ARIELLE

Chapter7

I spoke too soon.

A friendly reminder, guys: college comes with a lot of obligations. Financially.

I was sitting in my dorm room, surrounded by textbooks and notes, and catching up on reading for Dr. Reila's literature class, when my brain started wandering and doing calculations it wasn’t supposed to. I thought about how much I spent in one week on books, art supplies (that professors treated like oxygen), and all the small expenses that added up to a total that seemed almost impossible to afford, given how much I initially had in my savings account.

My savings account that was now smaller than it had been when I first arrived. By a large margin.

I pulled up my financial aid letter on my laptop, as if by looking at it enough, I could somehow change the numbers with my eyes. The full-time enrollment cost was approximately $28,000 per semester. My scholarship barely covered tuition, room, and board, but everything else was on me. I remembered the plane ticket I'd purchased for a campus visit, which I didn’t get to use. The car insurance and gas that transported me here. I had roughly $3,000 in savings, and if I kept up the energy with which I was spending, I'd be broke by mid-October.

The math was brutal in its simplicity: I needed a job pronto.

I mentioned it to Star over breakfast, trying to sound casual. She was halfway through explaining her latest short story idea when I interrupted.

"I need to get a job."

She put down her toast. "Like, a work-study job? The dining hall might be hiring. My friend from orientation said something about that."

"Anywhere," I admitted. "On campus, off campus, doesn't matter. I need to take action before I become financially handicapped."

Star's expression shifted into a mix of concern and determination when she saw how serious I was. "Okay, so you're going to apply everywhere. We'll figure this out. You're smart and hardworking, so I’m sure you'll be able to get something."

"What if I end up walking dogs or something?" I vented, my mind racing a million miles per second. I could already see the headline 'Arielle: Professional Poop Scooper.' Real glamorous.

She laughed, throwing her head back. "Better than nothing."

I spent the next three days applying to every job posting I could find. The dining hall, yes. The campus bookstore. The library, which felt particularly promising given how much time I spent there, anyway. A coffee shop in the town adjacent to campus. A small grocery store. I filled out applications with my phone in one hand and my laptop in the other, writing cover letters that said the same things in a slightly different order.

By the next week, I had gotten two interview offers. One from the campus bookstore for a position that paid minimum wage. It came with a free employee discount that might come in handy, considering my predicament. The other was from the Halebridge Library Café, tucked into a corner of the main library building. It also paid minimum wage plus tips, and seemed to operate under the assumption that college students had their afternoons free to work.

The bookstore interview turned out to be predictable in every sense. The manager was a woman who gave off a vibe that suggested she'd rather be anywhere else. I got asked standard questions about why I wanted to work there. Questions I already expected, all thanks to Star (bless her). I gave pre-rehearsed answers about being part of a campus community and having reliable availability. Her expression when I was done was that of someone who had heard that script many times and had stopped believing it.

"You can start next week," she said at the end, which wasn't a rejection, but wasn't exactly a warm welcome either.

Yeah. Only if that was my only option.

On the brighter side, the Library Café interview turned out differently.

It was scheduled for Thursday afternoon. I showed up fifteen minutes early, dressed in a corporate-casual outfit. My aim? To make an effort without too much effort. The café was small, boasting about twelve tables, a counter with espresso machines, a pastry case, and a back room I could see through the doorway that presumably held supplies. It was cozy in a way that felt intentional. The walls were lined with poetry books. There were also old novels arranged on a shelf near the windows in a neat stack, with a sign that read "Up for adoption."

Cute.

A woman who looked to be in her late fifties was wiping the counter when I arrived. She had kind eyes and gray streaks in her dark hair, which was pulled back in a neat bun. Her name tag read "Mara."

"You must be Arielle," Mara said, her smile reaching her eyes in a way the bookstore manager’s own hadn't. "I'm Mara, the manager of this place. It’s lovely to have you here."

We sat at one of the small tables, and she asked me questions I actually hadn’t expected. The reason I chose to go to school at Halebridge. My major. Whether I had any experience in food or customer service, which of course, I didn't. I had no experience relating with people outside of school or home.

"I'll be honest," Mara concluded, folding her hands on the table. "This job is harder than it looks. You'll be standing almost all the time, dealing with people who might be stressed about exams, papers, or projects. You'll have to learn espresso drinks and be friendly even when you're exhausted. But the tips can be generally good, and the environment is low-pressure. You can end your evening shifts by 6 pm, so you don’t work late nights, and we don’t open at all on Sundays." She smiled. "Plus, you get to listen to people talk about books all day, which is kind of lovely if you like that sort of thing."

"I do not mind that sort of thing," I said.

"Then you're hired. Can you start Saturday?"

The relief that flooded me was so immediate and intense, like a rushing wave, that I sat still for a moment. I had a job. Concrete proof that I’d have a steady stream of income.

"Yes," I said. "Thank you. I can definitely start Saturday."

Mara walked me through the basics that afternoon. How to clock in, where the supplies were kept, how to use the espresso machine, how the inventory system worked, and how to handle the register. She also told me the Wi-Fi password, which was a big plus, so I could look things up if I needed to. She was very patient and crystal clear, and not once did she make me feel stupid for not knowing any of it. I also had to confirm my specific work hours so they didn’t clash with school.

I made sure to watch Mara work for at least one hour before my actual shift. Doing that made me less terrified of the idea of getting things done myself.

The much-anticipated Saturday morning arrived, and it turned out to be a discovery.

I showed up at 9 am wearing the signature café uniform, black pants with a white shirt. The café was moderately full of students working on papers and people reading. There was one older man who kept on making direct eye contact while pointing at the espresso machine, all without saying anything.

"That's Dr. Pedro," Mara said in a hushed tone. "He's been ordering the same cappuccino at 9:15 am every Saturday for six years. Very reliable. Very quiet."

Very consistent, he should watch his caffeine levels.

My first shift was a blur. Mara stayed nearby, guiding me through the process. Take the order, ring it up, and make the drink if you know how; if not, ask. Hand it to the customer with a smile. Move on to the next customer. It was a very efficient arrangement.

For anyone but Arielle.

At first, I made terrible espresso drinks. Forgot to add milk to one customer’s cappuccino. I rang up someone's order wrong, had to void it, and start again. I even nearly dropped someone's latte. My hands shook the entire first two hours. My feet hurt. My brain felt like it was overheating from trying to do so many things at once.

But somewhere around noon, things got surprisingly better. My hands stopped shaking so much. I anticipated what customers might order based on the time and the vibe they gave when they walked in. The rhythm of it began to feel more like a familiar song and less chaotic.

By 6 pm, when I was finally allowed to take off my apron, I was super exhausted. Every single one of my muscles ached. My voice was hoarse from talking, and I smelled like espresso, milk, and everything Café.

I had, however, never felt more accomplished in my entire life.

I counted my tips in the dorm room that evening. Mara told me not to worry about it, that first shifts usually didn't yield much. But I had a total of $24.50 in a small ceramic cup next to the register, which I was given as a form of appreciation for the work I'd done.

$24.50 that I earned. Not money my mother had given me, or that was sitting pretty in my savings account. Profit I made today by working.

I spread the bills and coins out on my desk like they were the most valuable things I'd ever owned. Star came in, saw what I was doing, and laughed.

"First day tips?" she asked.

"First day of work ever," I said. "I've never had a job before."

She looked at me with an expression of pure admiration. "That's quite impressive. Most people our age have been working since high school."

"My parents were protective," I said, which was one way to describe how my mother had discouraged me from working after my father died. In reality, she had needed me home to manage the emotional labor of her grief. But Star didn't need that context. She just gave a slight nod and sat on my bed.

"So how was it?" she asked. "Besides the obvious exhaustion?"

"It was good," I said, surprised at myself. "It was hard, but it was good. Mara is super kind; you two could pass off as relatives. The customers weren't terrible, and I made money, which of course, is the whole point."

"Look at you being all independent," Star praised. "I love it for you."

I laughed it off.

Later that night, while Star was asleep and the campus had settled into night quiet, I added another entry into my journal.

First shift at the Library Café done. I made $24.50. My feet hurt, but I've never been happier about feeling exhausted.

I took a moment to think about what that meant. A few weeks ago, I left home with my savings and a vague plan. Now I was working. I had a life that felt real and solid and mine. I then added,

Looks like mom was wrong. I'm not the thing that went wrong; I only had to leave to figure out how to be okay.

And I was getting the hang of it.