Page 2 of The Wallflower and the Running Back

I felt my phone buzz in my back pocket an hour ago. I was finishing up inventory when the call came in, which made for a convenient excuse to put off listening. I’m out of excuses now, however. And I am terrified.

I applied for the fall semester abroad scholarship three months ago, and I haven’t stopped thinking about it the entire first half of summer. I recognized the university’s number on my missed calls list. I could push a button to read a transcript of the message someone left. But I can’t seem to get myself to do that either.

What if I didn’t get it?

Of course I have a contingency. The classes are already reserved for me to swap in should I need to take my final labs instead this fall. But I’ve already let my mind wander to the adventure of studying in Germany. Of learning from the best. Exploring Berlin on my own, living out an adventure, and writing for scientific publications with scientists I’ve looked up to my entire life on hand to review my work. If I don’t get this scholarship and I have to wait and apply again for Spring, I’m not sure my soul will be able to handle it, let alone my heart.

Pacing through my brother’s store isn’t doing me any good. And since he took the day off to get in some fishing with his buddies, he won’t be back anytime soon to help me rip off the proverbial Band-Aid. My parents are busy with the main store’s redesign, and truth be told, neither of them are hip to the idea of me venturing over the Atlantic alone. I don’t want their negative energy putting a curse on my news.

I flip the sign in the store window to closed, not that we have had a customer in the last two hours. I drag my way to the back office and hang my apron on the hook behind the door. Pushing a stack of invoices to one side, I take a seat on my brother’s desktop and palm my phone.

Deep breath.

Rather than pressing play and holding my phone to my ear, I text my best friend Stella for reassurance.

ME: I got the scholarship message. I’m afraid to listen.

I wait for her to write back, but when my message sits on delivered for nearly two minutes without any sign that she’s reading or responding, I figure she’s probably still working in the lab. She took an internship this summer near Tiff, working with a start-up supplement company running toxicology tests. I lucked out rooming with her sophomore year after a terrible dorm experience my very first semester.

My first-year roommates were sorority pledges who both rushed and moved out within weeks of the school year beginning. They managed to pack a lifetime of partying into our time together, though, usually bringing elements of the parties back to our shared and tiny dorm room. The amount of times I slept in the rec room that first month should have earned me a break in my room fee. Stella had a similar experience, and when she posted in the roommate search group for the Tiff science department, I was the first to respond.

We clicked instantly. Two introverts who preferred spending our weekends watching period dramas and having frozen yogurt for lunch rather than actual meals. We have had every lab together since we became roommates, and made plans to apply to the same grad programs. When I started dating Dalton, she fit in as the three of us had been friends for years.

Despite how alike we are, though, Stella brims with confidence. While she prefers to hang out on the fringes, she’s quite comfortable basking in the spotlight. And she’s fearless about the future. She’d rip this scholarship Band-Aid off in a blink and demand it deliver me good news. Crazy part is, the universe would listen and heed her wish.

I’m going to have to do this on my own. If I’m so confident I’m ready to travel abroad alone, I should be able to handle the simple act of bracing myself for acceptance or rejection via voicemail.

“Dear universe, you know what Stella would want. Make it so.” I smirk at my weird, mystical voodoo wish then press play on the message.

“Hello, Miss Edwards. This is Patricia Sewald. I’m the executive director of the Midwest Region Studies Abroad program, and I am calling to let you know that unfortunately . . .”

The message went on for another twenty-seven seconds. It played. I have no idea what words she said after that devastating one—unfortunately.

My phone is ringing with the call I made to Dalton. I don’t remember swiping to his contact info. I don’t remember how I got outside the store. I hope I locked up, but I can’t recall actually pushing a key into the lock. I’m not sure I should drive, but I don’t know what else to do.

His voice filters through my speakers as my phone syncs with my Bluetooth.

“This is Dalton. I’m pre-law. I don’t do phone calls. Do what you will.” It beeps and I hang up, no longer amused by what I once thought was such a clever and witty voicemail greeting. Right now it feels cold. That message is meant for other people. Not me.

I press call again, the patter of summer rain dotting the sheen of dust on my windshield. I flip the wipers on and they smudge muddy streaks across the glass.

“This is Dalton. I’m pre-law. I don’t?—”

I end the call quicker this time.

He must be in the library.

My pulse thrums throughout my body; even my fingertips are pulsing with the rapid beat of my heart. It takes my jittering hands a few attempts to send Dalton a text to let him know I’m going to be invading his study room in a matter of minutes. He’s been studying for his LSATs for weeks. He stayed on campus to take part in Tiff’s special eight-week prep course. He’s applying to Harvard, and the score is everything. While he was toiling away over legal precedents and practicing his analytical reasoning skills, I was earning twenty bucks an hour helping my brother set up the new family hardware store. I figured I could use the extra money for my time in Europe.

What a waste.

The sun set, and I passed through three separate pop-up storms during the two-hour drive up to Tiff. The trip somehow took forever yet happened in a blink. I never turned the radio on, a strange fact that only now hits me as I pull into a visitor spot just outside the main campus library. I don’t think I’ve ever driven without music.

Where have my thoughts been? Unfortunately. That’s where.

I hit the lock button on my key fob and shove my phone in the back pocket of my jeans as I march across the well-manicured lawn. The hum of sprinklers echoes in the distance, filling the air with the scent of wet grass. I take the library steps two at a time, my pulse now booming against my eardrums. I have yet to cry, but only because I’m holding on to delusional hope that when I see Dalton he’ll magically make it better. As if he could say just kidding and make it all right.

I spot the back of his head through the glass door of the farthest study room and make a beeline toward him. His hands are on either side of the table, palms flat on the surface and head locked in place, staring at his computer screen. For a moment, I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. But then I slip through the last row of tables near the reference section, and get a full view of how my nightmare of a day ends.

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