Page 36 of Niccolaio Andretti (The Five Syndicates)
I keep a sexy sway to my hips as I shake the Dean’s hand and wink at the live streaming camera on the side of the stage. There are hundreds of millionaires and billionaires in the crowd right now at Wilton’s commencement ceremony for law majors.
It’s probably wishful thinking, but a well-placed wink might garner the attention of one of them. Which I desperately need, since I have until tomorrow to move out of Vaserley Hall, and I still haven’t found a place to live.
The thought sends another forced edge to my smile, and the Dean whispers out of the corner of his mouth, “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes,” I lie unconvincingly.
He doesn’t comment, because let’s be real—he doesn’t actually care.
No one but Mina does, and that makes the idea of failing to obtain something on my checklist to get her back even more difficult to stomach.
There’s not a genuine smile on my face as I pose for one last photo for the commencement photographers positioned at the base of the stage. As soon as the last picture is taken, I wipe the contrived smile off of my face before exiting on the opposite side of the stage and joining the rest of the graduates that have already been called on by the Dean.
I sit down beside a stranger, and after another moment, the next graduate to walk on the stage sits down on the other side of me. She’s a stranger, too. And as I sit between them, wedged between two people I don’t know on what should be one of the proudest moments of my life, I can’t help but feel miserable.
These two probably have family members and friends in the crowd.
Me?
I have no one.
I can’t bring Mina without anyone to watch her during the ceremony. I have no idea where my dad is. The woman who birthed me is about as reliable as Dollar Tree condoms. My only friends had their commencement ceremonies yesterday and have already left the state.
That just leaves me.
This is my greatest personal accomplishment, and I’m alone.
How did I get here?
After the commencement ceremony ends, I’m forced to choose between mingling in the crowd of wealthy patrons and honoring an appointment I made with a potential roommate I found on Craigslist two days ago.
The Craigslist post calls for a female roommate to live in an extra room in an apartment on Broadway and White—rent free in exchange for cleaning services. I would have to clean the entire apartment, wash dishes every day, and cook meals three times a day. The groceries would be paid for by the other roommate/tenant.
If it’s just me, this would be a sweet deal.
But it’s not.
I have Mina.
And doing this gig means there will be no time to get a full time job, which I need if I’m going to be able to afford a Social Services approved apartment, earn a stream of income stable enough to support a handicapped preteen, and acquire a steady living environment.
Oh, and pay for a lawyer to file for custody. I would do it myself, but I don’t have a J.D yet, which I might need, should I have to sue for custody.
But living at this place will give me time to find a decent job, study for my LSATs, and wait for an affordable apartment to open up.
On one hand, this is the best deal I’ve found that allows me to live near Mina’s state run group home without having to pay an obnoxious amount of New York City rent.
On the other hand, if this is anything like the last Craigslist post I answered, I’m better off finding a rich man to leech off of in the crowd of wealthy New Yorkers attending the Wilton commencement ceremony today.
But I can’t take the risk that I might not find someone, so as soon as I am able to, I race back to my dorm and change into navy blue dress pants and a cute, white blouse. I brush my hair quickly and look in the mirror, satisfied that I look respectable without looking like I have a stick lodged up my butt.
If I was looking for a roommate, this is how I’d want her to look like.
I wince when I look at the time. I don’t have enough time to walk to the appointment, so I call an Uber, which is thankfully still connected to John’s black AmEx. I slipped the card in John’s mailbox the day after the fiasco, but I forgot to delete the card from my Uber account.
I’m thankful for that now when the Uber driver pulls up and gets into the car. I give him the address and spend the car ride thinking about what happened less than a week ago.
Maybe I should have called the cops.
