The scholarship test began at 9:00 a.m.
The truck that sometimes carried workers toward town came at 6:15.
If you missed it, you missed everything.
You walked fast, clutching your plastic folder against your chest. Inside were your admission slip, your ID, two sharpened pencils, a bottle of water, and three dollars your father had folded into your palm before you left.
“Emergency money,” he had said.
You knew it was all he had.
The sky brightened as you reached the main road. A few other students waited near the gas station, all dressed better than you, all holding clean backpacks and packed lunches. Some nodded at you. Others looked away.
You recognized two girls from school.
Marissa Tate and June Holloway.
Marissa’s father owned three chicken farms and a repair shop. June’s mother worked at the county office. They were not rich, not by city standards, but compared to you, they lived in another world.
Marissa looked at your worn sandals and smirked.
“You’re really going in those?”
You looked down, then back up. “They still work.”
June whispered something, and both girls laughed.
You said nothing.
You had learned early that pride wasted energy. Hunger taught you to save your strength for things that mattered.
At 6:20, the transport truck arrived with a cough of smoke and dust. Students and workers climbed into the back. You squeezed between an elderly woman carrying a sack of greens and a young man holding a paint bucket.
The road to Montgomery stretched ahead.
