one
. . .
The negative balanceon my bank app glows accusingly in the dark of my studio apartment. Minus eighty-seven dollars and twenty-three cents. An impossible number that somehow keeps getting more impossible. I swipe the screen closed, but the red digits burn behind my eyelids like a brand of failure.
I toss my phone onto the futon that doubles as my bed and press the heels of my hands against my eyes until I see stars. The overdraft fee will hit tomorrow, digging me deeper into a hole I'm already drowning in. My breath catches in my chest—a tiny hiccup of panic I refuse to let bloom into something bigger.
The yellow eviction notice is still crumpled in my bag where I stuffed it this morning, as if hiding it might make it disappear. Three days. That's all I have before the locks change. Three days to come up with two months' back rent or find myself on the street.
"You've got this, Delilah," I whisper to myself, the words hollow in the empty room. "You always figure it out."
Figuring it out has become my full-time job—on top of my actual three jobs and graduate classes. The barista gig at Dawn'sEdge barely covers groceries. Tutoring undergrads in literature pays better but the hours are inconsistent. And my weekend shifts entering data for the psychology department depend entirely on when they have research grants.
My academic scholarship covered the first two years of grad school, but it ran out last semester. I've been piecing together tuition payments like a desperate quilter working with scraps, but the final payment for this semester is a week overdue with no extension.
The phone in my lap vibrates. Unknown number. Probably the university bursar again. I should let it go to voicemail, but some masochistic instinct makes me answer.
"Ms. Monroe?" The voice is crisp, efficient, exactly what you'd expect from someone whose job is to collect money.
"Yes, this is she." I try to sound equally professional, not like someone who just discovered she's negative nearly a hundred dollars.
"This is Sandra Wilson from student accounts. I'm calling regarding your outstanding balance."
My stomach clenches. "I know I'm behind. I get paid on Friday, and I can make a partial payment then." The lie comes easily. Friday's check is already spent—half on groceries, half on the electric bill that's threatening to shut off my power.
"I'm afraid a partial payment won't be sufficient, Ms. Monroe. Your outstanding balance is now $3,842.15, and without payment by the end of this week, we'll have to begin administrative withdrawal procedures."
The room tilts slightly. "Administrative withdrawal? You mean?—"
"You'll be removed from your courses for this semester, yes. And any credits you've earned so far won't be applied."
My throat tightens. Four months of work—gone. The thesis I've poured my soul into—worthless.
"There must be something?—"
"You've already received two emergency extensions, Ms. Monroe. The university has been more than accommodating." Her tone suggests she believes otherwise. "I can email you the withdrawal paperwork so you can complete it before Friday, which would at least avoid an administrative mark on your transcript."
The casual way she suggests I surrender makes my jaw clench. "I don't need withdrawal paperwork. I'll figure something out."
"As you wish. But without payment, the withdrawal will process automatically." She pauses. "Have a good evening."
The call ends, and I resist the urge to throw my phone across the room. I couldn't afford to replace it anyway.
I stand up and pace the twelve feet of my apartment—from the minuscule kitchen to the bathroom door and back. The space is small but mine. Or it was. I've made it as much of a home as possible—bookshelves made of cinder blocks and planks, a secondhand desk crowded with notes and textbooks, walls decorated with postcards from places I hope to visit someday.
On my desk sits the framed photo of my parents on their wedding day. They look so young, so full of hope. Both gone before I turned twenty—dad from a heart attack when I was sixteen, mom from cancer three years later. The life insurance barely covered the medical bills and funeral costs. There was nothing left for their only daughter except the determination they'd instilled in me to make something of myself.
"I'm trying," I whisper to their smiling faces. "I swear I'm trying."
I pull out my budget notebook and a pen with teeth marks from late nights of desperate calculations. Income column: $342 from the coffee shop this week. Maybe $150 from tutoring if all my students show up. No data entry work until next month.
Expenses column: $850 for rent (now multiplied by two). $3,842 for tuition. $127 for electricity. $64 for phone. $40 for internet. Groceries. Toiletries. Bus fare.
The math doesn't work. It hasn't worked for months, but I've been patching the holes with credit cards that are now maxed out, payment plans that are now defaulted, and promises to myself that things would turn around.
I feel the pressure building behind my eyes, in my chest, the weight of it all suddenly unbearable. I've been strong for so long—through my parents' deaths, through working my way through undergrad, through every setback and stumble. But in this moment, alone in my soon-to-be-not-mine apartment, I let myself break.
The tears come hot and fast, my body shaking with sobs I can't control. I slide to the floor, back against the futon, and let the fear and exhaustion wash over me. Just for a minute. Just this once.
