What Happens in Paris

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Chapter One

When I saw the look on my academic adviser’s face, I almost passed out.

Every time I’d met with Miss Silvestra, she’d been bubbly enough that Elmo would have looked depressed next to her. This time, though, her lips were drawn in a thin, tight line, and her eyes looked worried.

I gripped the edges of the ugly orange chair in her office, high above the quad, and tried to breathe.

Miss Johnson, what can I do for you? Her voice was subdued, and I winced. I’d never heard her so quiet.

This was so not going to go well.

I wanted to know if the scholarship extends to summer classes. I, um, wanted to get a few extra studio hours this summer. Nervously, I fiddled with a chunk of dark-blond hair that had pushed its way past my headband.

She sighed. Miss Johnson, about your scholarship.

Miss Silvestra paused, and I felt like the world was holding its breath. Or maybe that was just me.

She cleared her throat. In usual circumstances, the scholarship does allow for a minimal number of summer credits. However, she looked away and straightened a pad of sticky notes on her desk, your circumstances are no longer usual.

What do you mean?

What I mean, Miss Johnson, is you have been placed on academic probation due to your grades last semester.

I slumped in my seat. I knew I’d almost failed English Lit, but I hadn’t realized it would affect my scholarship. But what does that even mean?

You will not receive any more funds from your scholarship until you can pull your GPA back to a 3.0.

How am I going to pay for the classes, though? I decided to try sympathy. Miss Silvestra had been working with me for two years; surely she remembered why I’d been awarded the scholarship in the first place. Artistic excellence had landed me enough money to buy my books each semester, but the fact that my mom was back in school for her bachelor’s (and the fact that she’d been the sole breadwinner for most of my life) had led to the college offering me one of the juicy full rides reserved for students with extreme financial need. There was no way I could pay for classes on my own.

My adviser smiled at me sympathetically. It’s not the end of the world. Many students have to seek federal assistance to realize their goals.

It took a minute for her words to sink in. You want me to get a loan?

Only until you are able to raise your GPA again. Once you’re at a 3.0, your scholarship will be reinstated.

I frowned. Would I get the money back for the classes I have to take until then?

She paused. Unfortunately, no. In cases of academic probation, the responsibility rests solely with the student.

I slumped into the hard plastic chair. That’s not fair.

I’m truly sorry, Camie. That’s simply college policy.

God, how was I going to tell my mom? She’d flip out. Getting loans for her degree had been hard enough for her to stomach; what would she say when she found out I needed loans, too? Mom still had the mentality that if you couldn’t pay cash for a thing, it wasn’t worth having, and it had taken a whole lot of badgering from my sister and me before she agreed that in her case, maybe a degree (and the job that hopefully waited at the end of it) was worth a few loans. No way she’d agree to me getting loans; the only reason I was in art school at all was the scholarship. Mom was sure I wouldn’t have any job when I graduated, but the free ride made her proud. You can always work at the salon until you figure things out, and you won’t be any worse off than when you started. She’d been saying that since I graduated from high school, and while it grated on me, she had a point. Because of my scholarship, I had been free to do what I wanted in college and put off worrying about the real world indefinitely.

Until now.

Suddenly, I was afraid I might burst into tears. I stood up and forced a smile. Thanks for letting me know. I guess I’ll figure something out for this summer.

Miss Silvestra nodded and stood up with me. It’s pretty easy to apply for federal assistance. There’s more information on this website. She handed me a pamphlet and clasped my hand for a minute. Her eyes searched mine, and I could tell she wanted to say something else, so I choked back my tears and waited.

Finally, she sighed. The first few years of college can be challenging. Is there anything you need to talk about, Miss Johnson? Anything I might be able to help with?

Wordlessly, I shook my head, but she pressed on.

Do you need me to schedule an appointment with the tutor? Have you spoken to your English teacher to find out why you did so poorly?

I forced myself to nod. I know what happened.

She looked relieved. And I assume you are already making strides to fix the problem?

I nodded again. Yes. No way was I going to explain it to her, but luckily, she didn’t ask.

Chapter Two

When I finally escaped from the advising office, I made it out onto the quad before I started to cry. It wasn’t the mess with the scholarship that pushed me over the edge, or even the thought of trying to get loans.

It was the raw, open wound that started oozing when Miss Silvestra asked me about the problem. God, I wondered, standing there staring up at the sun and blinking tears away like an idiot, how long would it take me to stop crying over him?

When Jim and I had started dating in the fall, it had been perfect. He was a psych major, and his serious expression, messy hair, and hipster glasses had won my heart during an ethics-class debate. It had seemed ideal in the spring when we’d been able to sign up for another class together. Our major courses didn’t have much overlap (although he kept trying to tell me that there was art in the study of the mind), but we both needed another English course, so we signed up for Victorian Lit together.

I thought it would be romantic, studying such great works of literature alongside my first college boyfriend. And it was, until he broke up with me before the midterm. Not, like, literally before the midterm, but the weekend before when we were supposed to study together. I was waiting at the coffee shop near campus, and he called to say he wouldn’t be coming. He said he needed space, and that he thought we should see other people, and I didn’t say anything until he hung up, and then I cursed out loud and scared the baristas. I haven’t been back to the coffee shop since, and I pretty much stopped going to Victorian Lit, too.

The professor gave me a mercy pass, based on my grades and how well I did on the final exam (which I did show up to take), but she told me sternly that I should have failed the class due to my lack of class participation. I hadn’t really cared then, but now that that pesky little grade had yanked my scholarship away, I wished I’d pleaded harder with the prof. Maybe she would have gone easier on me if she’d known why I’d suddenly started ditching the class.

Or maybe she wouldn’t have even given me the mercy pass.

I got my tears under control and sank down on the brick wall at the edge of the quad. The brilliant blue sky was filled with wispy clouds, and it was like the perfect spring weather was mocking me. How dare it be so beautiful when everything was going so horribly wrong?

Feeling sorry for myself, I headed across campus to my dorm. The terms of the scholarship stipulated that I had to live on campus for the duration of my degree, and I hadn’t really minded spending the past two years in the dorms. But as I let myself into the army-green door, I felt a twist of loathing. Why did I need to stay there now that I’d lost my scholarship? Maybe I’d get an apartment by myself. It would be nice to have a little space. And a kitchen.

My roommate, Shauna, was sprawled across the small floor, making it impossible to come into the room. Impatiently, I kicked her foot and she rolled over to wave. You’re back early.

She didn’t move, so I finally dropped my backpack inside the door and climbed over her, heading for my desk chair in the farthest corner of the room. "It