“Could you call me back, it’s about a job.”

I deleted the voicemail. It was one of many calls I’d received for the number’s previous owner since getting my new phone. This mysterious previous owner was developing quite the interesting backstory as I pieced together all of the things I’d learned about them. I had absolutely no idea how to make the messages stop.

“You could just call them back,” my boyfriend, Colt offered, staring up at the ceiling of the dorm room, bored. “Tell them you’re not the person they’re trying to call.”

“Yeah, I could. But I’d have to call about 50 people at this point. This person was very popular.”

“I wonder who it was.”

“I wonder how none of these people know her number changed by now. It’s been months.”

“Maybe she’s dead.”

I sighed.

He continued, “Maybe… she disappeared and nobody reported it and she just stopped paying her bills so they put the number back into circulation.”

“Or maybe she’s in jail,” I said, playing along.

“Dude, you’ve got a dead girl’s phone.”

“No, her kids are still going to school. I get the automated announcement calls every day at six. They go to my old middle school. My number is on record as their emergency contact still...”

“And you haven’t cancelled those yet?”

“I shrugged. It’s not that annoying. It’s kind of cute to know when they have snow days and stuff. I don’t know, I just don’t want to call that place. It wasn’t exactly a great memory.”

“You need to get over yourself. It’s just a phone call.”

“I will. Geez. Get off my back.”

He rolled his eyes.

“You can’t just put off everything that’s uncomfortable.”

“I can too.” I stuck out my tongue just as my roommate came through our door.

Her eyes bounced between the two of us and she walked to her desk, switching her books out for her next class.

“Oh!” I gasped. I had lost track of time while Colt and I were sitting around. “My shift is about to start. Will you walk with me?”

He winced.

I instantly regretted asking in front of Hailey. I started gathering my bag and jacket so that I could be out the door before it got too painfully awkward. He got up to follow me outside, but I knew he wasn’t going to escort me all the way across campus to the coffee shop where I worked a couple days a week. I could tell from his expression he was looking for a way out of it.

“I don’t know, Radley. It doesn’t really make sense for me to walk all the way over there in the snow just to walk back.”

“Yeah, no I get it.” I shut the door behind us, and kept walking down the dormitory hallway. I was so embarrassed I didn’t care if he was still following me out of the building or not. It was stupid to ask.

If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

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I traded a couple hours of productivity for a scant jar of tips as I wound up having an overly busy shift at the coffee shop, only getting a few pages of reading done between customers. The serenity I felt hearing the milk froth, counting down the 25 seconds to the perfect espresso shot, smelling the freshly ground coffee beans, and zoning out while washing the latte mugs was worth it.

I loved the escape of the cafe, playing a character, an NPC for everyone else to interact with with those set lines, set roles, expectations exactly in place. It made up for all of the stress and uncertainty that the rest of the day brought.

All of that was over, though, and I needed to go back to my dorm to finish an assignment for that was giving me trouble. I sighed and passed my apron to Georgia, who was just coming in for her shift.

As I was walking back across campus, though, I found my feet leading me back towards the dance studios. Crunch after crunch sounded underfoot as my boots sunk into the iced-over snowfall. I was only halfway there when my phone pinged.

I fished it out of my duffel bag and saw that it was an email from the school.

Uh-oh. Did Mr. D'Angelo report me for using the studio? He didn’t seem angry… but I did break the rules…

I read the subject line: Notice of Program Ineligibility

That… doesn’t sound good.

Notice of Program Ineligibility.

Program Ineligibility.

Fuck.

I stopped dead in my tracks and the damp chill of the snow I’d been crunching underfoot began to seep into my boots. I shivered, both from the cold and the dread I felt reading those words. I tugged my gloves off so that I could swipe the email notification open to read the full notice.

Maybe it doesn’t mean what you think it means.

Denial. First stage of grief.

No, fuck. Shut up. Just read.

I skimmed over the opening paragraph three times before any of it sunk in.

Dear Radley Tabor,

Due to your GPA as of the mid-term period, we regret to inform you that you are at risk of losing your eligibility to remain in the Bachelor of Arts Contemporary Dance program at our institution.

If your GPA does not rise above 3.0 by the end of the semester, you will be removed from the program and must enter a non-honors program on a probationary term. We advise that you meet with your program counselor as soon as possible to discuss your options.

You will be able to audition for placement in the program at a later date if your academic standing improves.

Marjorie Sullivan

Performance Arts Chair

It was exactly what I was afraid it was.

Oh man.

My stomach felt suddenly empty and my limbs were reduced to a wobbly gelatinous mess. I knew I should have dropped that math course, there was no way I could make up enough ground in the class to have any hope of passing it, and now it was too late to withdraw and save the impending hit to my already very very sad grade point average.

Another notification pinged through.

A text message.

My mother.

Call me.

Of course she’s already read it. She snoops through my email more regularly than I do.

Enter anger. Second stage.

I can buckle down. Find a tutor. I can salvage this.

Aaaand bargaining. We’re speeding right through this.

Wait, if it’s grief does that mean I’ve already decided it’s a lost cause? That dance is over, that I’m going home? That I can’t do it? That they were right?

Depression. Stage four. At least it’s almost over.

Tears pricked my cheeks, feeling like ice on my skin. I sank down into a seated position right there in the middle of the walkway. My leggings did nothing to protect me from the snow-to-ass contact, but there was just no way I was going to stay standing while I processed all of these feelings.

I didn’t care if anyone saw me here. What did it matter if I’d be leaving school anyway? I wasn’t going to stay here without dance, and they weren’t going to let me dance. It was the only thing holding me together before, and now I just can’t see a path back.

I can’t call her like this.

I needed to compose myself before taking any further damage.

I made my way back to my dorm room. I’d change, get dinner at the cafeteria if they were still open, and then I’d call my mother.

Acceptance.

All five stages, but the grief wasn’t over. What a crock of shit.