Namea

Jane Austen once famously proclaimed in her timeless classic, Pride and Prejudice: "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."

I suppose you could say that's still applicable today, barely, but still accurate.

However, today shall be known as a momentous one as I am making my own proclamation.

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a struggling college student, in their senior year, must be in want of a vacation."

Sound too close to the original? Well, I tried. Please don't sue for copyright infringement. Well, I mean you can, but considering the only thing you'll get out of me is a bus pass, about a gazillion (Is it even still acceptable to use that?) notebooks and a large sum of debt (gotta love those student loans, huh?), it really isn't worth the trouble.

As Taylor laments to me about another heartbreak via some song off her latest album, I make my way across campus. I chose the wrong day to diss my jacket. There's a chill in the air and the winds are pretty aggravated today and both of those combined create an awkward and uncomfortable walk for moi.

Honestly, it's September for crying out loud. It cannot be 75 degrees, yet feel like 50. I mean, it can, but where is the justice?

"Sorry," My eyes form into slits as some Beats wielding, negative GPA having athlete, 'accidentally' bumps into me.

"You should be," I shoot back harshly and politely make my way past his tall form. I hear him call out for me, using some colorful adjectives, but I offer him no response. Well, no verbal response, at least.

My finger needed a good stretching anyway.

God, I can't wait until I'm out of this place.

College has been a pleasant experience. I guess. I was never on academic probation, never at risk of getting kicked out of the dorms and I've managed to make it thus far without getting knocked up. So, I think I'm doing pretty good. My grades are phenomenal, if I do say so myself.

I've gotten so used to the intelligence deficient athletes and the sweet, but sometimes frustrating, mentally challenged students, that my on campus job as a writing tutor has actually become the highlight of my day.

It probably helps that I'd probably die if I were ever unable, for whatever reason, to write...

"You're late," is the first thing I hear as I step foot into Dr. Blake's large office. He once joked that the stress that came with getting his Ph.D allowed him the honor of having an office that's bigger than my dad's entire apartment back home. Not quite sure if I can agree with his belief, but the insanely comfy leather chairs make up for any doubt or disagreement I may have.

"I'm sorry," I lie, swinging my backpack off my, well, back, and dropping it to the floor. "I lost track of time." Reluctantly, I pull Queen Bey away from my ear just as she was about to explain to me what happens when you mix that Negro with that Creole.

He doesn't remove his eyes from his desktop as he continues to type away. Probably typing up one of his infamous "class dismissal notification" letters aka the ones you get from a professor when you've been dropped from their class. Another thing I've managed to avoid my four years here.

Seriously though, where is my medal? Certificate? Sticker? I'm not picky.

He grunts and glances at me, studying my body language. I shift under his lingering gaze. I'm not uncomfortable in any way. Dr. Blake is one of favorite professors. I trust him to not be stupid and try anything, not that he ever would, but I'm just saying.

"I won't keep you long because I assume by your insistence on coming down instead of email correspondence, that your answer is one I will find pleasing."

"Hmm," I purse my lips and look off into the corner of the high tray ceiling. "Define pleasant Dr. Blake."

"How about I define an F?"

"Close enough," I reply right and chuckle. Gulping and smoothing down the rough denim of my Forever XXI jeans, I shut my eyes. "I've decided to accept the offer."

Opening my own eyes, I'm met with surprise and relief. I'm sure he wasn't expecting that answer, but was hoping to hear it.

As if breaking out of his trance, he claps his hands together, and swivels around in his chair. Papers clash with one another and incoherent mumbles of irritancy leave his mouth as he searches for something.

"Ah," he says with a straight face and pleasant tone of voice. "Here is all the required paperwork for you to fill out."  I take the hefty folder from his outstretched hand and gasp.

He laughs, "Too much for you?"

"Never," I exclaim dramatically and drop the folded into my Betsy Johnson bag. "When do you need it back?"

"Preferably, before 5pm tomorrow, but given I know your situation and such..."

"Don't worry I'll have it back to you by then," my tone becomes testy and understandably so. I make it a priority to avoid having my personal life interfere with my educational and professional responsibilities. This is common knowledge and even with the strange circumstances surrounding this whole thing; I don't want to risk putting anything into the universe that could change that.

"Oh, and I would like the 5,000 to go toward my tuition as well." 5,000 cash sounds so clutch right about now, but it also screams danger. A weakness of mine has always been spending. I'd blow through that money faster than Kim Kardashian goes through men.

See, I'm not so perfect after all.

He smiles softly, "I figured as much." A beat. "Are you absolutely sure you're up to this?"

"Dr. Blake," I start off with a wry smiled "I'm a college kid with debt up to my ears waiting for me as soon as I walk across that stage in May, an overload of classes just beating at my door for next semester and the remainder of an internship this experiment will get me out of, looking for me." Picking up my bag and swinging it over my shoulder, I stretch and rise up off the sofa. "I can't afford not to be."

He leans back and looks up at me, "You know once you turn that folder in and your name is on the dotted line, that's it. There's no backing out."

I grin and make my way to the door, placing my small hand on the cool knob. "Why would I run from a vacation?"

He just laughs at my lame sense of humor and swivels back around to continue his typing. I don't bother waiting for him to let me know our meeting is over. That's made pretty obvious.

After all, I don't really do waiting. Not since my mom.

I'm spent days waiting for her to come back from the store. Sometimes I wish I still had that belief she just never came back, but she did.

She actually did, but it was just in a body bag.

Yeah, it's definitely time for a vacation.