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“Oh, honey. I’m sorry.” Mom reaches across the table, her work-roughened fingers gripping mine as if trying to force some comfort through our touch. “Maybe it’s for the best. I know you love to dance and that you’re a beautiful dancer, but perhaps you should focus on a more affordable college, like Wilbur Wright. Maybe you could think about teaching dance instead of performing it. They have a nice program that turns out wonderful ballet instructors.”
I pull my hand back, offended by the suggestion that I simply give up my dream to teach ballet instead. Not that I hold any contempt for teachers or their profession. I respect those who want to share their gifts and educate others on what they know. But that’s not me. I’m confident I would be a terrible teacher–solely because it would mean giving up my passion, if nothing else, and that would make me resentful of my students, not inspiring to them.
“I amnotgoing to Wilbur Wright College to become a teacher. If I’m giving up my dream, I might as well find a boring, dead-end desk job that will pay a little better. It might slowly suck my soul from my body day in and day out, but I would prefer that toteachingdance.” I rise from the kitchen table.
My mother’s struck expression sends another wave of guilt through me, and I know she was only trying to help, but I hate the fact that she’s giving up on me. That feels like the story of my life. No one wants to stick it out, to believe that I’m worth it. That I can do this.
“Baby, I know it’s hard to hear, but if we can’t afford Rosehill, you need to consider another option. You can’t keep chasing rainbows, and I don’t want you to end up like me, finding work with no degree at all, nothing to help you get a better, more stable job than working restaurants and registers your whole life.” Mom rises from her chair as well, following me toward our apartment door.
I don’t respond, shoving my feet into my well-worn combat boots as I prepare to depart.
“Where are you going?” she asks as I grip our apartment door handle.
“To find someone who will give me an extension. You might be ready to give up on my dream, but I’m not. I can get the money together if they’ll just give me a few more weeks.” I think I can, at least.
“And then what? You’ll be faced with this same decision next semester, Whitney,” my mom scolds, her voice turning more heated as I yank open the door.
I turn to face her, trying to keep my emotions from overwhelming my face. “I’ll find a way, but I can’t stop now. Not without doing everything in my power.”
My mom’s slender eyebrow raises, and I know what words are going to leave her mouth before she speaks them. “If you’re willing to go that far, you could try finding and asking your father.”
My mood darkens as she confirms my suspicion. “I don’t want anything from that man. Ever. He left us, and as far as I’m concerned, he’s as good as dead.”
I see the familiar spark of pride in my mom’s eye that comes when I stand strong with her against my father. He hurt us both beyond healing the day he walked out the door, leaving us without a backward glance. And though I know my mom doesn’t want to let her pain and suffering impact me negatively, she’s never once tried to claim the child support she’s due. She’s made it perfectly clear that she wants nothing from the man who broke her heart so completely and left our family in ruins. And even as I’m faced with the prospect of giving up my dream to be a dancer, I agree.
Giving my mom’s arm a squeeze, I soften my voice. “Get some sleep. I’ll go speak to the registrar’s office and see what kind of extension they might give me.”
She cups my cheek, giving me a sad smile. “I only want what’s best for you, Whitney. You know that right?”
“I know, Mom.” I give her a last squeeze before turning to head down the steps of our apartment building toward the street below.
It’s a long hour-and-a-half bus ride to Rosehill’s campus from West Side to North Side Chicago, which gives me plenty of time to formulate a plan and what I’m going to say to get an extension. The bus is muggy, filled with the stench of body odor, and I’m grateful when the doors finally open onto the campus’s old-worldly, graystone buildings and beautiful tree-lined walkways.
It’s busy today, with students milling about, parents accompanying freshmen as everyone familiarizes themselves with the small campus and stands in line for registration. Waiting my turn feels like torture when my future seems to hang in the balance. To bide my time, I chew on my nails, a bad habit my mom’s been trying to get me to break for years, but I can’t help myself. I’m used to wearing my nails short, seeing as it’s my only way of curbing the nervous tic, but today, there’s no stopping me.
Finally, it’s my turn to speak with the bespectacled lady sitting behind the office counter, and I offer her a bright smile as I step forward. She doesn’t return it as she gets right down to business.
“Name?” she asks, staring at her computer screen.
“Whitney Carlson,” I respond, suppressing the anxiety that threatens to rise in me when I realize I’ll be speaking with a computer rather than a human being.
“It looks like you’ve already enrolled in classes, seeing as it’s your sophomore year, but your payment is still due. Would you like to pay with a card, check…?” The woman glances at me, her steady gaze disinterested.
“Actually, I was hoping to speak with you about the payment,” I say, and my voice comes out more shakily than I would like. “Do you offer any, um, payment plans or… extensions or anything?”
The woman’s gaze grows cold, her lips pressing together in a no-nonsense line. “If you were in need of assistance, that’s something you should have been discussing with the financial office months ago.”
“No, no. Not assistance. The last thing I need is to start accruing interest I won’t be able to pay off. I just need a bit more time. Can’t I pay part now and the rest next month or something?” I can hear the desperation in my voice, and it makes my stomach curdle.
“We don’t normally offer extensions at Rosehill. Payments are due in full at registration.”
I bite my lip, sensing the impending rejection. “Please, just–just a few weeks. Isn’t there anyone I could speak to who might be willing to make an exception?”
The woman studies me carefully for several minutes, her eyes roaming over my worn, faded wardrobe, and a hint of humanity trickles into her expression. “Give me a moment,” she says finally, picking up her desk phone and dialing a number.
I wait with bated breath, glancing over my shoulder as I hear the beginnings of grumbled discontent as I’m holding up the line. I cast a glare at the man behind me who’s making the noise as he waits with his son, complaining about the gall some people have to waste everyone’s time begging for charity. Heat tinges my cheeks, and I turn back to face the woman behind the counter, forcing my eyes to remain locked on her hopefully as I attempt to drown out the man’s voice.
A lighter female voice carries to me from the line next to me, and I glance in her direction instinctually. She’s a pretty girl, with impressive brunette ringlets that hold a beautiful natural red tinge. She speaks with the bright ease of a freshman without a care in the world, and from the quality of her clothes, I’m positive she’s not facing the same kind of financial struggle as I am.
