Page 6 of That Fake Feeling
Iknow what happens next.
Iwas there.
Also,I’veseen this footage before.
Idrop my head into my hands as everyone else around the table gasps and winces.
Ilook back up to see the video stopped and zoomed in on the poor woman’s horrified face peering over my shoulder asIlie on top of her in a bed of smashed tomato plants.
“That,”Sterlingsays, “isRoseBellamore.Theperfect candidate.”
2
ROSE
Ishould be finishing my essay,SocialandEmotionalLearningin aSafeandInclusiveEnvironment.It’sdue in a couple of days for the summer classI’mtaking for my master’s program in special education.ButallIcan do is sit cross-legged on my bed, flicking between three tabs on my laptop, hoping ifIdo it enough times, they’ll tell me something different.
Thefirst is my student loan portal, the next is my tuition bill for the fall semester, and the third is my bank account.
Noneof them is good.
Evenwith great tips from serving at the cocktail bar and income from my other jobs at the college library and cleaning for a family on theUpperWestSide,Idon’t know howI’mgoing to be able to afford the second year.
Idid have a well-paid summer job lined up doing research for one of my professors.Butshe had to fly back toSwitzerlandto deal with a family emergency a month ago, and that was the end of that.Thework would have been time-consuming, which is whyIenrolled in only one summer class.Sonow hereIam, neither earning any extra cash nor taking as many courses asIcould have.
Icould switch to a cheaper school, in a cheaper location, butI’vehad my heart set on studying atNYUfor my master’s andPhDfor years.There’sno way in hellI’mbudging from my plan.Therehas to be a way.
Thecosts are killing me, though.Theonly reasonIcan even afford to live in this place is because my roommate inherited this rent-controlled apartment from her grandmother.It’stiny, but it’s cheap.Well, byNewYorkstandards.Bestof all, it doesn't have those charming featuresIfound in everything elseIlooked at whenImoved to the city.Youknow, unidentifiable aromas, families of cockroaches, clanking plumbing, or all three.
AndBrittney’sokay.She’sa little self-absorbed, but at least she doesn’t have three guinea pigs who run free and poop everywhere.Noris she obsessed with antique dolls that line every horizontal surface and look like they might kill me in my sleep.Bothactual examples of potential roommatesImet beforeIfoundBrittneyand the only affordable, non-terrifying room in the city.
Iflop back on my gingham comforter.Thispopcorn ceiling could use a facelift.Socould the whole room really.Mytwin bed takes up about a third of it.Theonly other furniture is a desk, a chair, and a small armoire.
Whenit comes to my financial situation, maybeIshould try to approach it likeIwould any other overwhelming problem—break it down and tackle one piece at a time.
Thefirst thingIneed to do is to finish that damn essay orIwon’t have a second year to worry about paying for.ThenI’llapply for the assistant positionProfessorGrantjust posted.It’snot many hours, but it would slot in between my other jobs.
Myphone rings by my side.Withoutlooking,Ianswer and pull it to my ear.Iknow exactly who this will be and why she’s calling.
“Theone in the orange-and-white box,”Isay without waiting for the question.
Brittney’sstopping off at the grocery store on her way home from work, and she calls every timeIask her to pick up toothpaste because she forgets which oneIuse.
“I’msorry?” says a male voiceIdon’t recognize. “Erm,I’mlooking forRoseBellamore?”
Ipull the phone away from my head.Unknownnumber.
Great, just whatIneed. “Whateveryou’re selling,Idon’t want it.AndIdefinitely can’t afford it.”
There’sa chuckle on the other end. “Oh,I’mnot selling anything,MissBellamore.I’mcalling with a job opportunity.”
Ipush myself upright and try to switch to a more professional state of mind.
“Areyou calling fromProfessorGrant’soffice?”
“No,MissBellamore.Myname’sSterling.I’mcalling on behalf ofConnorDashwood.”
Who? “I’msorry,who?”
