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I breathed in deeply from my diaphragm, like I used to during my brief experimentation with yoga.

“Because it's not really your money.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, it's really Grant's money . . .”

Bethany slammed the glass down on the table with a clang.

“If that's how you really see me,” she hissed. “Then you shouldn't take it!”

“Bethany . . . ,” I began.

Then my sister put a lavender-scented mask over her eyes and stopped talking to me for the rest of the afternoon. This went totally unnoticed by my mother, who had put her treatment time to good use by compiling a list of “eligible bachelors” she could set me up with.

Only I would end a Darling Day of Pampering more wound up than when I started.

the twenty-eighth

The last time I spoke to someone in university housing about my plight, I was advised to call back at the end of the month. So I did. And it turns out that I am totally and completely screwed.

“Well, I can't promise you anything,” the anonymous woman said, “but we might be able to offer you a walk-through double in Wein. With a first-year student as a roommate.”

I laughed heartily at her joke. I stopped when I realized that I was the only one cracking up.

“Wait,” I said in between chuckles. “You weren't serious, were you?”

“I've got no time for jokes.”

“Wein? WEIN? Wein is—pardon my language, but it's the only appropriate description—the shittiest shithole on campus. And I didn't live with a first year even when I was a first year! What makes you think I'd want to live with one now?”

“You should have participated in the lottery with the rest of the rising seniors,” she said curtly. “If this becomes available, you should take it because it might be the only vacancy.”

I don't think it's possible for them to have come up with a less desirable living arrangement. A sleeping bag under the scaffolding on Broadway and 125th is looking better and better.

“So?” she asked.

“I'll be in touch,” I said noncommittally before hanging up.

So let's just say that I was in a pretty foul mood when I showed up for work. Today's topic: WORK HARD! PLAY HARD! LIVE EASY! The idea was that if you struck the right balance between academics and social activities, you'll be carefree. I wasn't up to the task and it showed.

Oh, did it show.

“You need to take this job more seriously,” warned Geoff.

“Our future is in your hands,” Will said.

“Now I know why you didn't get into Harvard,” said Maddie. “No work ethic.”

And that's when I kind of lost it.

“I was like you once,” I said. “And you know what?”

“What?” they all asked.

“I wish that someone had told me what I'm about to tell you.”

They all inched forward until they were literally on the edges of their seats.

“None of this matters.”

“What?!”

“NONE OF THIS MATTERS.” I pounded my fist on Geoff's desk for emphasis, making him yelp in surprise. “You can get into an Ivy League school and earn a 4.0 GPA while you're there and get all the right jobs and internships and résumé builders and still be a complete and total fuckup.”

My three charges gasped, which should have stopped me. But it didn't.

“You can still do everything right, and yet have no clue what you want to do with your life because none of the jobs your major has prepared you for seem at all appealing. And so your only logical choice is graduate school, which means you're faced with four or six or eight more years of education that you're not financially prepared to pay for because you can't even afford to pay rent and will have to live in a cardboard box because your ex-boyfriend started fucking his ex-girlfriend while you were out working two jobs to pay for the education that you severely doubt will ever pay you back because you picked a major that is largely useless unless you attend four or six or eight more years of school.”

Their faces had all turned whiter than the dry-erase board. I had a feeling it wasn't because I was now repeating myself, which I had taught them was a major no-no in personal statements. Taking my own advice, I returned to my original point.

“Your parents and teachers