Page 11 of All That Glitters
“Six hours,” Tony corrected.
“See,” Matt grinned. “He’s already calculated the drive time.”
“That’s because I used to live there.”
“Mm hmm,” Jeff said. “And it happened to be stored conveniently at your fingertips.”
With an annoyed groan, Tony folded the newspaper and stood up. “You guys and your conspiracy theories have fun. I’m gonna go apply for that telecommunications job before they close.”
“Wait,” Jeff said. “Aren’t you forgetting to give me Debbie’s phone number?”
“No,” Matt said. “He was going to give it to me.”
Tony just ignored them and hurried off.
While Tony was across the desert dodging his friends’ questions and pondering careers that didn’t get him maced, Debbie had her own post-graduation midlife crisis to deal with. At 22-years-old with a college degree, she still lived at home with her parents, still slept in the same bed she’d had since she was a kid, and still drove the same car she’d had since high school. If her life was a pond, it would have mosquitoes buzzing over it from being stagnant for so long.
Something had to change; and in a rare stroke of luck for her, that change came courtesy of the US Postal Service that afternoon.
“Mail’s here, Mom,” Debbie called out as she shouldered through the front door, her arms loaded with letters of every size and shape. “Lots of it.”
She dumped the pile onto the kitchen table and made a quick scan of it. It looked pretty much like the pile she had fetched yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. There were student loan notices, credit card applications, insurance offerings for things she didn’t even know she was supposed to worry about. Even one from AARP, which quickly went into the trash.
Her mother walked in from the laundry room carrying a basket of towels. Carol Campbell had the prematurely gray, patient demeanor of someone who had raised a chronically accident-prone child without losing her sanity.
“Anything for grown-ups in there?” her mother asked.
Debbie was already sorting the envelopes into separate piles. “Grown-up pile has the bills in it,” she said, then paused as her fingers found an envelope that made her heart skip. The return address showed ‘San Diego University Office of Admissions’ in official blue letters.
She had almost forgotten about the application. She had sent it in on a whim a few months back, then forgot about it. It had asked for an essay about her educational goals and teaching philosophy, and she wrote about wanting to make learning about the Renaissance Masters and artistic influences over the centuries feel like an archaeological adventure rather than a requirement.
“Whatcha got there?” her mother asked, setting down the laundry basket to have a look.
Debbie tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter inside it. Her eyes scanned the letter quickly, then more slowly, then a third time to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating.
“Holy smoke!”
“I take it that means it’s good,” her mother said.
“It’s from San Diego University,” Debbie said, still staring at the letter as if it might change its mind and rewrite itself. “They accepted me into their art history program. They’re even giving me a scholarship.”
“San Diego?” her mom said, with the same tone she would have used if Debbie had said she wanted to join the circus.
“You know, place that’s not eight hundred degrees and has a beach.” Debbie tried to sound as casual as possible about the fact that her life might soon take a sudden turn toward the Pacific Ocean.
“And miles from Europe, which is where you were planning to study next semester.”
Debbie winced. The Europe plan was one her mom had been pushing. It would be a semester abroad in France studying art history and, quote, building character and expanding her worldview. For the painfully shy Debbie, the thought of being somewhere she didn’t know anyone sounded about as fun as a root canal. But she’d applied anyway, and was relieved when she never received an acceptance in the mail.
“Wasplanning,“ Debbie corrected. “Past tense. Ancient history. Dead parrot.”
“But you were so excited about it. And you sent in your application and everything.”
“I think that was you who was excited about Europe, Mom. And besides, they didn’t accept me.”
“You don’t know that, honey. Maybe it’s just taking them time to decide.”
“Bummer for them.”
