Chapter 6 Plan BMaybe C?
Plan B or Maybe C?
Harlee
It’s been eight days since that damn letter from the academic office nuked my inbox, and my life has been doing parkour off a cliff.
First, the “your graduation audit has changed” email that read like a threat. Three days later, I stepped into dog shit on my way to the train. Not a dainty little smear either. A full, soul-snatching, ankle-swallowing pile that rode with me for a fifty-three-minute commute.
A homeless man who smelled like hot dumpster juice and regret actually complained about me to the conductor.
Then my heel snapped on the one staircase in the one building on campus that refuses to believe in elevators. So I hobble up three flights like a flamingo with a knee injury, praying my life doesn’t fall apart before midterms.
Spoiler: the life part did not get the memo.
On paper, I’m twenty-five and “doing great.” Graduate program at Northbridge. GPA my dad loves to brag about. Resume that looks cute on LinkedIn.
In reality, I’m too old to be at frat parties, too broke to be in a house-buying group chat, and somehow agreeing to dinner with a man whose jawline deserves its own SAG card. As friends, I keep telling myself. Strictly platonic, even though my body disagrees like it has its own opinions.
Focus, HQ.
My phone buzzes as I shove my notebook into my bag and head toward the graduate advisement offices.
Bestie: You better have a good reason for not calling me back yesterday.
Me: Sorry, I was exhausted. My sleep’s been fucked since the weekend.
Bestie: Useless. Anyway, can you talk now?
Me: Can’t. About to step into Dr. Healy’s office.
Bestie: Oh, right! Well, let me know how that goes. Call me after!
Me: Of course.
I slide my phone away, take a breath, and push open the heavy oak doors.
The advisement office smells like burnt coffee and old carpet. The receptionist is my age, blonde ponytail pulled tight, thumbs flying over her phone like she’s diffusing a bomb via text. I hover a beat. Nothing.
“Hi,” I try.
She jumps like I fired a gun. “Shit.” Phone clatters to the desk.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “I have an appointment with Dr. Healy.”
“Right, yes, sorry,” she stammers, flipping her phone face-down so fast I only catch a flash of texts. “Have a seat, I’ll let him know.”
I turn toward the chairs. My janky heel catches on the carpet. I stumble, catch myself, and collapse into the nearest seat, leg already bouncing. My fingers find the silver ring on my index finger and start their anxious little orbit.
It feels like I sit there for hours, marinating in fluorescent lighting and impending doom, until:
"Ms. Prince?"
I jolt upright, my eyes flying open. In my startled state, I knock my bag off the chair next to me.
It hits the floor with a thud, and the contents spill out across the carpet.
Keys, sunglasses, contact case, solution, a couple of pens, a notebook, and.
.. oh God. Tampons. Gray-wrapped tampons that seem to have developed a mind of their own, sliding across the floor like they're auditioning for the tampon Olympics.
A groan escapes me as I look up at Dr. Healy. He's standing in the doorway of his office, an amused smile playing at the corners of his mouth. I give him an apologetic look before sliding to the floor, scrambling to gather my scattered belongings.
Dr. Healy pauses for a moment, and I can practically see the wheels turning in his head as he decides whether or not to help. Thankfully, he chooses to retreat into his office, leaving the door ajar. Small mercies.
I gather everything up, counting the tampons as I go. One, two, three... four. Jesus, how many did I have in there? I stuff them all back into my bag, my cheeks burning. Standing up, I smooth down my skirt and take a deep breath before stepping into Dr. Healy's office.
I slide into the hard-backed chair across from Dr. Healy’s desk and try not to wring my hands like I’m back in middle school.
His office looks exactly the same as always: overstuffed bookshelves, one struggling plant in the corner, framed diplomas lined up like they’re saluting each other. The only thing out of place is the manila folder in front of him with my name on it in block letters.
Never a good sign.
“Harlee,” he says, looking up over his glasses. “Thanks for coming in.”
“As if I had a choice,” I joke weakly, dropping my backpack beside the chair. My voice comes out thinner than I want, so I sit up straighter, plant my feet, pretend my heart isn’t sprinting.
He gives me a look that’s half-amused, half don’t start. “You always have choices,” he says. “Just not always good ones.”
Tell me about it.
He taps the folder. “Let’s talk about where we are. Then we’ll talk about what we can do.”
That we is the only thing keeping me in the chair.
I nod. “Okay.”
“I’m not going to sugarcoat this,” he says, flipping the folder open. Pages whisper against each other; I catch my name, my GPA, my entire life in neatly aligned rows. “The Shawl situation has put you in a very tight corner.”
“My inbox mentioned that,” I say, aiming for dry and landing closer to brittle.
He ignores the deflection. “Before Shawl was revoked, you were fourteen credits from graduating on your early plan. Three courses and the twelve-credit practicum. One last clean sprint.”
“Past tense,” I say.
“Past tense,” he agrees. “With Shawl removed from the approved practicum list, you’re now sitting at twenty-four credits to finish the degree. Under normal circumstances, that’s another full year.”
Twenty-four.
It hits harder when someone else says it. A whole extra year between me and done. A whole extra year of tuition Herman is not paying, rent I don’t know how I’d cover, and I told you so sharpened for every phone call.
“I don’t have a normal year to give,” I say quietly. “Financially or… otherwise.”
“I’m aware.” His voice softens. “Which is why I didn’t call you in here just to confirm the disaster.”
I blink. “There’s… something besides ‘sorry, good luck?’”
“Two options.” He closes my folder and pulls out a thinner stack from underneath. “Let’s start with Option A. The safer route.”
Of course there’s a safer route. Herman would eat that up with a spoon.
“There’s an engineering firm in the energy sector,” he continues. “Fast-paced, reputable, directly aligned with your current track. They’re still accepting students for a summer practicum that starts in two weeks.”
That sounds exactly like something my dad would print, frame, and hang over the mantle.
“What does that look like?” I ask.
“Ten to twelve weeks, roughly full-time over the summer,” he says. “You’d earn six practicum credits. If we pair that with an overloaded schedule next year—one extra class in each term—you can still finish on your original graduation timeline.”
“So what’s the downside?” I ask, because there’s always a downside.
“The cost and the strain,” he says simply. “You’d be working essentially full-time this summer, then carrying a heavier academic load than most of your peers. It’s doable. You, in particular, could manage it. But it will be… unforgiving. There’s no cushion if anything goes wrong.”
I picture it: summer practicum, no real break, then three terms of maxed-out course loads on top of working enough hours to, you know, eat. One missed step and the whole thing falls apart.
“So Option A is ‘you survive, but you suffer,’” I say.
“That’s the honest version,” he says.
My stomach twists. On paper, Option A is perfect. Clean energy, engineering, respectable. Exactly the kind of line Herman likes to drop into conversations with strangers.
In reality, if I trip once, I’m flat on my face with no backup.
I wet my lips. “And Option B?”
Now he reaches for a second, even thinner folder. It makes a soft thunk on the desk between us.
“Option B is less traditional,” he says. “And my preferred choice for you—if you can land it.”
That pulls my focus all the way in. “Less traditional how?”
“An approved external partner,” he says. “A large media and analytics company with a formal student program. On paper, it’s not clean energy. In practice, it’s very fast-paced and very data-heavy. Audience modeling. Forecasting. Dashboards. Applied mathematics in the wild.”
Media. Not turbines. Not Florida. Not Herman’s my daughter, the engineer fantasy.
But applied makes something in my chest sit up a little straighter.
“And the credits?” I ask, because that’s the only part the registrar cares about.
“If we can place you in their student program for three consecutive terms at approximately twenty hours a week,” he says, “the graduate committee is prepared to approve it as a special practicum worth five credits per term. Fifteen total.”
“Fifteen?” I repeat. “Shawl was twelve.”
“Which gives you a three-credit cushion,” he says. “And because those practicum credits are spread across the year, you can maintain a normal course load instead of overloading every term. If Option B works, you keep your original graduation date without killing yourself in the process.”
Fifteen credits. No extra year. No overloaded schedule. No Florida project dangling by a thread while I drown in coursework.
My pulse kicks up. “And the catch?”
“Two catches,” he says. “First, it’s not guaranteed.
I can send your packet to their program lead and recommend you strongly, but they still have to invite you to interview and decide you’re a fit.
Second, because this is a special arrangement, the committee reserves the right to revoke the practicum approval if there are performance issues or serious conduct concerns. ”
“Conduct,” I echo, making a face.
“It’s a high-visibility environment,” he says.
“Real executives. Real stakes. You’d be expected to treat it that way.
If you do the work and stay out of trouble, those fifteen credits stand and you walk when you planned to walk.
If something goes sideways…” He spreads his hands. “We are out of favors.”
The words land heavier than I expect.