“It's fine,” I mutter to no one. “This is fine.”
On my bedside table, there's a stack of bills I've been avoiding—rent, electricity. I made good money as a counselor over summer while Mr. Abernathy shut the shop for “renovations,” even though it looks exactly the same as before, but not enough to cover these expenses and my tuition like I was hoping. A grant would’ve bailed me out. Beneath them is the letter I received last week from UMS Student Accounts, my final tuition payment for the semester is due in three weeks. $4,850 that I can’t afford to spend all at once.
I pull open my budget spreadsheet. Opening another tab, I navigate to the Federal Student Loan page. I've avoided this for nearly four years, worked myself to exhaustion to stay debt-free. Applied for every grant, worked part-time or full-time wherever I could.
I watched my mother get buried under payday loans and credit card debt, bill collectors calling at all hours, the lights shut off more than once. The way she'd flinch every time the phone rang. A childhood of that is enough to put anyone off accepting any form of loan.
The application form is simple. Clean. Almost inviting.
My cursor hovers over the “APPLY NOW” button. It feels like surrender.
But I'm out of options. Three more semesters until graduation. Three more rounds of tuition, books, rent. I need this degree. And I need the Future Innovators grant more than ever.Ten thousand dollars.My mind immediately divides it. $4,890 for next semester's tuition that's already past due, $1,875 for three months of back rent, $680 for the health insurance I've been avoiding calls about. That would still leave enough to fix my ancient laptop that keeps shuttingdown mid-project and have enough spare. I grip my pen tighter. This isn't just an opportunity. It's a lifeline.
And, more than that, winning would mean possibilities. Recognition. Access to firms that normally wouldn't look at someone like me. A way out of this cycle that I’ve been born into.
Last year's winner, Mira Rai, went straight from graduation to a junior architect position atFoster + Partners inLondon. No connections or famous last name, just pure talent and the credibility this grant gave her. That could be me.
But, until then, I need this loan to stay in college. I click the button and begin filling in my information. When I reach the requested loan amount, I type in exactly what I need for tuition. Not a dollar more.
My hand trembles slightly as I electronically sign my name. The screen changes to a confirmation page, informing me my application has been received.
I close my laptop and lean back against the wall, feeling a strange mix of relief and dread. The money will come through. I can stay in school. But now, I owe someone. And I've seen first-hand what that can do to a person.
I decide, then and there, that I will not become my mother. I won't be trapped by debt, always one step behind, always waiting for the next bill, the next disappointment, the next rejection.
I'm going to win that grant. And whatever job I land after graduation will pay enough to wipe out this loan before it can grow roots. I'll work nights, weekends, whatever it takes.
Because I promised myself years ago, no one will ever have power over me because I owe them money.
No one.
Setting an alarm for 6 AM, early enough to squeeze in more project work before class, I curl up under my thinblanket. The radiator in the corner makes an ominous clicking sound before falling silent again.
As I drift toward uneasy sleep, numbers and deadlines swirl in my head. Three weeks until tuition is due. Over three months until the grant winners are announced.
Ten thousand dollars that could change everything.
Ineedto win.
7
TROY
The gym is quiet on Wednesday morning, and it makes a nice change. It’s the time when all the sports teams have practice, so all the usual people are busy with their teams. Most other times I like being around people, but sometimes, I like to just rip apart my muscles on my own, or with Freds.
Just the hum of machines, the rhythmic clank of weights hitting the floor, and the low bass of whatever shitty playlist Freddie put on today.
I roll my shoulders, cracking my neck before reaching for a plate to add to the bar.
“You know, normal people ease back into lifting after a summer off,” comes a voice from behind me.
I glance over my shoulder to find Freddie leaning against the squat rack, arms crossed, looking annoyingly well-rested for someone who opens the gym most mornings at 5:30 am.
“Didn’t take the whole summer off.” I shrug. “Stayed active at camp.”
“Teaching kayaking to a bunch of kids isn’t exactly the same as lifting, Hawkins.”
“Hey, some of those kids were vicious,” I deadpan. “Had one try to fight me over an oar.”
