“Read this,” Mom says, her expression murderous. She shakes the paper so it makes a loud crinkling sound. He comes up beside her and reads over her shoulder. His jaw clenches, and his eyes flick questioningly between me and the paper.

I sit at the table and watch them read it in silence, visibly charting their blood pressure rising as they get further in. Eventually, I can’t take the silence any longer. “Don’t be mad,” I say timidly.

“Baby, why didn’t you tell us?” Mom asks, dropping the paper to her side. Her hazel eyes are filled with hurt.

I stare down at my hands in my lap. “I just—I didn’t know what to do,” I choke out. “I thought you would freak out, and I wanted to figure it out on my own.”

Dad comes to sit beside me, pulling his chair closer to where I sit. “Shay, you take too much on yourself,” he says, placing a pale hand on mine. “It’s fine to be independent, but we’re your parents. You should come to us.”

“I know,” I say, giving his hand a squeeze. He’s right. I could have relied on them for help and advice. But I was afraid of so many things—of not getting the scholarship, of letting them down, of Mom trying to help in a way that would backfire on me. Looking at the hurt on their faces now, I regret hiding everything from them for so long.

“I know we ask a lot of you.” His mouth twists wryly. “We probably put too much pressure on you sometimes. But our family is a team. Let us help you.”

Mom is studying the article again. “ ‘Mr. Brockton frequently used the scholarship as a tactic to manipulate Johnson, even going so far as to offer to secretly look at her application ahead of time,’ ” she reads, her lip curling in disgust. I cringe.

“I tried to say no, but he didn’t really listen, and then . . . I should have made it clear that I didn’t want his special attention, but . . .” I trail off shamefacedly.

Mom comes to sit at the kitchen table on my other side. “Shayna Maree, you look at me,” she says. I meet her eyes nervously. She’s either going to drop some knowledge or rip me a new one. Maybe both. “Don’t you ever let anybody make you feel bad for something they did to you.” She jabs a finger at me for emphasis. “This man is scum. None of what happened is your fault, so don’t let me catch you saying any nonsense like that again.”