Story code: ST-001033
Part 2: The Cost of Prestige
Maya held her thumb against the glass. The cursor blinked, cold and indifferent, mocking her hesitation. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat, typed *Confirmed*, and hit send. The delivery notification appeared instantly. She locked her phone, dropping it onto the passenger seat, and sat in the pitch black of the freezing Corolla. She still had twelve papers to grade. With the dome light dead, she had to use her phone’s flashlight, pinning the device painfully under her chin while her numb fingers gripped the red pen to finish the stack.
At 5:15 AM, Maya locked the car and walked the three blocks to the campus recreation center. The wind cut straight through her thin wool coat. Her bones ached with a deep, resonant cold that no amount of shivering could shake. She swiped her faculty ID at the gym turnstile, grateful the student desk worker was too asleep to notice her carrying a plastic grocery bag containing her blazer, a travel-sized bottle of shampoo, and her grading rubrics.
The women’s locker room was deserted. Maya turned the shower dial all the way to the left, but the water that sputtered from the institutional showerhead was barely lukewarm. The university had lowered the boiler temperatures over winter break to cut costs and never raised them back. She washed her hair with mechanical efficiency, watching the gray suds swirl down the drain, shivering violently. When she finished, she dried herself with a scratchy gym towel and dressed in her only professional outfit: a pair of navy slacks that were slightly too short and a dark gray blazer.
The Founders Boardroom was located on the top floor of the administrative building, a space Maya had only seen in glossy university brochures. When she stepped off the elevator at 5:55 AM, her shoes sank into carpet so thick it felt like moss. The boardroom itself was expansive, dominated by a massive mahogany table and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the frosted quad.
Around the table sat three dozen adjuncts. They looked like refugees occupying a luxury hotel. Dark circles bracketed their eyes; their clothes were crumpled, their postures slumped. In the center of the table sat a silver carafe of coffee and a massive platter of assorted pastries. The adjuncts were devouring the food in tense, desperate silence. Maya took a seat near the back and pulled a heavy bran muffin onto her napkin. It might be the only meal she ate today.
At exactly 6:00 AM, Provost Richard Vance entered, flanked by Dean Miller. Vance wore a tailored charcoal suit that fell perfectly across his shoulders. He looked incredibly rested, his skin glowing with the faint, ruddy tan of someone who had recently wintered in a warmer climate.
“Thank you all for being here,” Vance said, his voice booming effortlessly across the room. He didn’t bother to sit. “I’ll keep this brief. The state legislature has cut our funding by four percent. To absorb this, we are freezing all non-essential expenditures. That includes department catering, travel stipends, and, unfortunately, cost-of-living adjustments for all instructional staff.”
A heavy silence fell over the room. No adjustments meant Maya was taking a pay cut against inflation. Again.
“Which brings us to the Benefactors Gala,” Dean Miller chimed in, stepping forward to adjust his silk tie. “The donors attending tonight are the lifeblood of this institution. They fill the gaps the state leaves behind. Because we have eliminated the event’s catering staff, we are relying on you. Consider this an opportunity to demonstrate your dedication to the university.”
Miller began passing out a stack of laminated placards. “These are your station assignments. You are expected to arrive at the ballroom at six o’clock sharp, in pristine black slacks and a crisp white button-down. If you do not have these items, acquire them. Furthermore, while you are on the floor, you are to remain invisible. Do not engage the donors in conversation unless spoken to. Do not discuss university budget constraints, and under no circumstances are you to discuss your employment status. You are representatives of our prestige.”
Maya looked down at the placard Miller slid in front of her. *VIP Coat Check & Tray Service – Main Foyer.*
“Dr. Hastings,” Miller said, pausing beside her chair. He looked down at her gray blazer, his expression pinching in subtle distaste. “You’ll be stationed at the front entrance. You will be the first face the VIPs see. I expect you to handle the Sterling family’s arrival. Arthur Sterling is announcing a two-million-dollar endowment tonight. Make sure his evening starts flawlessly.”
Maya’s stomach dropped. Arthur Sterling. Her mind flashed to the essay she had just graded in the freezing dark of her car. The *Great Gatsby* analysis, completely lifted from a website. The student who submitted it was Troy Sterling. She had just failed the son of the man funding the university’s endowment, the man she was now required to serve.
“Understood?” Miller asked, his tone demanding an answer.
“Understood,” Maya whispered.
When the meeting dismissed, Maya checked her bank app in the hallway. Available balance: $14.12. A crisp white button-down and black slacks were mathematically impossible.
She spent her one free hour before her 9:00 AM lecture digging through the university’s central lost-and-found bin in the basement of the student union. She unearthed a pair of black dress pants that were two sizes too big and a men’s white dress shirt with a faint, yellowed coffee stain near the cuff. She used a safety pin from her backpack to cinch the pants at the waist and rolled the cuffs of the shirt to hide the stain.
By 6:30 PM, the ballroom was a sea of glittering chandeliers, string quartets, and the low, wealthy murmur of the city’s elite. Maya stood behind the mahogany coat check counter, her oversized uniform safety-pinned and tucked to look presentable, her feet already throbbing in her worn loafers.
Dean Miller materialized from the ballroom, carrying a heavy silver tray loaded with crystal champagne flutes. He shoved the tray into Maya’s hands. The metal was ice cold.
“The Sterlings just pulled up to the valet,” Miller hissed, checking his gold wristwatch. “Take these out to the foyer. Wait by the doors. When they enter, you offer the drinks, then you take their coats. And Dr. Hastings?”
Maya gripped the edges of the silver tray, the crystal glasses trembling slightly as her knuckles turned white.
“Smile,” Miller commanded, leaning in close enough for Maya to smell his expensive peppermint mouthwash. “Troy Sterling complained to his father that you’ve been unfairly harsh on his recent essays. Arthur is already annoyed. I suggest you use this opportunity to show them how accommodating our faculty can be. If they are unhappy tonight, I won’t just deny your contract renewal. I’ll make sure you never teach in this state again.”