Funny how I never gave much thought to how much classes cost when I was on a full-ride scholarship. Funny how I never thought about a lot of things.
But there was nothing funny about losing my scholarship right before the second semester of my senior year. Especially since I go to Southern University, “an Ivy-League-inspired school nestled in a Tennessee small town.” Who falls for that bullshit? But every year, one thousand or so new students find their way to our “picturesque campus, to embark on their exciting new lives.”
Embark on their exciting new lives, my ass.
The majority of students who attend Southern University are dripping in money. Their daddies have their future all figured out for them. I’m part of the one percent, the unlucky few who didn’t come to school with trust funds and beemers and daddy’s gold card. Those of us who were raised on PB&J and got old clunkers when we turned sixteen. We’re here on a combination of scholarships and student loans. Although, at this moment, I can’t figure out why we bother.
But that’s a lie. I came here because I was given a full-ride scholarship based on academic merit and financial need. I was a local boy, so it made sense to live at home and let my scholarship money do the heavy lifting for my college education. The reputation of the mechanical engineering department helped. It was a no-brainer that ended up biting me in the ass.
No, Sabrina Richmond bit me in the ass.
The prof starts to change the graph and I’ve only written down half the information on the screen. Son of a bitch. I don’t know a single person in this class other than a passing acquaintance with a cute red-headed freshman who has let me borrow her notes before, but she’s not here today. I’m fucked. Again.
When class is almost over, Dr. Kensington reminds us that there will be an exam in our next class. I consider asking my boss for Sunday night off. But Uncle Tony’s short-staffed after one of our bartenders quit, which means I work enough for two people some nights. It’s exhausting, especially on a busy night, but the girls like me and they leave me good tips when I flirt. Christ knows I need all the cash I can get. But I’ll be the first to admit that I can’t wing this exam. I’m going to have to put in some solid hours of studying.
I can’t afford to take off work and I can’t afford not to.
I pack up my bag and head for the Higher Ground coffee shop. I can load up on caffeine and study before my next class, Topics in Stress Analysis. It’s a tough course, but it’s math intensive, which has always been easy for me. Using equations to evaluate thermal stress is something that’s squarely in my comfort zone, much more so than Dr. Kensington’s interminable lecture about the industrial revolution. I would so much rather study the geniuses who created the technology that simplified our lives than I would the slum lords who profited off lower income workers, but that’s exactly why I’m behind in history.
The cold February wind blows across the picturesque campus. Girls clutch their coats and run toward the scattered buildings. I’m not surprised to see a line at the coffee shop, but I am surprised that the line isn’t out the door. The Higher Ground is the only place on campus that serves decent coffee, and it’s a cold Friday morning.
I order a cup of black coffee, exactly what I always order. A couple gets up from a two-person table and I snag a chair and plop my bag on the table. I can get in an hour of study time if I get right to work.
I’ve been at it for at least half an hour when someone sits in the chair across from me. Irritated by the interruption, I glance up at Tucker Price, campus ex-soccer star. We’re no more than passing acquaintances, so I’m surprised he’s decided to sit with me.
“How’s it going, Masterson?” Tucker asks.
I wave my hand over my open book and notes. “History’s kicking my ass. What about you?”
“Never better.” His grin lights up his face. Everyone at Southern knows he quit the Chicago Fire to come back to Southern and his girlfriend. Most people think he’s an idiot, but I’ve got to respect a guy who puts his relationship before money and a pro-soccer career. I doubt you’ll find anyone else on this fucking campus who would do that. Still, he and his girlfriend are such opposites that you’d never imagine them together. Who knows, though, maybe that’s what makes it work.
“That’s awesome, dude. I couldn’t be happier for you,” I say. And I mean it.
“I’m surprised I haven’t seen you on Saturday mornings.”
My confusion must be obvious, because he jumps in with an explanation. “You always came to Kyle’s soccer games last fall. I thought you’d come to his basketball games too. He’s a hell of a player, and he’s a great leader for the team too.”
“Oh,” I say as I make the connection. I can’t help but smile. I love my kid brother, maybe because I spent so much time taking care of him growing up. Not many preteen boys learn about child care, but I was forced to when our mom split, leaving baby Kyle behind. “You’re Kyle’s basketball coach.”
His brow lowers. “He didn’t tell you he was on my team?”
“I haven’t talked to him in a few weeks. I’ve been busy.” Which is true. I knew he was playing basketball, but I’ve been working as a janitor at a local office building on Saturday mornings. The main reason I haven’t been at his games, though, is that my father has decided I’m a bad influence on my eleven-year-old brother. How ironic that I was exactly the opposite just a few months ago. But Kyle has been caught in the middle of my fallout with my dad, and I miss the little guy more than I care to admit. I can thank fucking Sabrina for that one. “I’ve got a job on Saturdays. I can’t make his games.”