We Weren't Looking to Be Found by Stephanie Kuehn

Author:Stephanie Kuehn [Kuehn, Stephanie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Disney Book Group
Published: 2022-06-08T00:00:00+00:00

After therapy, I head back to the residence hall. The Georgia heat’s coming on strong, and I’m dying to change out of these pants. It’s weird, though. After that back-and-forth with Dr. Allegheny, my headache’s faded. It’s been replaced by a funny buzzing inside my chest, like a nest of hummingbirds are flapping around in there, ready to break free.

Skipping up the flight of stairs and approaching my room, I’m careful to knock this time. When Camila’s muffled “Come in” floats through the door, I march in, my mood bigger, brighter than it’s been for days.

“Hey there,” I say.

Only Camila doesn’t look at me. She’s seated at her desk with a nubby golf pencil in hand and a pile of scrap paper heaped around her. I watch as she scribbles furiously, and honestly, I don’t think she’s supposed to have a pencil or anything sharp, so I don’t know where that came from.

“Working on something?” I ask.

Her head bobs. “Uh-huh.”

“Need help?”

She whirls around, her eyes wide but wary. Her hair’s down, dark curls spilling over her bare shoulders, and the girl’s gorgeous, I realize. It’s not something you notice at first—she’s too quiet and sullen—but even though her body’s sort of tight, all dancer perfect, what’s most striking about Camila is her intensity. It’s electric.

“Can you write?” she asks.

“Yes,” I say. “Did you think I couldn’t?”

She pulls her hair to one side. “No, I mean, are you good at writing? Like, business letters. That’s what I’m trying to do, but I don’t have a lot of experience with people in authority and asking them for things.”

“Asking for what?” I walk over to the bolted-down dresser and pull open my drawer to rummage around for my yellow-and-black sundress. “I’m listening, by the way.”

“Money,” she says.

I slip out of my earlier clothes and pull on the dress, shimmying into its tight top. “You’re writing fundraiser letters? Like for a charity? Yeah, I am good at that. My mom does a lot of development work and grant writing. Mostly for her own campaign, obviously. But I definitely know the language and tone.”

“You do?”

“Who are you raising money for?” I ask.

“Me,” she says, and when she sees my puzzled expression: “That dance school I told you about? The one I applied to without telling my parents? I mean, it’s a long shot, I know, but I still want to go. I have to. I’ve worked so hard for this, and it’s just a matter of finding the money.”

“Doesn’t the school have financial aid? They should be able to help you out.”

“It’s not enough. I filled out the financial aid forms using the amounts from the prior years. My parents don’t make a lot. My dad works for the city, and my mom’s a dental hygienist. Anyway, I included the savings I thought they had and now they don’t and now we can’t pay. Or that’s what they told me, at least.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

She shrugs. “Well, you said it. They’re able to afford to send me here, right? It’s not cheap.

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