I Hope That I Can See This Through

Thank you for your interest in the Executive Assistant position. I will be conducting introductory interviews this week on Wednesday, April 10, and Thursday, April 11. Please share your availability between 9:30am and 3:00pm EST on either day for a brief phone call.

Frankie glances up from her laptop. Her professor drones about something she’ll Google later. Frankie turns back to her screen.

She enters a line for the interview offer on her application tracker, then responds to the email with her standard acceptance reply.

Frankie looks down at her notes. She’s outlined her projected monthly expenses for each city she’s interested in living in. She knows exactly how much she has to live off of after graduation and how long it’ll last.

There are dozens of versions of this chart all over her space. Every application binge, every LinkedIn message, every networking event with alumni leads to a shifting of these numbers.

The building’s quiet when she gets home. Frankie stands inside her doorway taking deep breaths to release the day. Frankie is desperate for an offer because she’s $16,116 in credit card debt. The uncertainty feels like ants across her skin. She’s haunted by every boundary she’s crossed that led to that impossible number. She still doesn’t know exactly how she can owe that much money in barely a year, even using credit cards the way she does.

Frankie moves to begin settling in for the night. There’s a text from her cousin waiting when she steps out of her shower: Would you mind calling an Uber for me? I got off work late.

Frankie stares into her underwear drawer while the numbers rearrange themselves in her head. Frankie thinks about how she paid twice for the price of one flight because her friend begged her to arrive earlier for the rehearsal dinner after Frankie’d already booked, and how she dropped almost $1,500 the weekend before for the bachelorette, and how the week before that she’d flown to attend an alumni board meeting lasting only four hours, because it made her feel like she was doing something worthy with her life that wasn’t struggling to pass business analytics.

“What’s another $40, really,” Frankie mutters. The numbers quiet as Frankie shimmies into pajamas.

Frankie sets her alarm for the morning. Frankie is $16,156 in debt.

--

Frankie sits at her desk staring at her budget spreadsheets. She stares at her latest banking statements, which tell her that at least she tips well, for all her faults. She stares at the candle she couldn’t help buying and wonders why she has such a hard time saying no to people, including herself. Frankie stares at her phone, knowing if she stays put for even another three minutes then she will make herself late for her counseling session, and debates admitting to her therapist the extent of her spiral.

Afterward, Frankie detours for froyo. She thinks about how it’s little things like this that make the slog of grad school somewhat bearable. Living off credit cards isn’t wise, especially given how quickly emergencies become “emergencies,” like getting milkshakes with her friends after their evening class lets out, but it’s what’s kept her sane until those little things became another reason for her fluoxetine prescription.

The problem isn’t that Frankie doesn’t regret getting into this unfathomable amount of debt. The problem is there’s not a single thing Frankie wouldn’t pay for again, even as she wishes she would’ve paid for it all straight.

Frankie steps into her apartment’s vestibule to find a brown package with no return address. It contains a small black notebook, unremarkable save the pebbled leather cover. In her bedroom, Frankie sets it down and takes up the package it arrived in. She shakes it upside down. Nothing falls out.

Frankie is often up at 4am, already running on too-little sleep. When she’s wide awake, her charges are things like groceries, gas, the laundromat, a pedicure every three weeks. She buys things like $200 silk pajamas late at night, the dopamine rush powering her through another all-nighter.

Frankie is certain she didn’t buy a $50 notebook, though, no matter how sleepy-wired-tense she’s been lately. There really are some things that are only bought with birthday money, not her own.

Frankie sits down to check her email for clues. There’s one rejection, which she expected but nonetheless makes her heart stutter, but also two more interview requests. Frankie readily accepts each. There’s nothing about the notebook.

She glances at her gift. She opens Facebook, types out a thank you to the anonymous sender, and settles back into her chair.

She flips open the notebook to better admire it. Something flutters to her lap as she brings the pages close to savor its newness. She grabs it for quick inspection and every muscle in her legs seizes when her eyes focus.

It’s a $20,000 check for one Francesca René Porter.

There’s a signature. The routing and account numbers are printed at the bottom of the check. It has a security screen. There’s an address in the corner with an unfamiliar name she assumes belongs to a company. It looks real enough.

Frankie’s hands bang against the table as she reaches for her phone. The address leads her to the company’s website, which in turn leads to an EIN, a BBB profile, and a privacy policy.

The next day, Frankie tracks down the company’s licenses with the relevant agencies. She drives and confirms that the company is exactly where it’s supposed to be, signage and all. Either the check is real or someone’s playing one hell of a game.

Frankie keeps searching as her final semester winds down. Nobody has admitted to sending her the notebook, which is now the repository for her budgeting sprees. She tucks the check into her underwear drawer for safekeeping. She has three months to decide what to do with it. Frankie thinks of her shredder. The smart thing would be to rid herself of the ordeal entirely. The option that keeps her safe is destroying that check.

Still, $20,000 is a terrible thing to waste.

Frankie stops making calls. She decides to behave as if nothing’s the matter. The only way out, Frankie reminds herself, is through.

--

“It’s checkmate,” Frankie whispers. The associate is helpfully running through the list of repairs her car requires. Frankie’s heart picks up the pace.

“When would you like to schedule service?”

Frankie blinks back into awareness. “I,” she begins, stops. “I need time to think about it.”

The associate frowns. “I really hate to say this, but...”

“Is there something that can’t wait?”

“The leaking transmission,” she answers. “You’re lucky you had service today. If you hadn’t caught that and kept driving on it, your car would be fried by May.”

$1,280. Frankie’s body begins to sway slightly. She grabs hold of the counter.

“To be honest, with all these hills, I wouldn’t want to let the brakes go on for too long, either.”

There’s her savings gone. Frankie considers what’s hiding in her drawer. She can get her car repaired without a single blink. She can erase her credit card debt in one go, which would do wonders for her Valerian root habit. She can apply to jobs that she wants, not merely needs, like her therapist has begged her to do to make the job search marginally more enjoyable.

She’s left quite the paper trail asking around. If someone wants her apprehended, then they’d have her by now, Frankie thinks.

“Let’s get it all done today.”

“You sure? It’ll take all the way to closing.”

Frankie shrugs. Her budget for June and beyond is hereby obliterated, but maybe… Maybe.

--

Frankie relaxes her jaw when she enters the bank, finding it empty in the mid-morning lull. The lone teller grins at her when she approaches. Frankie fumbles over her greeting as she slides the endorsed check and her ID across the counter. “Deposit into my savings, please.”

The teller checks the ID under a blue light. “All into that one account?”

“Yes, please.”

The teller hums. “Just to warn you, we’re able to release only $5,000 in two business days, but the remainder will take seven.”

“Thank you,” Frankie says.

“Sorry for the wait, but it’s to ensure the funds are available.”

“That’s all right,” Frankie assures.

“Then you’re all set. Would you like your receipt emailed?”

Frankie nods.

“Done and done,” the teller says. “Have a good day, Ms. Porter.”

Frankie finds her way home.

--

In the waiting, Frankie’s apartment has never been so clean. The last of her assignments are completed well before time. Frankie possibly over-prepares for her interviews.

Two days later, $5,000 appears in her account. It sits there untouched, the same way her cards are left alone. Frankie finds herself unable to spend a dime, polishing off the contents of her freezer rather than buying meals.

On day seven, Frankie leaves her phone at home. She leaves on time for the first time in ages, simply because she refuses to be online. She takes the bus to her final therapy session, a potted aloe vera in hand as a parting gift to the woman she believes is a saint, and makes a point to grab lunch with some friends before she walks home.

Frankie hesitates once she’s home, but it’s do-or-die time. There’s either $100 and some change in her account, or a couple $10,000, and there’s really only one way to find out.

Frankie takes her time preparing tea. She stirs sugar into the oversteeped blend, just as she likes it, before sitting down with her notebook and laptop.

The bank’s welcome screen blinks merrily at her. “This can’t possibly be scarier than owing what you do to Peter, Paul, and Mary,” she mutters.

Frankie types in her credentials and dares to take a sip of tea while the two-factor authorization pings her phone. Another string of numbers, and then the screen loads with the bare truth: Frankie is the proud owner of $20,107.89.

She logs out, logs back in. The money is still there. Frankie reaches for her notebook. She opens to the last page, takes the pen tucked into the pages, begins to tinker:

$20,107 start

$16,672 current state of affairs → $20,000 total credit

• $8,189 CC1
• $2,713 CC2
• $2,603 CC3
• $1,917 CC4
• $1,250 CC5
• $80 phone payment plan completion
• = $3,355

Summer budget outlook:

• Rent: $738/mo.
• Phone: $65/mo.
• Car insurance: $187 (May only)
• Electric: $100/mo.
• Spotify: $10/mo.
• Total, May - July: $2,917
• Summer remainder: $438

The numbers stay the same no matter how many times she reworks them. Somehow, seeing how much she’s mucked her life that even $20,000 falling like mana can barely save her is what convinces her that this is, in fact, the most real thing.

There are no more excuses to make for herself. There’s no more buying against her future to get a new bottle of perfume today. There will be no more pretending that her credit balances don’t count as real money. She has $438 to make work.

Her laptop chimes with the arrival of a new email: We have decided to move in another direction. We wish you the very best in your endeavors.

Frankie cringes. She clicks to the homepage of the first bank she owes. Her stomach wrings itself as she selects “make payment” and sets her cursor on “total balance.” A bit of tea spills down either side of her mouth when she fortifies herself with another large gulp.

Someone out there wants her to have this. Frankie wants herself to have it. With a silent prayer to God, she confirms her payment and crosses $8,189 off the list.

Frankie knows she’s going to make it.