To Integrity
Della
And there goes my tea. Over the railing. Onto the library concourse. Shoot. “Sorry,” I shout to the students walking below who had to jump back to avoid the spray of scalding liquid. Mortified that I could have maimed someone, I gather my transfer papers, stuff them into my bag, and rush down the stairs to clean up the mess before anyone slips.
No paper towels nearby. Awesome. Guess I’ll have to use the silk scarf in my bag to soak up the tea. Actually, come to think of it, this isn’t my scarf. It’s my sister’s. She’s going to kill me. Unfortunately, I don’t have a better option.
I should have known it wasn’t going to be my day. There was no hot water in the shower at the sketchy motel I’m temporarily staying at. My car, although it made it through the seventeen-hour drive to get me here, wouldn’t start this morning. I had to take the bus, which made me late. Then I showed up for my first engineering course, only to find out I wasn’t even on the class list. Sorting it out meant waiting in line at the registrar’s office for over an hour.
At least the tea didn’t burn anyone. I sigh and pick up the paper cup to drop it in the recycling bin. I might as well throw the scarf in the garbage while I’m at it. It’s soaked and stained beyond repair. And my phone fell in the trash with it. Of course, now, the phone is ringing.
I reach elbow deep into the bin to fish it out. Ew. Whatever that was, it’s sticky. “Hello?”
It’s my cousin Stuart, my saving grace. “Everley is able to meet you at the house to give you a key, but it has to be this morning. Can you swing that?”
“Oh. I don’t know, Stuart. I have class. And I’d need to take transit.” I twist my phone to look at the time. I’ll be late if I try to squeeze in a visit before my next class. “Does it have to be right now?”
“Do you want to spend another night in that rat-infested motel?”
“No.” Absolutely not. “Okay. Thank you for setting up a place for me to live. I’d be lost here without you.”
“It’s Stanford not New York. You’d be fine without me, but I’m happy to help you any way I can. Hold on a second.” He speaks to someone away from the phone briefly before he comes back on the line. “Some sort of disaster has come up with one of the model’s outfits. I need to get back to the studio. Do you still have the address for the house?”
“Yeah, somewhere. Thanks for everything.” I hang up and search through my bag as I walk towards the bus stop. I wrote the address on the back of a receipt. Somewhere.
Stuart is a famous photographer who lives in San Francisco now, but he graduated from Stanford and knows a lot of people here. Which is great since finding available housing at this time of year is a challenge. He’s made arrangements for me to rent a room in a shared house with three other women who are post-grad Stanford students. The one named Everley has done some fashion modeling for him. They probably won’t be the type of women I would normally be friends with, but it doesn’t matter. I’m here to study not socialize. As long as they don’t throw huge parties every night it should be fine to live with three strangers.
I hope.
I definitely don’t want to have to go back to that disgusting motel.
Where did I put the address? Ah. Here it is, on the back of a Chili’s receipt. I board the Palo Alto bus and ask the bus driver to let me know which stop I should get off at for the two hundred block of Coleridge Avenue. When we reach the next stop, he turns and waves. Wow. It’s way closer to the school than I expected – probably should have checked how far away it was before I paid the bus fare. This could work out great. I could walk to class, save on gas and parking. I like it already.
I step off the bus and squint at the house numbers to figure out which direction to walk. Mental note: a blazer works for spring in Canada. Here, I’m suffocatingly overdressed. The street is cute. Tree-lined. Wide sidewalks. Nice family homes. Tons of joggers—California types, but whatever, at least it seems safe. And the fuchsia-colored flowers on the hedges smell amazing. The house that matches the address Stuart gave me is bigger than I expected. And despite the traditional Spanish style, it’s more modern than I imagined for a student rental.
I walk up the brick path and knock on the door. Nobody answers, so I knock again, louder. There isn’t a doorbell. In fact, I look around, duh, it’s not even the front door. It’s a side door to the garage. Smooth, Della. Hopefully a security camera didn’t catch that air-head move. Before I enter the courtyard that leads to the actual front door, which is unmistakable since it’s
