Love Wasn’t Part Of The Plan

I wish I could say mornings in my house start with something good—like the smell of pancakes or my mom humming while she gets ready for work. But they don’t. Most mornings start with my parents arguing. If it’s not about rent, it’s about food. If it’s not about food, it’s about my school fees.

I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, listening to their voices bouncing through the thin walls. I don’t even flinch anymore. It’s almost background noise at this point, like traffic or rain. I know every line of the fight before it’s spoken. Dad says he’s doing everything he can, Mom says it’s not enough, then they circle back to me. How much my school expenses costs. How many shifts Dad has to pick up. To the extent of him saying I should drop out and “just work.”

The words hit hard, even when I pretend they don’t. Because I know it’s true—we barely make it. Our apartment is small, the paint chipped, the fridge always close to empty. I’ve been working shifts at the diner down the street since last year just to help, even though technically I’m not supposed to be working this much at my age. I pour coffee, wipe tables, smile at customers who don’t tip. Every dollar goes straight into helping Mom and Dad keep us afloat.

But sometimes, I wonder if it’ll ever be enough.

I roll out of bed and pull on the same jeans I wore yesterday. The mirror by the door shows my face, tired eyes, hair that needs brushing. Nothing special. Not like the girls I see on TV, with their perfect curls and shiny lip gloss. Just me. Plain Ivy Carter.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and at first, I think it’s another shift text from the diner. My manager is always calling people in last minute. But when I see the sender, my chest tightens.

Preston High School Admissions.

For a second, I freeze. I already know what it should say. Weeks ago, I wasn’t on the scholarship list. I wasn’t chosen. I’d cried about it quietly at night, then told myself to move on. To keep working. To stop dreaming about things that weren’t for people like me.

So why are they emailing me now?

My thumb hovers, my heart pounding so loud I can barely hear my parents anymore. Then I open it.

“Dear Ivy Carter, Congratulations. A slot has recently opened, and we are pleased to offer you admission to Preston High School on a full scholarship. If you are not prepared, you may decline, as classes begin this coming Monday…”

I don’t read the rest right away. My vision blurs, and I read those words over and over until they sink in. Congratulations. Congratulations. I got it. I actually got it.

“Mom!” My voice cracks, louder than I expect. “Dad! Come here!”

They stop arguing mid-sentence. I hear footsteps, then both of them are at my door. Mom looks tired, her apron still on from her early shift. Dad looks frustrated, his jaw tight.

“What is it?” Mom asks.

I hold up my phone with shaky hands. “I got in. Preston High School. Full scholarship.”

For a moment, silence. Like they don’t believe me. Then Mom snatches the phone from my hands, reading the email out loud, her voice trembling. Dad leans over her shoulder, his expression softening as the words sink in.

When Mom’s eyes fill with tears, mine do too. She pulls me into a hug so tight it almost hurts. Dad pats my back, his hand rough but steady. For the first time in forever, there’s no yelling, no blame—just pride.

“Ivy,” Mom whispers, her voice breaking. “You did it.”

Dad clears his throat. “We’re proud of you, kid.”

The words hit me harder than anything else. I don’t hear them often. Maybe that’s why I hold onto them like they’re gold.

That night, we ate together without fighting. Just takeout noodles, but it feels different. Lighter. Like maybe things can change. Like maybe this scholarship isn’t just my way out—it’s all of ours.

…

Monday morning came too fast. I barely had time to swallow breakfast before grabbing my bag and heading out. Every step toward Preston High School made my stomach twist tighter. The gates loomed ahead, and students passed me, laughing and talking like they owned the world. Actors’ kids, politicians’ kids, musicians’ kids—all dressed in crisp uniforms, shiny shoes, and perfectly chosen accessories. Everyone but me. I didn’t have my uniform yet; they told me I could pick it up after school. So I was stuck in my old clothes, sneakers scuffed from too many walks to work, bag straps digging into my shoulders. I felt the stares in every passing glance, the judgment in every smirk.

"I told myself to stay calm—nothing else could possibly go wrong today.”

I was too quick to assume the morning would be normal. I barely made it three steps into the school compound before a wave of dirty water drenched my shoes and soaked my jeans.

“Are you kidding me?!” I yelled, stomping my foot and glaring at the car as it sped away. My face heated up instantly, part anger, part embarrassment.

I blinked at the vehicle as it disappeared around the corner—a shiny silver Audi. Of course, it had to be one of those rich kids’ cars, the kind that made it obvious the owner didn’t care who they splashed.

Students passing by snickered, some whispering, some shaking their heads. I felt all eyes on me, like everyone was waiting to see how I’d handle it. My chest tightened, and I tried to ignore the growing humiliation.

Before I could even think straight, a voice beside me said, “Here, take my jacket.” I looked up to see a girl with dark curls and a bright smile holding out a spare blazer.

“You okay?” she asked, genuinely worried. I swallowed hard, still fuming, still wet, and nodded, grabbing the jacket. “Thanks,” I muttered, barely able to speak, but somehow… a little less alone.

She introduced herself as Zoe.

Zoe grabbed my hand and led me toward the girls’ locker room. “Come on, you’ll feel better once you clean up,” she said.

Inside, a few girls were already there, fixing their hair and touching up their makeup. They glanced at me the moment I stepped in, giving me looks that made my stomach twist. Whispers floated through the air. I could feel their eyes sizing me up, judging my worn clothes, scuffed shoes, and plain face.

Zoe dug through her locker and pulled out a spare uniform. “Here,” she said, handing it to me. “I’ve got to sort some things in the administrative office. I’ll be back soon, okay? Don’t worry.”

I nodded, clutching the uniform tightly. The girls’ eyes lingered, some smirking. My heart thumped as I stepped into the shower stall, letting the warm water wash away the grime from the puddle earlier. For a few minutes, I felt almost normal, almost like I belonged.

When I stepped out, towel wrapped tightly around me, I reached for the uniform Zoe had given me—but it was gone.

“Wait! Where’s my uniform?” I yelled, panic rising.

The girls who had been in the locker room were nowhere to be found. I froze, panic rising. My chest tightened, my cheeks burned, and for the first time that day, I felt completely exposed and powerless. Zoe wasn’t back yet, and I had no idea how I’d make it through the rest of the day. How could I possibly go out like this?