Chapter 4 A Minor Setback
A MINOR SETBACK
STATEN
Getting pulled into the counselor’s office for an impromptu meeting is the last thing I want to do on a Wednesday morning.
Between studying my ass off and trying to bury the humiliating memory of my vehicular assault, reacclimatizing to life has been harder than I anticipated.
My incident has been splayed across MU’s headlines, and now everyone knows that I was the almost-roadkill holding up the early morning traffic last week.
I have no idea why Mrs. Winslow wants to see me.
She’s head of the student employee office, which can only mean one of two things: I’m getting fired from my job, or I’m getting promoted.
I like to think that I’m good at my work—competent, diligent, reliable.
My past clients have all passed their classes with flying colors.
The fluorescent lights sear my retinas, sleep crusted in the corners of my eyes from a restless battle with my sheets all night.
My body still hurts like a motherfucker—torrid fire threading through the meat of my muscles whenever I move wrong.
Getting wrung through an industrial-sized shredder would’ve been less painful.
Not to mention that I’ve gone through a whole bottle of concealer just to cover up the bruises.
My nerves are staging one hell of a rebellion right now as Mrs. Winslow and her clinically sterile environment trap me in shadowless limbo, the rustle of disclosed paperwork deluging my eardrums and flipping my brain into static mode.
My leg bounces against the edge of my seat, my bitten and semi-bloodied fingernails prying at a fraying hole in my jeans.
All the saliva in my mouth has seemingly evaporated, and I pray that this consultation doesn’t rely on me contributing anything of substance.
Mrs. Winslow clasps her hands in front of her, luring me into a false sense of security with her deceptively cheerful smile. “Thank you for meeting me on such short notice, Ms. Renault.”
“Of course,” I croak, hyperaware of the slow-moving heat tunneling through my body, cooking me from the inside out.
Oh my God. What is she going to say? Why do I have a bad feeling about this? If it wasn’t urgent, she wouldn’t have arranged a meeting so early in the morning. I can’t be jobless. I have a symbiotic relationship with this school, okay? I provide tutoring, and in turn, my scholarship is paid for.
She rifles through her very professional-looking stack of papers.
“It’s come to my attention that one of your scholarship donors—Mr. Chamberlin—has pulled from the program due to a lack of funds,” she informs me, her tone taking a turn for the worst—darkened by a pity so palpable that I can choke on it from here.
My brain recalibrates; my heart pounds against my ribs like wings fighting against the pull of a tempest. No. No, no, no. That means…
“He’s not paying for my scholarship anymore,” I finish numbly, staring at an unvarnished spot on her desk where splinters form a miniature escarpment in the marbled wood.
“I’m so sorry.”
Three words. Three words that destroy the measly chunk of earth below my feet, my body nosediving through a coal-burnt empyrean. No sense of direction. No steadiness. Just a plummet into the greater unknown where all good souls go to die.
Fuck. From what I know, Mr. Chamberlin didn’t cover the entire scholarship, but he covered a decent amount. I didn’t even do anything wrong.
I would cry if I wasn’t so dehydrated. I’m in shock. This is like a goddamn sleep paralysis nightmare. I’m a spectator in my own story, staring through a sullied looking glass.
“Does this mean…” My voice trails off, anxiety spiking in my belly. I feel like I’m going to be sick. I don’t want to speak the next words into existence, but I have no choice.
“Am I getting fired?”
There it is. The nuclear explosion—one that scatters radioactive ashes, displaces a twenty-foot tsunami, and shatters the ground into brittle segments.
Mrs. Winslow, strangely, doesn’t seem afflicted by any ounce of hopelessness. Her frown lifts into a small half smile, emphasizing the age-old crinkles by her eyes. “No, Staten, you’re not getting fired. You just need to pick up more clients to cover the cost of the donor’s scholarship aid.”
She says it like the solution is so…simple. This would be so much easier if there was some magical list of all the struggling students that need tutoring help.
And it’s not just a matter of finding clients.
I’m out approximately two thousand dollars.
I’d drown before I could paddle to a rogue piece of driftwood.
Either my workload will increase beyond what’s manageable, or I luck out with a wealthy client who becomes my sugar daddy—sans sexual arrangements, of course.
How could I possibly find someone generous enough to help someone like me? If I’ve learned anything while clawing my way through the lower class, it’s that offers from those with money to burn in their cashmere pockets often come with a caveat.
Holy shit. I need to fix this before my mom finds out. She can’t find out.
Look on the bright side, Staten. At least you’re still employed.
I must have disassociated because Mrs. Winslow pokes her face into my field of vision. “Staten? Are you okay?”
Schooling my expression, I paste on a hollow grimace, though I’m pretty sure I look constipated at best. “Yeah, sorry. I’m…I’m good. Just trying to recall if I know anyone who’s in need of tutoring.”
She nods, setting her paper packet of evil aside. “Maybe start with peers in your current classes? I’m sure there are plenty of students who are struggling with the curriculum. Things tend to get rockier during exam season.”
Class. That’s a good start. I have Intro to Literature for my next period, so maybe I’ll be able to interrogate some of my classmates. You know, in a nonthreatening way.
I can fix this. I don’t need anyone’s help, and nobody needs to know that I’m as poor as a church mouse. I’m not going to let my ex-donor ruin this for me. Like the tarot reading I got done by that Etsy witch for an alarmingly low price said, I’m in charge of my own destiny.
And, Destiny, hold onto your vagina, because you’re about to get fucked.
Intro to Literature: a junior-level class that I got into as a sophomore. Luckily for me, I excel when it comes to English, and judging by the tirade Professor Hardwin gave the entire class following the latest exam, there are plenty of students who could benefit from my magic touch.
Professor Hardwin is a stickler when it comes to missed midterms, but after I told him about my dance with death, he was more than willing to let me make up the test. A gift from God, if you ask me. I aced it, of course. Ninety-five percent. And that was with half my brain on medical leave.
Mr. Hardwin analyzes his students with an overly critical eye, his intimidating loafers clacking around the front of the lecture hall.
Reber Hall is one of the most stunning buildings on campus, inspired by a Gothic architectural style that looks like it was pulled straight out of the history books and plopped into our blip-on-the-map ghost town.
Barely anybody knows about Maple Grove. Hidden in overgrown ivy and off the well-trodden path, it’s frozen in perpetual fog and a velarium of nimbus clouds, always the uneasy pit stop rather than the final destination.
Fall is sort of like a constant year-round, home to the world’s largest sugar maples and congregations of cobblestone houses with vine-twined bargeboards and pointed-arched windows.
Weathered, reclaimed by nature. Even the downtown area is small—a quad enclosed by mom-and-pop shops, ranging from a cinnamon spice bakery, a little antique thrift store, a clothing boutique with an entirely handmade catalog, and a three-story bookstore that I’ve lost hours in.
Everything is very old-fashioned here. A lost art, especially with the gentrification of eastern Minnesota.
Minnesota University has an air about it that’s inexplicably peculiar. Some people swear that this particular wing of the college is haunted, but I think it’s just old. There’s a beauty in that, though.
Instead of an empire chandelier, there’s a large skylight above us—one that allows mango hues of sun to rinse over the classroom mid-morning.
Maroon chairs are tucked against thirty-inch-long, mahogany-carved tables, and a stained chalkboard is mounted on the far wall.
Lastly, there’s a matching flight of stairs that bisects the lecture hall like an inlet cleaving through towering sea stacks.
“Can anyone tell me what F. Scott Fitzgerald’s purpose is in using unreliable narration and what effect it has in The Great Gatsby?”
No hands go up. In fact, it’s deader in here than the last day of hell week.
Participation is usually grim, especially since our professor takes sick pleasure in making an example out of any student who gets his questions wrong.
There’s a reason this class is mandatory for all juniors.
Nobody in their right mind would sign up for it otherwise.
Since the class is on the smaller side, it comes as no surprise when I raise my hand, and a groan somewhere in the far back permeates the musty room. I practically have OVERACHIEVER written in black ink on my forehead.
It’s honestly not the worst thing to be in college.
Sure, my affinity for good grades has infected my social life with its nerd germs, but throwing myself to the goddamn wolves on a Friday night isn’t durable in the long run.
I’m not going to look back on my college years and reminisce about that time Stacy from Tri Delta had to get her stomach pumped.
I’m going to be at my impressive job, making a name for myself and raking in seven figures annually.