Summer Sanders is going through it. The pressures of school are mounting, and her home life is completely falling apart. Feeling bored and lonely on a Saturday night, she decides to get buzzed and surprise her hookup buddy with her best lingerie. Th...
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OF ALL THE places a college student would want to be on a late Saturday afternoon, the dingy halls of the financial aid office would surely be towards the bottom.
I wish there was a better word to describe the atmosphere, but dingy seems to encapsulate it best. The stale walls carry a shade of white that makes the room feel cold instead of bright, and overhead lights give off a subdued yellow glow, barely lighting the room.
I scrunch my nose trying to understand the lingering smell of sawdust. There hasn't been any recent construction. Hell, the place looks like it hasn't been renovated since 2005. Pennwood was not a school low on money. It was like they made a conscious effort to invest in every building on campus besides this one.
My foot taps away against the floor causing the unsteady wooden bench I sit on to creak. I have to refrain myself from biting off another nail after mindlessly massacring my left hand. I can't help it. It's like I'm awaiting a death sentence. One confirmation of the hold on my account is all it will take to carry it out.
"Simpson will see you now." The young receptionist's tone is hurried and cold. She rigidly pulls back a strand of blonde hair that falls out of her bun, rolling her eyes before she stomps back to her desk.
The attitude is a little unwarranted, but not completely unjustified. I did charge in minutes before the office closed refusing to leave without seeing an advisor. I mean, I only received the notification an hour ago and the semester starts on Monday. I had to put up a fight. If I don't get this settled today, I'm screwed out of my classes.
I nod, quickly following the receptionist's motion toward the office door. Upon entering, Simpson lifts his head up to give a friendly grin, before falling back down to the computer screen he types away on.
"Ms. Sanders, have a seat."
The office is small and minimal. Simpson's desk takes up most of the space, with an array of family photos placed on it.
"What can I help you with today?" He adjusts the glasses on his wide face, boring his grey eyes into me.
God, my heart is beating through my chest. And I'm hot, really hot. Is the heat on max? There should be no reason why I'm sweating in mid January, yet it feels like my body is on fire nonetheless.
"I'm trying to understand why there's a hold on my account. I thought—I mean—I made sure everything was situated so I'd be about to start spring semester without any issues." My eyes linger on a whiff of his copper hair, rather than meeting his gaze.
"I see." He types away almost aggressively. "So, you did fail two classes last semester and dropped another one."
"Yes, but I took two classes in the winter to make up for it. My advisor said that should be enough to retain my scholarship." My voice comes out almost like a choke. A sense of embarrassment flashes through me from the reminder.
