THE BITTER AFTERTASTE

Chapter 1: The Price of a Future

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I was unusually late.

Not fashionably late, well because nothing about me was fashionable but I was late. The kind of tardy where you burst through the front doors of Northwick Academy with your shirt untucked, your backpack half-open, and your lungs burning like you just drank bleach because you sprinted the last three blocks just to avoid detention.

The hallways were empty obviously. First period had already .

I slowed down, chest heaving, and pressed my palm against the wall to steady myself. My reflection stared back at me from the glass of the trophy case across from me. My tired eyes, cheap sneakers, a uniform that didn’t quite fit right but at least I still had a little bit of dignity.

You don’t belong here, the reflection seemed to say.

I already knew that, so I didn't need a reflection to remind me.

I’d spent the entire summer working double shifts at a diner to save for my dream—a scholarship to Greyhound University. My grades were the best, my essays were flawless, but tuition wasn't the only problem. I had a family to feed. A mother who was sick to death. A father working two jobs. A younger brother who needed a lot more than just new shoes. And zero room for error.

This was my last year. My only shot.

And I was already fabulously late.

I turned the corner toward Principal Ackerman’s office, ready to take my lecture, maybe even a detention slip, but when I got there, he was standing in his doorway with a folder in his hands and a look on his face that made my stomach drop.

He didn't look angry. He looked... calculated.

"Mr. Nelson," he said, his voice almost too calm. "Come in. We need to talk."

I stepped inside, my guard already up. The room smelled like old books and coffee. Mr. Ackerman closed the door behind me and gestured to the chair across from his desk.

"Do you know why you're here, Thomas?"

I sat down. Clutching my backpack like it owed me something. I didn't answer. I’d learned at an early age that if you keep your mouth shut, people sometimes fill the silence with what they actually want.

He didn't disappoint.

"I've reviewed your file kid," he said, sliding a folder across the desk. "Your grades are exceptional. Your recommendations are stellar. You're the best student this school has seen in countless years. But there is an itty bitty dilemma," he paused, folding his hands, "we both know that excellence alone doesn't pay the bills son."

I felt something cold settle in my chest.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying", he leaned back in his chair "I have an offer for you. A proposition that could solve all your problems, if you're willing to accept it."

He took out a photo from the folder and turned it around.

A boy. My age. Brunette hair. Sharp jaw. Perfect skin. An expression of boredom so deep it looked almost painful. He was wearing a football Jersey. I needed not an introduction to know who that cu- that person was. I almost use profanities just thinking of that brat.

"Alexander Thorn," Ackerman said. "He's your new assignment."

I blinked furiously. "My what?"

"You're going to tutor him."

I stared at the photo. Then at the principal. I almost laughed—but there was nothing funny about the way he was looking at me.

"With all due respect, sir," I said slowly, "you cannot be serious. He's a jock. He dates a different girl every week. We hate each other. He's—"

"—the son of Richard Thorn. The man who owns half the businesses in this city. The man who has agreed to fund your full tuition to Greyhound, provide you with a monthly stipend, and pay your family a generous settlement in exchange for your mentoring services."

The words hit me like a physical blow.

My tuition. My family's rent. My brother's shoes. Mom's medical bills.

All of it. Paid for.

I swallowed hard. My voice came out rough. "What's the catch?"

"The catch is that Alex must pass the final exams. Not just pass, Thomas. He needs to be among the top five students in this school. His father wants him accepted into the same university as you. And frankly," Ackerman sighed, "Alexander has no interest in academics. He needs someone who will push him. Someone who won't take his excuses."

He looked me dead in the eye.

"That someone is you."

I looked at the photo again. The golden boy. The spoiled prince. The one who probably never had to worry about money, or food, or the weight of a single mistake cause his daddy could just wash them away with cash .

And I thought about my sick mother. My brother. My struggling father. The stack of unpaid bills sitting on the kitchen counter.

"You can take a day to think about it," Ackerman said, "but I'd advise you to make this decision quickly. Mr. Thorn is eager to meet his son's new tutor, since of course no professional tutor wants to work with Alexander."

His son's new tutor. I scoffed irritated.

I was nobody’s tutor. I was a student. I was supposed to be preparing for my own future, not teaching a rich brat how to read.

But the photo stared back at me. That face. That careless, arrogant expression.

I hated him more now because, for the first time in my life, I couldn't afford to say no.

I closed the folder.

"I'll do it."

Ackerman smiled. Not warmly. Politely.

"Excellent. Alexander will be expecting you after school, in the study hall. Be on time, Mr. Nelson we both know he's used to getting his way. He's not used to waiting ."

I stood up. My legs felt like lead.

He held out the folder. I took it.

As I walked out of his office, I caught my reflection again in the glass panel on the door.

Same tired eyes. Same cheap sneakers.

But something had changed.

I was no longer just Thomas Nelson, the poor kid fighting for a future.

I was now the guy who just idiotically sold himself to buy it and I hated every second of it.