Queen Bee Goes Home Again by Haywood Smith Page B

this is really important. If you need to talk to anybody about it, talk to God. He sure hasn’t been talking to me lately.”
    â€œOh, sweetie.” She leaned over and gave me an awkward hug, because getting up then back down was too much trouble for both of us. “I vow, this won’t go any further than God.”
    I knew she meant it. I just didn’t know if she could keep her promise, any more than I could stop cussing in my head.
    Please, Lord, don’t let this get out.
    I went back to scrubbing, slowing my pace to the somber beat of “The Old Rugged Cross,” one of Granny Beth’s favorites, and mine. But no matter how hard I scrubbed or sang, my flesh wouldn’t let go of thinking about Connor Allen.

 
    Twelve
    Three weeks after my first visit to Ocee State, I returned to the baking campus and waited to be called back to Pam What’s-her-name’s office.
    Brady, I managed to remember as the receptionist (another student) led me back to see her.
    Pam rose, as before. “Hi! We processed your registration and transcripts.” She closed the door, then offered her hand.
    I shook it. “Great. Any news?”
    I waited till she sat to do the same, as mixed emotions warred over what she might say. She seemed happy—a good sign. A very good sign, as it turned out.
    â€œBased on your finances and situation,” she told me, “I am pleased to announce that you have qualified for a Pell Grant, which will cover both your classes and your textbooks, for winter/spring quarter.”
    I sat there, stunned, doing my best to stomp out the Oh no s and You can’t even keep up with what day it is! How do you expect to pass in college? that erupted alongside my sense of accomplishment.
    Holy crow! I was really going back to college.
    Pam nodded to me, clearly expecting a reaction.
    Closeting my fears, I found myself on my feet, pumping her hand. “Wow! Thanks. I don’t know how to thank you. Thanks.”
    I still couldn’t believe it had actually happened. A full ride! Wow.
    Miracle of miracles. Thank you, Lord!
    She grinned. “I think you’re really going to like it here. Almost all of our nontraditional students do.”
    Still dazed, I subsided to my chair. “What’s next?”
    â€œYou’ll need to meet with your adviser.” She handed me his card. “You can call and leave a message at his office for an appointment, but a student e-mail might do better.” She paused. “Do you have any special needs?”
    â€œWell, I can’t filter voices when there’s background noise. Is that a special need?”
    She made a note on my file, then handed me a card that said “Cathy Wallace, Student Accommodations Office.”
    Too politically correct. Instead of saying Disabilities Office, they came up with a name that sounded like student housing—which they didn’t even have.
    She went on. “This is the number for our special needs office. You can schedule an appointment with them for evaluation, and they’ll work with you on your accommodations.”
    â€œThanks.” Cool. When I’d gone to college in 1970, nobody gave a fig whether anybody needed special help.
    She handed me an orientation packet. “Here’s the information you’ll need to get started. Your password for our Web site is your full birth date—two digits for both the month and date, and four for the year—then your mother’s maiden name. Once you’ve registered for your classes, you can set up your student e-mail and get your ID and parking permit.”
    â€œHow many credits transferred from my year at Sandford?” I wondered aloud.
    She looked over the transcript, then said, “Five hours of art history.”
    Shoot! My mouth tugged down on one side. “That’s all?”
    She shrugged. “That’s all.”
    I really was starting from scratch. “Then I need everything