Read Online Queen Bee Goes Home Again by Haywood Smith - Free Book Online

in,” Pam Brady explained as she sat. “Please have a seat, and we’ll go over your application.” She scanned the printout as I perched nervously in the chair facing her.
    I was relieved that she didn’t snort or laugh in derision while she read.
    When she finished inspecting the registration form, she leaned back with an affable, “It’s too late for fall semester, but you’re right on time for winter/spring applications. That quarter starts in January, the sixth. You can finish filling out the FAFSA at home and bring it back, along with an active passport or official copy of your birth certificate, your driver’s license, and a copy of the last year of your tax returns.”
    She glanced at the printout again, then turned her attention back to me. “To give me a better idea of your qualifications for aid, would you mind my asking you a few financial questions? Strictly confidential, of course.”
    She must have seen that I was skeptical, because she told me, “All our information is confidential and accessible only to qualified staff, not student aides.”
    â€œThanks. That’s a relief.” I relaxed a bit. “What would you like to know?’
    â€œWhat was your AGI for last year?”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œSorry,” she said. “We get so used to the acronyms around here. Your adjusted gross income from your tax return.”
    â€œOh.” I thought for a minute, picturing the screens of my online tax prep program. “I’m an independent contractor, so I have lots of expenses and health insurance to write off.” My mind finally got to the AGI screen. “To the best of my recollection, the AGI would be about twenty-six thousand. But my taxable income was only twelve.”
    She nodded and jotted that down on a notepad on her desk.
    â€œAnd this year, to date?” she asked. “Just a ballpark estimate will be fine for now.”
    I sighed, the figure sticking in my throat. I knew exactly how little I’d made in the seven months since New Year’s Day. “Three thousand, seven hundred, twenty-two dollars. Gross. With no prospects pending for more.”
    Her brows shot up. “Hard year for everybody.” She wrote it down. “Any assets?”
    â€œJust my 2009 minivan. I lost my house to a short sale. My credit rating’s trashed, and I’m broke, except for two hundred dollars in my checking account.” Shoot. Would that be enough for the registration fee?
    She brightened. “So you’re homeless?”
    That was good news?
    â€œActually,” I said, “I moved back into my ninety-year-old mother’s because I didn’t have the deposit for an apartment.”
    She lifted an index finger. “We have special funds for the homeless, but I’ll have to check to see if your situation qualifies. Is your mother receiving any income beyond Social Security?”
    â€œNot that I know of.” I’d have to ask her. For all my mother’s gossipy phone calls, what I didn’t know about Miss Mamie was a lot .
    Maybe that was why she liked to talk about everybody else so much; it kept the focus off her.
    Pam Brady made a note in the margin. “Based on what you’ve told me, I think you’ll qualify for a Pell Grant. But things are so crazy in this economy, not to mention the whole undocumented student situation, that there’s fierce competition for the assistance we have left.”
    My face must have fallen, because she was quick to say, “But don’t get discouraged. Since you’re an overage female, I’m almost positive I can find some help for you.”
    Overage female? Was that what I’d been reduced to?
    She chuckled at my indignation. “That term applies only to scholarship applicants. Here, you’ll be designated as a nontraditional student, along with anybody else over twenty-five.”
    Better.
    â€œAnd what