The shuttle line snaked out from the shadow of the administration building and into the weak autumn sun. Melanie kept her eyes glued to her phone, using the screen's glow as a shield. She hated the feeling of being exposed in a crowd, especially here, on the sprawling, intimidating Northwood campus.
"Hey, you're Melanie, right? I saw you leave the dorm earlier. Since we're in the same building and taking the same course, I hope we can go to lectures together sometime."
Melanie flinched, pulling her gaze up. Standing a few inches too close was a young woman with a halo of perfectly styled hair, a blinding smile, and a confidence that hit Mel like a physical force. She was beautiful, dressed in clothes that whispered 'expensive,' and absolutely fearless in her approach.
Caught completely off-guard, Mel felt a flush rise to her cheeks. She was instantly awkward, her tongue heavy. "Oh, okay," she managed, the sound barely a breath. She quickly dropped her gaze back to the queue, praying the girl would take the hint. I am not ready for this level of social.
The anxiety of that crowded shuttle line made her mind drift back—back to the night she realized she was going to be here.
She was home, alone in the quiet of her bedroom, holding her breath. An email from Northwood, the one she'd been checking every five minutes for a week, had just landed. Her one shot.
The moisture was heavy on her brow, cold sweat beading on her hairline. She brought her tiny index finger to tap the message, the screen threatening to smudge under the layer of anxiety. One application, one chance. The silent promise she'd made was a lead weight in her gut.
She vividly recalled the look in her father's eyes when he'd signed off on the single, staggering application fee—a look of pure, raw worry that screamed, 'This better work, Mel. We can't do this again.'
With a frantic, silent prayer, she tapped the screen.
"Yes!!... Mom! Dad! I've been accepted to Northwood!" A joyous, ragged summon erupted from her lungs, bringing her parents running from the kitchen downstairs.
"What's wrong, hun? Is everything okay?" Mrs. Donaldson asked, her face pale with fright, the tension in her voice dissolving only as she saw Mel's ecstatic, tear-streaked face.
"Mom, Dad, the email! I got in! The only one I applied to, and I made it!" Melanie informed them, sinking onto her bed in a wave of relieved tremors.
Mrs. Donaldson was filled with both joy and relief, having advised—begged—Mel against her stubborn, all-or-nothing decision. Mr. Donaldson crossed the room in two strides, pulling his daughter into a proud, tight hug. "I never doubted you for a minute, sweetheart. I'm so incredibly proud."
Her mother quickly excused them, rushing to the kitchen to prepare Mel her favorite lasagna, the house suddenly filled with a light, joyous energy that had been absent for months. Melanie Donaldson was an adored only daughter, treated like fragile, precious glass. They had instilled good morals, but sometimes the over-pampering had been a shield against the real world.
Now, she was finally here, on campus. Though she missed the predictable, suffocating comfort of home, Mel felt a fierce, burning impatience for the life she had started. She had made the necessary preparations, completely oblivious to the person–and the brutal financial reality–that Northwood had truly held in store for her.