Chapter Three: A Life of 'No'
One Week Later – Age 16
The sun was already high when Alora stepped off the city bus. Her worn black flats slapped against the cracked pavement as she approached the glass building with bold silver letters that read: "Richmond Academic Scholars Foundation."
She stood still for a moment, nerves clawing at her throat. This was her shot — her only shot. The scholarship interview was for underprivileged teens who showed "exceptional promise." She had applied late, barely making the deadline, and begged her guidance counselor to pull strings to get her in.
She had spent the entire night preparing. Practicing her introduction. Rehearsing answers. Reading online articles on how to "present yourself like a leader." Jayden had helped iron her only blouse, while she braided her own hair and touched up her shoes with black marker to hide the peeling edges.
She didn't look like the other candidates sitting in the lobby.
A girl in a velvet blazer sat scrolling on her iPhone, earbuds in. Another boy wore polished Oxfords and had a sleek leather folder in his lap. Alora clutched her printed resume — creased at the edges, tucked in a plastic file from the dollar store.
But she didn't let it shake her.
She had something no one else in that room had.
Grit.
Raw, earned, blistering grit.
---
"Alora Jordan?" a woman in a grey pantsuit called.
She rose to her feet, smoothed the front of her blouse, and followed the woman into a long hallway. The walls were covered in portraits of previous scholarship winners — young, ambitious faces full of confidence and possibility. She swallowed.
The panel room had three interviewers: two women and a bald man with stern eyes and a clipboard. Alora sat when instructed, crossed her ankles, and smiled the way her counselor taught her.
"Tell us a little about yourself, Alora," the older woman said.
She began, careful but passionate. She spoke about her love for books — how reading gave her an escape. How she helped raise her younger brother while juggling school. She talked about her dream to study communications and someday create media that gave real voice to real stories — especially women's stories.
She didn't cry.
She didn't stumble.
She spoke with fire, even if her hands trembled slightly beneath the table.
By the time she was done, even the stern man was nodding slightly.
She walked out of thatAbsolutely. Here is a more detailed and emotionally rich Chapter Three of your novel Built from Broken — highlighting Alora's constant rejection, her struggle to rise through education, and the spark of her self-expression through writing.
Chapter Three: A Life of 'No'
One Week Later – Age 16
The sun was already high when Alora stepped off the city bus. Her worn black flats slapped against the cracked pavement as she approached the glass building with bold silver letters that read: "Richmond Academic Scholars Foundation."
She stood still for a moment, nerves clawing at her throat. This was her shot — her only shot. The scholarship interview was for underprivileged teens who showed "exceptional promise." She had applied late, barely making the deadline, and begged her guidance counselor to pull strings to get her in.
She had spent the entire night preparing. Practicing her introduction. Rehearsing answers. Reading online articles on how to "present yourself like a leader." Jayden had helped iron her only blouse, while she braided her own hair and touched up her shoes with black marker to hide the peeling edges.
She didn't look like the other candidates sitting in the lobby.
A girl in a velvet blazer sat scrolling on her iPhone, earbuds in. Another boy wore polished Oxfords and had a sleek leather folder in his lap. Alora clutched her printed resume — creased at the edges, tucked in a plastic file from the dollar store.
But she didn't let it shake her.
She had something no one else in that room had.
Grit.
Raw, earned, blistering grit.
"Alora Jordan?" a woman in a grey pantsuit called.
She rose to her feet, smoothed the front of her blouse, and followed the woman into a long hallway. The walls were covered in portraits of previous scholarship winners — young, ambitious faces full of confidence and possibility. She swallowed.
The panel room had three interviewers: two women and a bald man with stern eyes and a clipboard. Alora sat when instructed, crossed her ankles, and smiled the way her counselor taught her.
"Tell us a little about yourself, Alora," the older woman said.
She began, careful but passionate. She spoke about her love for books — how reading gave her an escape. How she helped raise her younger brother while juggling school. She talked about her dream to study communications and someday create media that gave real voice to real stories — especially women's stories.
She didn't cry.
She didn't stumble.
She spoke with fire, even if her hands trembled slightly beneath the table.
By the time she was done, even the stern man was nodding slightly.
She walked out of that building feeling weightless. Hopeful.
Maybe for once, she wasn't invisible.
Maybe the world would finally say yes.
Two weeks later, she received the email.
She read it three times just to be sure.
Dear Applicant,
We regret to inform you that you have not been selected for the 2021 Richmond Academic Scholarship. While your application was commendable, the competition was intense. We encourage you to apply again in the future.
No explanation. No feedback. Just... "no."
Alora sat on the edge of her bed, laptop on her knees, and stared at the screen. Her chest caved in. Her heart didn't just hurt — it burned. Like a flame had been lit under all the dreams she had tucked away behind her hunger and her pain.
Jayden walked in moments later, pausing in the doorway.
"You didn't get it?" he asked gently.
She shook her head, swallowing hard.
"I don't understand…" she murmured. "What else do I have to do?"
That night, long after Jayden had fallen asleep, Alora sat by the window with her mother's old notebook in her lap — the only thing she had left from the woman who used to sing to her when she was small, before addiction silenced everything.
The notebook was nearly full of her own scribbles now — poems, thoughts, questions she had no one to ask. It had become her secret refuge.
She opened to a fresh page and began to write:
They told me no again today.
Not because I wasn't enough,
but because I wasn't what they were used to.
Brown skin. Frayed shoes. No last name to vouch for me.
But I will not shrink.
I will not disappear.
I will build a table where I was never given a seat.
And one day, they will call me back —
not to offer me a chair,
but to ask how I built the whole damn room.
The pen ink bled slightly on the page.
But for the first time that day, she breathed without pain.
She didn't know it then, but that journal entry — raw, honest, and written with nothing but truth — would become the seed for a blog post that would change her entire life.
But for now, it was just hers.
A record of pain.
And a promise to herself.