Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 121946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 610(@200wpm)___ 488(@250wpm)___ 406(@300wpm)
My body shivers uncontrollably.
But if I get this recommendation, I can get any job I want.
One even hundreds of miles away. Coupled with the money Ronald left me, the future looks bright.
Once the class ends, I stand from my chair and approach my professor.
“This is a little unorthodox, but I’ve been asked to deliver a message to you on behalf of student services,” she says without looking up at me from her slideshow notes. It’s clear she thinks I’ve inconvenienced her and that, whatever this is about, she thinks it’s my fault. “They’d like you to visit their building the first chance you have.”
I deflate like a torn balloon. Would it kill her to smile? She knows I want this position. The woman has hated me since day one.
“Okay, thank you.”
Turning back the way I came, I make my way out the door to the student services building. My throat feels clogged. I’ve never heard of student services calling a student to their building. Everything is done online. The building is staffed with students, run by a single adult, which isn’t a power dynamic I’m interested in thrusting myself into.
I feel like I’ve been called into the principal’s office as I wait my turn in a row of students who’ve missed tuition and have questions on how to get more financial aid. When it’s my turn, I step up to one of the sophomores running the station, slipping her my student ID. She whistles then turns to flag down her supervisor, who takes over.
“Hi, Ms. Hart.” His name tag reads Happy, but he looks anything but. “We processed your tuition for the semester on the card on file, but it bounced after the hold period.”
“Bounced?” I echo, curling my toes inward. This cannot be happening.
“There seems to be a problem with your payment method, and you don’t have an alternate one on file. We’ve issued several alerts on the campus’s portal system, along with dozens of dunning emails. Since all of them went unanswered, you are currently showing up as an unregistered student.”
Impossible.
Dozens of emails?
I check them daily. Hourly, as a matter of fact. I’m sinking inside, unable to accept this reality.
“I don’t understand.” My hands are shaking. “This makes no sense. I didn’t even get an email! My portal looks fine.”
I pull out my phone and log in to the school’s app. Sure enough, there’s a little red exclamation point on the messenger icon, which wasn’t there when I checked this morning. I immediately palm my phone, stuttering out a lie about forgetting my password.
Any sympathy this dude has for me is wiped out in a second. “Until we straighten this out, you’re not an active student.”
“Who do I have to speak to?” I ask in a daze.
“I strongly suggest you pay the tuition as soon as possible. None of your problems will be solved otherwise. As for reinstating your student status for the semester, it may be too late, but in case it isn’t, you need to speak with the registrar.”
“Fine.”
I don’t bother saying anything else as I dash for the door. The sooner I get this finished, the faster I can move toward my future.
It doesn’t take me more than five minutes to reach the registrar’s office.
That’s the beauty of a small, private university.
“I need to speak with someone,” I say to anyone in the office who will listen. It’s a little grandiose and super dramatic, but it works.
“Do you have an appointment?” the lady behind a desk says.
“No. But it’s an emergency. The supervisor I talked to at student services said I need to speak with someone in the registrar’s office.”
“What is your name?”
“Payton Hart.”
I hear her hands typing on her computer. Then she nods to herself.
“Oh. You’re the student with the unanswered dunning emails.”
The student.
As in one.
Guess that’s the bad thing about small, private universities. When shit happens, there’s not really company for the misery. Only an audience.
“We tried to call you,” she continues, “but it says your line was disconnected, and they couldn’t get in touch with you.”
“I didn’t get a call.”
“Like I said, normally, the registrar would call you, but they couldn’t get in touch with you.”
“But—”
I shake my head. There’s no use in arguing. In fact, it only seems to make the stern lines of her face deepen. Does everyone hate me at this school?
I reach into my bag, pull out my phone, and scroll through the contacts, hitting the button for Heather’s number.
The phone doesn’t ring.
The phone doesn’t do anything.
What the hell?
My phone has no service. It’s as if the number has been shut off, but that makes no sense. The bills are on autopay. I used it to scroll through Dog Instagram this morning. It’s functioning. It’s on. It just has no service.
How can that be?
How long has it been since I accepted a call?