1
Olivia
Iwas going to be sick.
Heart catching in my throat, I froze at the mailbox, grass squishy and damp around my shoes. Tears pricked my eyes, watering my vision so ugly words swam across the paper, each like a punch to the gut.
Outstanding balance.
Final notice.
Collections.
Why I was so taken aback, I couldn’t say. Call it denial if you want. I always knew the day would come when I’d have to face the music, but for months I’d fooled myself into believing that I had more time, more time. Now here was Stalwart Financial bursting my bubble and demanding the money they were lawfully owed. With interest.
They were being pissy about it, too. A bold red threat had been penned across the top of the letter by the loan manager, Frank Thomas.No more excuses, Ms. Taylor.And believe me, I’d come up with some doozies: lost mail, illness, a death in the family—though the last was true. Seemed the bank had finally run out of patience. Another missed payment on my private student loan and they’d turn me over to collections.
Plus, a reminder: I was three payments delinquent. Now the bank expected me to magically produce a thousand dollars to bring the account up to date. They might as well have asked for a million. Bastards, not that I could blame them. I was amazed they’d waited this long.
I ran my fingers over the letter, wishing the numbers would magically change or go away entirely. I owed $118,000 for the knowledge in my brain, half of which I’d already forgotten, and a single piece of framed linen paper. Worse, if I didn’t start making substantial payments regularly, the number would only keep climbing because of interest. It was enough to make me feel sick all over again.
Whether Frank No More Excuses Thomas had intended to be ironic was a mystery, but his timing was not lost on me. I’d just come from a job interview that I’d bombed so hard the supervisor called me the wrong name as I was leaving. And that was after she returned my ring-stained resume she’d used as a coaster for her coffee—thanks, butI won’t be needing this, April—practically shoving me out the door to make way for the next candidate.
That was only the tip of the iceberg. I’d lost count of the number of employers who’d shafted me in the eight months (Had it really been that long?) since I’d graduated, oftentimes with unnecessary condescension. The story was the same each time.You’re a smart girl, Olivia, and you have a great degree from a great school and lots of great potential. But you have no real-world experience in the mental health field. Come back in a couple of years once you get some. Next!
Try paying rent with potential. It was the annoying old catch-twenty-two. Managers didn’t want to hire you unless you had experience, but you couldn’t get experience unless . . . You can probably guess the rest. And in case you’re wondering why I didn’t suck it up, get off my high horse and look for a less desirable job outside my comfort zone, let me tell you, Idid. Try getting hired as a server when you’ve never waited tables. Seemed I was underqualified for that, too. And retail managers? They’re wily. Once they saw on my application that I was a recent graduate of Dewhurst University, they suspected I’d only be using the job as a placeholder until I found something relevant to my degree. Frustrating, but they were right to be suspicious. That’s exactly what I’d planned on doing.
While looking for work, I’d been scraping by on what little had remained of my student loans. Then, once those funds dried up, the small inheritance that had been left to me by my grandmother, Tilly, who’d died not so long ago. Also, credit cards, the mounding balance on them creeping up as stealthily as a ninja. For the past couple of months, I’d been too scared to look at what piddling cash was left in my checking account balance, but I suspected it was in the double-digits. If I was lucky.
Sighing, I glowered at the other bills the mailman had delivered. I couldn’t bring myself to open them, but I didn’t need to be psychic to know what they contained.Account in the negative! Overdraft fees have been applied! Pay us, you bill-dodging bitch!I longed for the days when I felt irritation over the masses of junk mail I received: neon pamphlets advertising sales on vinyl siding for a house I didn’t own, flyers for carpet cleaning services, coupons for family-sized pepperoni pizzas. I was spoiled then. Those were simpler times, when the mere sight of the mailman walking up the sidewalk didn’t cramp my stomach with anxiety more befitting for running into an ex when I looked like hell.
Adding insult to injury was my diploma that had also arrived in the mail, a replacement for the one the university had sent to the residence I’d formerly shared with my obnoxious (and that’s putting it nicely) ex-boyfriend. Dealing with Nick’s assholery would have stirred up all kinds of drama I wasn’t game to deal with, so it had been easier to have a new one sent. I’d been in no hurry to get it, anyway, since it only served as a reminder of my failure to put it to use.
At least my name looked pretty on the diploma. It was elegantly scrawled in fancy gold lettering, a lovely Edwardian Script:Olivia Delilah Taylor. Bachelor of Science, Psychology.
My private education in San Francisco hadn’t come easy. Or cheap, obviously. Not surprising, since I’d attended one of the most prestigious universities in the world. I’d fought tooth and nail for entry, and the paper my diploma was printed on was worth a million times its weight in gold. That was what Dewhurst administrators had assured me each year, anyway, as I shelled out exorbitant amounts of money for my schooling. Now that I was a graduate—a twenty-five-year-oldunemployedgraduate who couldn’t find work to save her life—I wasn’t so sure.
Like many naive college students, I’d assumed I’d land work once I had a degree, as if a fairy godmother would be waiting at graduation with an offer for a stellar six-figure job with all the benefits. In this gullible fantasy, I’d go on to become one of the most respected psychologists in the city. I’d be raking in so much money that I’d buy a sweet historical townhouse, where I’d open a home practice, my office walls packed with awards that celebrated my unparalleled job performance. I’d look professional but chic in designer clothes as I leaned back in my smooth leather desk chair, tapped a finger against my chin, and noncommittally murmured, “I see, I see. How does that make you feel?” I’d even have to turn some patients away, I’d be in suchhigh in demand.
None of this ever happens in reality, though, does it? Especially not to someone like me, a trailer park girl from Pelville, Florida, who was raised on food stamps and dreams of a brighter future. But how I wished it did.
It was the happiest day of my life when Tilly came running back from the mailbox waving that acceptance letter. At her insistence to have a little faith in myself, it was the only university I applied to, even though it was a risky move because of their low acceptance rate. I didn’t even mind too much when I had to delay admission for a year to save up money. I took a job as a checker at the only grocery store in town, Budget Mart, and worked as many hours as they’d give me, pinching every penny I made.
Still, my savings turned out to be pathetically little for California living. Even on my strict budget it didn’t last long, and I was back at zero in a matter of months. As a green nineteen-year-old, I took out loans to make up the deficit, thrilled by how eager the bank was to provide them to someone with so little credit and, as I’ve come to understand, even less financial sense. At the time, I hadn’t worried about the debt I was accruing, becauseof courseI’d be making money hand over fist once I finished school.
Or so I’d thought.
In retrospect, I can see how my excitement over escaping Pelville had blinded me to the consequences of dreaming big. I’d been so fixated on reaching for the stars that I never stopped to consider what I’d do if I missed them completely and fell flat on my ass. So, now here I was, broke and jobless, with no clue how I was going to get myself out of the mess I’d created.
With my happiness sufficiently drained for the day, I stuffed the bank’s letter back into the envelope with more aggression than necessary. In a feeble attempt to lift my sour spirits, I congratulated myself for at least managing to not throw up by the mailbox. Go me. I ambled toward my apartment, where I planned on drowning my sorrows in a bowl of cheap rocky road ice cream—I was far too broke for those fancy fellows Ben and Jerry.
To hell with fairy godmothers. It was time to put on my big girl pants and face reality. I was in serious financial trouble. I needed to find a way to make money. No, notjustmoney.A lotof money. Fast.
2
Walking into the kitchen, I ran into my roommate, Liz. Literally. Her skull collided with mine and we knocked each other silly.
It was obvious that she’d recently done the deed with her boyfriend, David. Despite our head-butt, she reeked of lust and was grinning like she was holding a slice of watermelon underneath her lips. There was that, plus she was wearing one of his t-shirts, which she did only after sex. Today’s was a shout-out to an indie band called Sweetbread Orange.
