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Sam felt like she cried for over an hour, but it was likely far less than that, because she doubted Helen would wait that long before coming to check on her. When Sam finally ran out of tears she rolled out of bed and grabbed her Kleenex box while purposely avoiding looking up at her vanity mirror. It was weird how her body only let her cry for so long before her nose completely filled with snot. It was either a design flaw, or a safety feature to keep her from crying forever. Either way, it was unbelievably gross.
    “They want me to go to some freaky school , Mr. Hopscotch,” Sam told the bear. He took the news with a smile. He always did.
    If Vice Principal Hernandez was any indication of the type of people there, this was definitely not a school she wanted to go to. But her grandfather apparently thought she would. She wondered how her parents wou ld feel about it. They had to have known about it, and she understood why they never told her; they were probably waiting until she was older. Still, someone should have maybe waited to ask her what she wanted.
    Maybe I could get a refund , Sam thought. Sam could use that money to pick her own college in a few years. She could also give some of it to Helen and Harold to help out, and maybe buy a car.
    Her nose was finally empty , so she set the Kleenex box back down on her bureau next to her parent’s picture. She had built a small memorial to her parents with a few items she collected before the rest of their stuff was put into storage. Her mother’s favorite music box and the mancala game they used to play every Sunday sat on one side across from four ornate snow globes of the Sphinx, the Great Pyramid, the Statue of Liberty, and the Eiffel Tower her father gave her when she was very young as promises of vacation spots they would visit one day.
    She wound up the music box and watched as the tiny ballerina danced to the tune her mother had used to sing her to sleep as a child.
    “Do you know what kind of kids go to private schools?” Sam asked Mr. Hopscotch.
    “I’ll tell you,” she said, setting him down gentl y on the bed. “Rich kids, supersmart kids, and troublemakers whose parents don’t want to deal with them anymore. Does that sound like a group of people you would like to hang out with?”
    Mr. Hopscotch just kept smiling.
    “Well, sure. You would. You get along with everyone. Everybody loves you.”
    Sam kissed him on the forehead.
    As she lifted her head she saw Sara Berlin smiling at her from her poster on the wall. Sam had to plumb the depths of the internet to find this particular poster of Sara Berlin from her very first concert, but it was worth it.
    “You don’t even go to high school. You probably have a whole army of personal tutors. I don’t suppose you could spare one?” she asked the poster. “It would certainly help a lot.”
    The poster did not answer back.
    “Oh, sorry about that rich kids comment.”
    Sara Berlin was a self-made millionaire. Her mother was a kindergarten teacher and her father was a baker. She didn’t have a family name to live up to. She got to make her own way in the world.
    Sam had the Hathaway name hanging over her. How many people at Miller’s Grove Academy would know that her parents saved the world, or that her grandfather was a brilliant scientist and adventurer? And how on Earth could anyone expect her to live up to a legacy like that?
    No, she really didn’t need to go to a school where everyone would know exactly how much she was letting the family name down. She was much better off at her current school where she was just another nobody. Her mind was made up.
    She slowly opened the door. She half expected her godmother to be camped out in the hallway. Sam tiptoed towards the kitchen , stepping carefully to avoid the tattling squeaky floorboard at the end of the hall.
    “I’m just saying it is an amazing opportunity for her.”
    “But only if she wants to go. We can’t make her go.”
    Sam crept closer