1
IVY
I’m staring at my college advisor’s lips moving as she continues to talk, but the words aren’t even registering anymore. Something about credits… or hours… requirements that aren’t being met that are going to prevent me from walking across the stage at graduation.
I can’t tell. My brain is ringing, loud and shrill, like someone’s shoved a tuning fork right between my eyeballs and tapped on it with a metal spoon over and over again.
“Ivy?”
I blink back into reality. “I’m sorry. What?”
She offers me a tight, polite smile. It’s the kind people give you when they’re trying to soften the blow to some horrible truth and not knowing how to do it without packing a punch. “I know this isn’t what you wanted to hear… but unless you’re able to overload your schedule before the end of the semester or pull perfect marks on your finals, you’re not going to be able to graduate this year.”
My hands twist together in my lap.
This office smells weirdly like stale coffee and a hint of overly burned printer ink.
Suddenly, I hate all of it—hate her little desk plant with bottom leaves that are drooping from being stuck inside a sunless office all day, hate the way her cheerful little desk pad has sayings like ‘You’ve got this!’in an annoyingly bright font and bubble letters, and hate the ticking of the clock right behind her head, counting down the minutes I’ve been stuck in this godforsaken cubicle of a room.
Three years into a two-year degree and absolutely nothing to show for it but a dwindling bank account. My part-time job barely covers my rent as it is, let alone having enough left over to waste on another year of school when there’s no guarantee I’ll get my degree by the end.
“I see…” It’s all I can manage to say.
Because what else is there?
She says something else that I barely pay attention to, probably something to encourage me, but I’m already pulling myself up out of the uncomfortable chair I’ve crammed myself into and picking my tote bag up from the floor to swing over my shoulder.
My steps are mechanical as I turn and head for her door, throwing some half-assed “Thanks”over my shoulder before leaving. I’m in a daze the entire way back to the parking lot where my shitty little Corolla is parked crooked between two spots because I was flustered from running late coming here.
The February air bites at my skin, a reminder of my ill-preparedness from this morning by not grabbing an actualwinter jacket before leaving to return to campus. Just another thing to mentally check off my list of failures.
By the time I fish the key to my car out of my pocket and click the fob a few times, I’ve officially entered the self-pity spiral.
Three years.
Three goddamn years of my life I’ve wasted in an effort to force myself into this mold of who I thought I was supposed to be. A degree was supposed to open doors for a future devoid of constantly having to struggle my way through life. But all it’s done has forced me into more debt than I started with and no way out but to pay the hefty toll for my fuck-up and then some with interest.
It’s not like I have a safety net or a backup plan in case this one fails me.
I don’t have a family to move back home to once my student housing lease is up. I don’t have people who can support me until I actually figure out what the fuck I want to do with myself now that it’s become pretty obvious this school thing isn’t going to work out.
Cutting my parents out of my life the day I turned eighteen and leaving home to start over were supposed to be my ticket to something better—a fresh, new start to a future without the past dragging me down. Yet now I’m left right in the same position I started out in, broke and alone.
The only thing waiting for me now if I quit school is a part-time gig folding jeans in the clearance section at Old Navy or begging my landlord to let me lease another year even after this one expires.
Fuck. What am I even doing?
Failing at life, apparently.
The second I climb into my car, I pull my phone out and check my texts. A few of my friends have already messaged in our group chat about some get-together and the suggestion of going out to one of the local bars to celebrate the upcoming long weekend.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard, ready to type out a quickSorry, can’t make it!before driving back to my apartment and spending the rest of the night wallowing with a pint of Espresso Delight in my lap while I re-watchSex in the Cityfor the second time this month.
It would be easy to self-isolate. Hell, that’s the one thing I’ve got down pat. I’m an expert at cutting myself off from the outside world.
But then again… maybe it would be better to commiserate with my friends instead of trying to lick my wounds alone like my impending spiral is demanding for me to do. That’s what they’re supposed to be there for, right? To pick me up when I’m too down in the dumps to do it myself.
I respond with a quickSee you at seven!before tossing my phone into the passenger seat next to me and shoving my key into the ignition to turn over the tired engine.
