Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Savannah
April
The next day, I wake up with a clear head and a renewed set of purpose.
I’m going to pay for this degree—somehow.
There are loans, probably. Victoria talks about those sometimes, then turns red like she’s embarrassed to need the money.
Part of being a best friend is knowing when to drop the subject.
Talking about money is for people who don’t have it, my father likes to say.
Now we’re the people without it and I’m not sure where to start.
I google things like Pell Grants and FAFSA and student loan processing companies.
Fall down a rabbit hole of confusing, mutually contradictory terms. How does anyone in this country figure this out?
Frustrated, I give in and dial Morningside’s financial advising department, asking for a human representative until someone finally picks up.
After confirming my identity, the advisor asks why I’m calling today. I used to have money and now I don’t. No, this is a negotiation. Money is available and I simply need to better understand how to obtain it.
“My financial situation has changed fairly dramatically,” I say, “and I need to know my options for financing tuition for next year.”
The advisor runs through options: loans, grants, scholarships.
“Of course, we’ll need to know your family’s estimated contribution.
” In the background, I can hear her typing, then she must bring up my records.
“Oh.” A single syllable that contains a question.
If you have this much money, why are you calling me?
“It’s not—” We’ve lost everything. I push down my tears, will my migraine hangover away. “That number isn’t accurate at present.”
The advisor seems to compose herself. “Then on next year’s tax filings, update the number and we’ll recalculate.”
“My program starts in August.”
“In that case, would you like me to connect you with someone about disenrolling?”
“No,” I say. “I’m not quitting.” Then I hang up before I can change my mind.
That afternoon, I drive over to my hospital volunteer shift.
I grab a set of scrubs from the scrub vending machine—these have theater masks on them, one smiling, one tragic—and change in the locker room alongside all the other nurses.
The scrubs are tight on my thighs and barely long enough to touch my ankles.
I’m not the only plus-sized nurse or nursing student here or the only tall person on my shift.
But whoever manufactures scrubs never makes them the correct size to fit our bodies.
I’m not the problem. This bunch of fabric is the problem.
Finally, I manage to pull them on. The waistband digs into my stomach; the seams cut into my thighs.
Still, in them I’m no longer Savannah the princess who was born never to get her hands dirty.
I spend a while checking on various patients and acting as an observer during exams with the patients’ permission.
I push a cart of supplies that Marlene, the head nurse, wants transferred between one closet and another.
Hospitals have a smell—antiseptic and flowers and copper fittings to prevent infections—one that I’ve gone nose-blind to over the time I’ve spent here.
Which only makes it sharper when that burning smell from yesterday returns.
Oh no. So not migraine gone, just migraine delayed.
All the noises get louder. All the lights get brighter.
My lunch—an Erewhon sandwich and smoothie—churns in my stomach.
I swallow and swallow and try to think of calm, dark thoughts, of storms blowing themselves out on the ocean, but this headache won’t be denied.
“I’m gonna—” I say and practically shove the cart of supplies at one of the transfer techs, before I stumble my way into the hallway bathroom and heave into the toilet.
It doesn’t last long, but it lasts long enough.
I sit back on my heels and wipe my mouth with my hand.
Run the sink, toss back a palmful of water, and spit it out.
When I emerge, Marlene is there. She’s only a little shorter than I am, with broad shoulders, a short practical haircut, and a no-nonsense expression that I sometimes try to emulate in the mirror.
“You good, Sav?” she asks, in that way where I know she knows I’m not.
“Migraine.”
She peers at me. “Again?” I haven’t mentioned them before, but last shift she found me in an unoccupied patient room, eyes shut against the hospital lighting that never quite achieves darkness.
“You know,” she says, “I can tell you like caring for patients.” I can hear a but coming. She rocks on her heels slightly, a squeak of her practical nurse shoes against the recently sanitized floor. “But maybe it’s good you got into that Morningside program.”
“Yeah, about that…” I don’t want to disappoint Marlene, not when she wrote me a letter of recommendation.
Above me, the hospital lights blink. If I take my migraine meds now, I can probably stave it off, only I need to go refill my prescription because I took my second-to-last pill sometime late last night.
Still, I don’t want to just cut out early and leave Marlene short-handed.
“I think I might need to duck down to the pharmacy.”
Marlene nods. “Why don’t you head home after that?”
“I could probably finish my shift…” But I don’t press the issue when Marlene raises an eyebrow as if to say could you? So I thank her and change back into my civilian clothes, then make my way down to the hospital pharmacy.
One of the pharmacists pulls up my records. “Good news, we have this in stock.” She busies herself filling the bottle while I wait. Maybe my headache will just go away. What I wish for every time and what never actually happens.
“Okay, that’s gonna be—” she frowns as her computer makes a noise like a siren. “Oh, that’s gonna be a lot.” She turns the screen to face me. A number with four digits displays.
“My insurance should cover it.” I dig my card from my wallet and hand it to her.
She types in the number dutifully, then shakes her head. “It says the policy isn’t active.” That couldn’t have just happened yesterday. But then again, neither could all of my parents’ belongings being moved out of the house. When were you going to tell me?
I hand the pharmacist my credit card to pay out of pocket. The payment pad thinks for a while. Card declined. I try another card. Declined. And a third. Declined.
The pharmacist gives me a sympathetic look. “We have options for patients who aren’t able to pay at this time.”
Options. What I have fewer and fewer of.
A hot bright light of pain is working its way into my temple.
This isn’t supposed to be happening. And yet it is.
I roll my shoulders back and try to summon my dignity.
They can’t repo that. “Thank you for mentioning those options,” I say, in my best country-club princess voice. “But I’ll refill it another time.”
I carry myself out to my car, head high. Dial my father’s number. It goes to voicemail. “My cards aren’t working,” I say. “My insurance is saying the policy’s cut off. Were you going to tell me about any of this?” My voice goes sharp. If you’ve lost your temper, you’ve lost the negotiation.
But this isn’t a business deal, it’s my life. And right now I’m not just broke—it feels like I’m falling apart.
“Victoria!!!” I yell my best friend’s name as soon as she gets into the house party. My head feels better—my one remaining pill worked how it was supposed to. If only that would apply to everything else.
After I got back to my dorm, I decided to worry about all of this tomorrow. Sometimes you need to confront your issues like an adult and sometimes you need a hard seltzer and to sweat out all your worries. If that sweating happens to be with a member of our college baseball team…
Usually, I’d have to drag Victoria to a party like this, but I’ve only been here for a few minutes when she comes in. Only she looks different. Good different.
I make my way through the crowd and spin her around. “Is that a tan? Are those new highlights? Are you wearing lashes?”
Victoria goes a faintly embarrassed pink. “Um, yeah.”
“You look so fucking good.” It’s possible I’m already a little drunk. Whoops.
“Stop, you’re making me feel like the ugly duckling.”
“More like the hot-ass swan.” I go to the cooler, pluck out a can of hard seltzer, and hand it to her.
She cracks it and takes a long sip. “Jonathan told me the team was coming.” That blush intensifies.
“Oh, Jonathan did, did he?” I knew she worked for the team; I didn’t know she and Jonathan Halperin—who’s so good at baseball even I know he’s good at baseball and I don’t know anything about baseball—were actual friends. Maybe more than friends from the way she goes even redder.
“It’s not like that,” she protests.
Though it seems like it’s very much like that. “They’re in the other room”—I gesture to the back room—“holding court or whatever.”
But Victoria doesn’t go. Instead she sticks near me, and we spend our time giggling about stuff on our phones and gossiping about people around campus.
It’s fun—she’s my best friend and this is the most normal I’ve felt all week—but she keeps glancing at the other room as if she wants to go in there and just needs the courage to do so.
Maybe what she needs is a tiny push. Even after a few hard seltzers, my vision is completely clear—no migraine. I gesture to the room around us. “All right, I’m getting an aura.”
Victoria goes immediately into nurse mode. “What do you need? We can leave.”
I shake my head. “I’m gonna dark little room it for a while, but you’re not going anywhere. So enough wall-flowering. You’re gonna dance.” I scan the room until I find someone perfect, then wave. “Hey, c’mere.”
Mike Pappalardo glances behind himself facetiously, then he spots Victoria next to me and comes over as if pulled on a line.