“Good, good. I’m just finishing up this email, I’m so sorry.”
“No problem.”
I toe the floor, my old Converse looking particularly dingy against the plush white carpet. The tightness in my chest comes back the same way it always does when I’m in this office, and I trace a box on the floor with my toe, counting to four and breathing with each line the way Miss Julie taught me to a decade ago.Inhale for 4, 3, 2, 1…hold the breath for 4, 3, 2, 1…
Middle Penn College was my only choice for college. My junior and senior years were singularly focused on getting into this school and securing financial assistance. With my dad on disability and my mom working two jobs, there was no way I’d be able to attend without a scholarship or loans or some combination of both. My parents encouraged me to try for as many scholarships as possible before taking a loan, so I did, and I ended up with a full ride here. I knew being a Middle Penn student was my gateway into the future I dreamed of, so when Cheri sat me down at the end of my first semester of freshman year and told me I needed to get my grades up or I was in danger of losing my scholarship, I took her very seriously.
That entire meeting was a bucket of ice water over my head. I left her office and spent the next month in the library, my dorm, or my work-study job. I didn’t go to a party again for five months. My boyfriend broke up with me a mere two weeks after that meeting.
So this office has come to feel a little bit like the dentist’s office for me. And I’m not one of those weirdos who likes the dentist.
“Jessie, thank you for coming by to see me.” Cheri wheels her chair over so she’s no longer hiding behind her monitors. “I needed to talk with you about your scholarship for your senior year.” She pauses.
I fiddle with the ends of my hair, needing something to do with my hands. My leg bounces of its own accord nearly as fast as my heart is racing.
“There’s no easy way to say this, but the full scholarship program is being canceled next year. So you’re all set for the rest of this year, but for your senior year, unfortunately, we won’t be able to offer your full scholarship. I am really sorry about this. We can offer half of what you’re getting now, but I know that won’t fully cover all your needs.”
One of my best friends in elementary school had a pool at her house, and I spent at least three days a week there in the summer swimming from dawn until dusk. Her mom would bring us Goldfish and watermelon and let us watch movies while our hair dried and we waited for my mom to come pick me up. We’d play this game where we’d dive under the water, purple goggles tight over our eyes, and one of us would sing while the other tried to guess the song. But it was hard because sound doesn’t travel as well underwater, and we couldn’t read each other’s lips because the goggles made everything go kind of “funhouse mirror.”
Right now I’m underwater watching Cheri open a drawer, riffle through some papers, and pull out a folder—it’s all muffled, all funhouse mirrors and unintelligible gurgles. I can hear my own breathing. I can hear my own heartbeat. She slides the paper across the desk to me, but it’s blurry, tears marring my vision like the goggles. I would reach for the paper, but I’m shaking so hard I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold it.
What the hell am I going to do?
I think Cheri starts talking again, but I haven’t come up from underwater yet. I don’t know if I ever will. I’m in an endless pool, drowning under the reality of my situation.
I’m not going to be able to come back next year. I’m not going to be able to graduate.
My chest is so tight it physically hurts. Something dark rises from my belly—anxiety or rage or the kind of sadness that will chain me to my bed for days—but I don’t have time to fall apart. I have to fix this.
I press my lips together and furiously swipe at the tears coming down my cheeks. I force myself to break the surface, come back up for air, get out of the water.
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I know this is hard news.” Cheri’s voice isn’t muffled anymore, but I’m still trembling. “But listen, in this folder is a list of scholarships and grants you can apply for to cover the cost. I’ll help however I can—that’s what I’m here for. I’m on your team. And if you need to take out a loan, I can help you fill out that paperwork too.”
Just nod and smile so you can get the hell out of here.
I nod and stretch my lips into some vague smile-like shape.
“Do you have any questions?” she asks, her eyebrows pulled down in concern or sympathy—probably a mix of both.
I shake my head, stretching the sort-of smile as far as it will go.
“I’ll send you an email to check in in a couple of weeks, okay?”
I give a tight nod, snatch up the folder, and bolt through the door before she can say another word.
The cool afternoon air hits my face, and for the first time since Cheri said the word “canceled,” I’m able to take a deep breath. I pull the fresh air into my lungs, noticing the way my body temperature starts to drop. I hadn’t realized I was so warm.Am I sweating?I touch the back of my neck to find that yes, in fact, I am sweating. I make my way to a bench across from the financial aid office and sit, dropping my face into my hands.
This is bad. This is, like, worst-nightmare bad. And there is no trust fund to rescue me; there is no backup plan; there is no plan B. This was it. Middle Penn College and then grad school and then join a practice and become a child psychologist with a steady paycheck and health insurance was the plan. Graduate from college, graduate from grad school, get a job, and help support my parents was the plan. Help pay for some of my dad’s medical procedures. Help pay their mortgage so Mom wouldn’t have to work two jobs. So Mom could—
Nausea hits me like a wave, and I sit back against the bench, allowing the cool air on my face again. I’m still trembling a little, and I try some deep breaths.
I can’t afford to spiral like this. It’s useless. What I need is a plan.
I flip open the folder and scan the list of scholarships available. There are five pages of them. It makes my head swim. I don’t really have the time in my schedule to deal with the time it will take to figure out if I’m eligible for these, much less the time it will take to apply for them.
But I have to. I have to stay in school because I am not going to spend my future just surviving. I want to thrive. And if that means I sacrifice a little sleep now to get the future I know I deserve, so be it.
CHAPTERTHREE
