Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 05

Four Keys for Them, Zero for Me Chapter 05

“Vera Woods? Your dorm is 407, Building 3.”

September in Havenport. Salt and brine in the air. The wind off the ocean snapped the welcome banners. I dragged my half-empty suitcase and followed the signs. I’d been in Havenport a little over a month. First, twenty days at a bubble tea shop near campus to cover expenses, then into the university dorms.

The early admissions interview had gone smoothly. When I handed over my national contest certificate, the interviewer studied it for nearly ten seconds.

“Your recommendation letter is from a department head at a key high school. He used the phrase ‘one in a million.'”

“Yes.”

“But you didn’t list this school on your application.”

“I changed my mind.”

He didn’t push further.

College was different in ways I hadn’t expected. No one woke me at 7:00 A.M. to mop. No one sent me to pick up Sherry while I was reading. No one looked at me first when money went missing. My roommate, Jenna Quinn, was a year older—retaking a year. The first time we met, she said, “Why so little luggage? You a refugee?”

“Pretty much.”

She laughed—then stopped laughing when she realized I wasn’t joking. I had barely any clothes. No lamp. No storage bins. Not even an extra blanket.

“I have an extra quilt—use it.” She dug it out without looking up. “Don’t thank me. Just save me a library seat sometime.”

I said thanks.

She said, “Save your thanks for the seat.”

Second week of term, the Writing Workshop put up a call for new members. I submitted a story—the revised contest piece. Third day, the workshop professor, Liam Hayes, found me.

“Vera Woods?”

“Yes.”

“I read your story ‘Salt’ three times.” He set the manuscript on the table. “This passage—a child standing at the kitchen door, listening to laughter from the living room. Quiet writing. I sat with it a long time.”

I hadn’t expected him to catch that. That passage was me.

“You’re in. Also, the university literary magazine is looking for submissions. Interested?”

“Does it pay?”

He blinked, then laughed. “Eighty per thousand words.”

“I’ll submit.”

From then on, I wrote a weekly column for the magazine. Eighty per thousand, a piece about two thousand words—about six hundred a month. Plus the weekend coffee shop job, I could cover living expenses. Barely. But every cent was mine. No one could “borrow” it and forget.

One day at the cafeteria, Jenna asked, “Your parents don’t send you money?”

“No.”

“They don’t care?”

I chewed a bite of greens before answering. “I guess not.”

She looked at me, didn’t ask again.

In early October, the literary magazine published a special issue. My column was on the front cover. The editor had titled it The Left Behind. A story about the child always left behind, no longer waiting to be loved, no longer left behind.

The day it came out, I was reading in the library. Phone buzzed. Family group chat.

Forty-three days since I’d left. I’d never replied to a single message. No one had contacted me individually, either. Mom posted a competition photo. Gold. Sherry won the state gold.

Zach sent party emojis. Dad posted, “My girl is amazing.”

I stared at those words. My girl. Sherry was his girl. Vera was his girl too. But “my girl” was a word reserved for one person. I scrolled up through the chat history—forty-three days of messages. Not one mentioned me. Not even “Where’s Vera?”

One person missing from a house. If that person’s job was washing dishes and mopping, someone else could take over—or nobody would. The missing person might as well have never existed.

Jenna walked in with two bubble teas, set one on my desk. “So focused. What’re you reading?”

“Nothing.” I turned off the phone.

She sat down, took a sip. “Oh—the English department’s winter reading event needs a host. I signed you up.”

“You signed me up?”

“You said you wanted to build your résumé. Hosting looks good.”

She said it casually, like it was obvious. But in my eighteen years, nobody had ever done that for me. Nobody had ever thought, This could help her. Nobody had ever done something before I asked.

“Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me—just edit my papers.”

Outside, the Havenport sunset was huge and round, a dying orange sinking into the sea. I watched for a while. The sun was the same anywhere—but this one, here, was mine.