chokes on the words.

I nod, holding back tears as my nearly untouched plate blurs.

“We tried to replenish the account before your acceptance letters started coming in, but between physical therapy, the outstanding hospital bills, and the cost of medications…It wasn’t as easy as we’d anticipated.” I can hear the sincerity in her voice.

“I’m sorry, pancake. Even with the partial scholarship they’re offering, we just don’t have the money,” Dad adds, voice thick with tears he’s trying to hold back.

Anger flares in my chest, immediately followed by guilt.

How can I be mad at them? If they hadn’t used my college fund, Dad might not be sitting here now.

His heart had failed, forcing him to need emergency surgery. I can’t blame them for choosing his life over my college tuition, and I know they wouldn’t have done it if there were other options.

But emotions aren’t always logical, and I can feel the jagged edges of my shattered expectations in every breath.

“May I be excused?” I finally manage around the lump in my throat.

“Of course, sweetie,” Mom says softly.

I gather up the acceptance packet and give both of them a quick hug before ducking out the back door. The night air feels hot and sticky from the June Gloom rainstorm we had this afternoon.

I clutch the packet to my chest, wishing there was some way I could make it work.

My phone buzzes and I see a text from my best friend Anna. She said she’s sorry and maybe I could try manifesting something. She got into this whole new age, spiritual nonsense and keeps pushing me to try it.

I sit down, my back against the side of the house, and stare at the message.

She sends me a TikTok about how to manifest your dreams. I don’t really believe in any of this stuff. It all seems pretty dumb and she knows that, but I still play the video.

There’s some hippy chick telling me to close my eyes and focus on what I want.

Oh, what the hell. I set my phone down beside me, close my eyes, and picture myself walking onto campus for the first time, feeling the dry heat of the Texas air. I imagine how it’d feel to enter the air conditioned building and walk to class.

“This is stupid,” I mutter, feeling another wave of disappointment washing over me. I’ll just have to start applying for a summer job so I can pay for tuition at Los Angeles City College, and maybe I’ll be able to save enough while in school to transfer in a couple years.

That thought is what sends me over the edge and the tears finally fall.

I choke back a sob and pull my knees to my chest. My shoulders shake with each rush of tears as I desperately try to think of a backup plan.

There’s loans, grants, and work-study programs, but my parents make too much for me to qualify for student aid, yet not enough to replenish my college fund while handling medical expenses. It’s not fair.

My phone buzzes again, startling me. I blink away the tears and pick it up, ready to dismiss the call. Then I realize it’s Tucker, so I answer.

“Hey, big brother.” My voice shakes.

“Hey, little sister,” he says sympathetically. “Mom called earlier when she saw your packet from Rice in the mail.”