Page 26 of Roommating

“How about you two? Are you getting along?”

I shift on the bed. “Me and Adam?” A flush whips across my face as I flash back, for at least the twentieth time in as many hours, to dragging him into the tiny bathroom at Keybar where, thanks to multiple Rolo shots, I finally blurted out what I’d overheard. I’m so glad I did because things are back to normal between us again. After witnessing his mother go through a stolen identity experience at such a young age, of course he’s more cautious and would want to warn Marcia against trusting strangers with personal information. My combination of anger and sadness disappeared once I knew it was less about me and more about making sure Marcia was aware of the dangers out there. I don’t think she’s naïve enough to get catfished, but it’s not the same world she grew up in.

“How are you coping with living with a man?” Mom asks.

It’s a valid question since my households have been exclusively female for most of my life. I was only four when my dad left. My grandparents moved in with us, but after my grandpa died when I was nine, it was just me, Audrina, Mom, and Nana. I had female roommates in college and again when I moved into the city. “No issues on that front.”Anymore.He thinks I smell good. Helikesme. Whatever that means. If someone hadn’t banged on the bathroom door, would we have kissed? A fluttery sensation crops up in my tummy at the thought.

“As long as you’re okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I just thought it might be hard to see them together. I know how much you miss Nana,” she says softly.

I close my eyes to fight the memory of Nana crying the morning I left for college for the first time. She held me so hard, and I wiggled out of her embrace in a rush to get to the dorms. I didn’t come homefor Rosh Hashanah freshman year because I’d only been at school for two weeks, and she died from a sudden stroke before Thanksgiving break. I never got to say I was sorry, not just for cutting our hug short but for the teenage angst that destroyed our close relationship. Unfortunately for me, being kind to someone else’s grandmother doesn’t make up for being ungrateful to my own. I swallow down the lump in my throat.

“Sabrina?”

I jolt and wipe the tears from my eyes. “I’m here.”

“Anything else new?”

I scrape my fingers across my comforter. I asked my advisor for an extension for the fellowship this morning, but he said the deadlines are airtight because only ten fellowships are available. My only hope for a loophole is if fewer than ten students applied on time. As this is unlikely, I’m screwed.

I’m at a crossroads. If I tell my mom I dropped the ball, she might drill me about my game plan like I’m one of her subordinates at work. Except there’s also a possibility she’ll reassure me it’s not the end of the world. She knows I’m serious about my future and not about to let hiccups derail me long-term. She might even offer to loan me money for my living expenses without interest. I can already imagine her devising a formal scheduled payment plan to ensure I don’t feel entitled to it or take it for granted. Like it’s possible given the example she showed me. It’s on the tip of my tongue to spill the entire story.

Then I think of how tirelessly she worked to get where she is all on her own with two little girls to clothe and feed on an entry-level salary thanks to a deadbeat husband and father. My life is easy in comparison, and I have no excuse for missing the deadline aside from dismissing my reminder, which never should have happened. Do I want to come clean, or is it better to keep my shame a secret?

WWMD? What would Mom do?

She’d figure it out on her own, and so will I.

“Nothing else is new.” I twirl a lock of hair around my finger while my mind justifies the decision to lie. The fellowship was never guaranteed even if I’d submitted a timely application. I’m not any worse off than I was before I missed the deadline. I merely lost out on an opportunity to bebetteroff. Unfortunately, Ineedto be better off… even a little bit. I decide to ask for more hours at the library. If I have to delay graduation by an extra semester to make more money to pay my living expenses, so be it. It seems so important now, but no one is going to ask how long it took to get my master’s when I’m Marcia’s age.

The conversation wraps up and I tell Mom I’ll be home for her birthday and Passover the following month. We end the call. Then I lose myself in a study on cultural diversity in young adult literature for school until my eyes refuse to stay open any longer.

Chapter Thirteen

The next morning at work, I head straight to my library branch manager Jenny’s office to ask for more hours. She’s my only co-worker with private space, but she’s the boss so it makes sense. The room is small, only about 150 square feet, but there are space-saving cabinets on the wall and she keeps her desk tidy, with fresh flowers weekly. This week’s batch is a combination of yellow daffodils and forsythia.

I haven’t had much one-on-one contact with Jenny, a fortysomething white transplant from Kentucky, aside from my interview, but she seems fair. She doesn’t complain about the occasional personal call at work or chatting when the floor is quiet. She’ll either tell me there’s some wiggle room for additional hours or there’s not. She won’t fire me for asking. With that silent pep talk out of the way, I knock on her door.

She looks up and jerks her head back in surprise, her long brown curls swaying with the movement. This is to be expected since I’ve never come by her office before without being summoned, and even that’s only happened once or twice. “Everything okay, Sabrina?”

“Do you have a minute?”

She tells me to sit, except there’s only one chair and an enormousbox of books is taking up all the seat space. I chew my lip. Do I remove it? Try to squeeze in next to it? Sit on top of it? I try lifting it first. “Umph.” It doesn’t budge.

Jenny chuckles. “Sorry about the box. Someone left it there this morning and I haven’t had time to do anything with it except confirm it’s too heavy to relocate without the help of a bodybuilder.”

“No problem.” I sit with three quarters of my butt dangling off the seat.

“What can I do for you?” she asks with a slight Southern drawl.

I take a calming breath. The only way to guarantee failure is to not even try. “I was wondering if there was any way I could take on more hours.”

Her eyebrows draw closer. “You’re working while studying for your master’s, right?”

“Yes. That’s kind of why I need more hours. Living expenses combined with paying interest on my student loans, well, it isn’t cheap.” I technically don’t need to start making payments until six months after I graduate, but my mom urged me to start earlier to lower the total cost. She’s the budgeting wizard; I just do what she says.

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