Page 4 of Safety Net
“You’ve got this. Keep focusing and you’ll walk across the stage with the rest of your friends next year.”
A simple smile and nod were enough to convince him that I believed in myself, too.
CHAPTER TWO
CELESTE
There was nothing like being stuck on the side of the highway, with cars blurring past you at eighty miles an hour, to make you come to a decision.
“I think I’m going to stop having social anxiety,” I shouted as a semi-truck that failed to switch lanes barreled by.
Naomi’s black braids whipped at her cheeks. Her brown skin beaded with sweat from the evening heat. She crouched at the front of my car, inspecting the tire that had decided to delay our journey home. “Come again? Couldn’t hear you over the roar of potential death.”
I waited for a break in traffic before I rolled over the spare tire. It had taken some elbow grease and a YouTube tutorial refresher, but we managed to get the car jacked up.
“Social anxiety disorder,” I said, now by her side. “I’m over it.”
She laughed and held out her hand for the wrench tucked in the waistband of my skirt. “Took you long enough.”
“I know.” I rolled my eyes. “Been dragging my feet for years. But you know how we are.”
“Obsessed with one another.” Naomi finished removing the lug nuts I’d loosened.
“Enthralled. It’s toxic.” I got into position to help her remove the tire. Dirt and grime from the rubber stamped our fingers. Between the summer sun and the dry air, we were huffing and puffing, trying to get the spare into place.
“What made you finally come to terms with this long-overdue breakup?” Naomi made a face as we struggled to align the tire’s holes with the wheel’s bolts.
I took a deep breath, readying myself before ripping off the band-aid. “My parents withdrew their financial support for school.”
Her hands fell from the tire, and I moved to the center to keep it in place.
“What?” she asked, louder due more to frustration’s sake than highway traffic interference. “When?”
“When they realized they weren’t getting a refund for the classes I dropped last semester. I missed the add/drop period.” I was usually better about that.
I was also better about curating my classes, so nothing stood in the way of completion. Unfortunately, ProfessorsScores.com failed me. Dozens of students there assured me the professors for my English and Art History courses didn’t require presentations. And if they did, I could convince them to let me write a ten-page paper instead.
Maybe the professors had new requirements. Maybe they were tired of reading ten-page papers. Maybe they didn’t like my timid email request. Whatever it was, they hadn’t budged. I tried to stick it out in the first few classes. Because perhaps there was a chance I could conquer almost twenty years of crippling anxiety in the span of a week.
It turns out, I made things worse. Now, I had an aversion to the sidewalks leading from the English building to the nearest working restroom. I also scared a group of touring high school seniors with my panicked throwing up, but I couldn’t dwell onthe nitty-gritty details…not when they made my stomach churn with aftershocks.
“So, what does this mean?” Naomi searched my face, confused at my nonchalance. What I hadn’t shared was that I cried for weeks about the situation. My best friend had enough on her plate—no need to add my deteriorating college experience to the combo.
“It means,” I said, grunting as I finished aligning the tire. It was my turn to hold out my hand in request for the wrench. “I don’t have enough money for the rest of my courses.”
“Celeste.” Seeing a frown on her face was foreign. “How long have you known this?”
“Since last semester.”
Her eyes widened. “You’ve kept this a secret that long?”
“It wasn’t a secret.” I almost pulled my bicep trying to tighten the first nut. Naomi noticed the struggle and leaned in again to help. She placed her hand over mine, and we tugged the wrench together.
“You could have asked for help,” she said.
“With what? Coming up with thousands of dollars in the span of four months?”
“I have a head for numbers.”
