Michelle Jones liked NYU. Greenwich Village was very different than where she grew up in Harlem, but it was nice to only be a walk and a train ride from her parents.
It was the night of her 21st birthday, and she was alone. She preferred it this way, of course. She had spent the afternoon with her family in their shoddy apartment in Harlem, while they presented her with gifts they couldn't afford by any means. They would probably be eating ramen for the remainder of the week. Her parents were in debt enough with her tuition, even with financial aid, and Michelle had told them time and time again that their gift to her need only be love this year, since the tuition was taking its toll. They lived even worse than they had when Michelle lived with them. When Michelle hugged her father goodbye, she felt the thinness of his arms for the first time.
Michelle was in tears as she walked down the familiar streets of her hometown. The guilt wore into her shoes, and for the umpteenth time, she considered dropping out. She walked by old Mrs. Zhade's restaurant, where the woman who she'd known since age 3 was turning off the "Open" sign in her window came out to greet her.
"Michelle, my lily! Are you still earning the good grades at the University?" the woman asked in her distinctly Jamaican lilt, wrapping Michelle in a hug.
"Yes, Mrs. Zhade, it's lovely to see you." Michelle said, not having the heart to tell her that working dead end jobs to pay for her own tuition was causing her grades to plummet.
"Keep in good health, you hear? No good grades without no nourishment," the old woman pinched her tummy with a hearty chuckle. "Stay here, waterlily. I bring you some rice." Before Michelle could stop her, the wild woman disappeared inside, returning a few minutes later with a bag that smelled deliciously like home. "Rice and chicken. Take care of your parents, ok? Goodnight, waterlily." Mrs. Zhade disappeared into the restaurant with a kiss to Michelle's cheek.
Michelle stared at the bag in her hand. Thank you! it said, a big yellow smiley face smiling out from just below the message. She tasted something salty in her mouth, and it was only then that she noticed the tears silently flowing down her cheeks. Her parents would want her to keep the food, to feed herself, to prosper even if they could not. Instead, she turned around and walked back in the darkness to the apartment, letting herself in as quietly as she could, as she knew they would be asleep. She left the food in the fridge, and slipped her last twenty into her mother's handmade wallet, leaving only five for herself. She kissed her sleeping parents and scratched her cat behind the ears, just like he liked it, and set out again.
The ride back to Lower Manhattan was in silence. She had her cheap earbuds in her ears, but didn't have the heart to play anything. Instead, she silently eavesdropped on the passengers of the late night 3 train, which consisted of one tired cellist, a young woman with mascara running in tear stains down her face, an overweight man in a newsboy hat and what she assumed was his daughter, and one tall guy with intense BO. No one made any conversation, but her vantage point from the corner made them perfect subjects during her lengthy trip.
Michelle dug out her frayed journal from her coat pocket. There was a pen attached to the cover, as there always was, and she drew. Though her major was technically photography, she had been drawing since she was a little girl. Cameras were expensive, and capturing life was easiest when she made quick sketches.
She drew a profile of the crying woman, focusing very closely on the one black teardrop that rested on her thin, sharp jawbone, precariously threatening to fall onto her white dress. After the woman exited, she titled it Distress 11. She liked drawing people in distress. There was no way to see who someone really was than seeing them in distress.
She got out a stop before the one nearest to her dorm, wanting to walk a bit. The streets still weren't deserted. Manhattan never was. The air was in conflict, smelling both of sewer and of the closing shawarma truck on the corner.
Twenty one years she'd lived in New York City. Twenty one years she'd walked these streets in her worn out sneakers. Twenty one years, and she still wasn't good enough.