“And your degree?” Brenda asked.
“I am a safe bet,” I said. “They do not need to worry about my returns.”
“Every student needs a family at graduation, Clara,” she said. “It is a long ceremony to sit through alone.”
“I will be on the stage,” I said. “I will be busy.”
I reached into my coat pocket and felt the cold plastic of my stethoscope. The rubber tubing was cracked near the bell, held together with a thin strip of black electrical tape. It was a used model I had bought from an older resident three years ago, but it still worked.
She shook her head, but she didn’t argue. She knew as well as I did that the administration didn’t issue degree certificates to students with outstanding balances.
The dry heat of the concrete plaza outside the stadium felt heavy through the thin fabric of my gray trousers. It was eleven in the morning on May twenty-four, and the sky was a flat, pale blue.
I stood by the wooden counter of the will-call window, holding my student identification card against the glass.
The ticket agent, an older woman named Martha with a silver name tag, looked at my card and then at her computer screen.
“Clara Evans,” she said, her voice dry.
“Yes,” I said. “I have four guest passes reserved.”
Martha reached into a green plastic bin behind her and pulled out a small white envelope. She slid it through the gap in the glass.
“Here you go, dear,” Martha said. “Four floor seats, row C.”
I opened the envelope and pulled out the thick paper tickets. They were blank on the back, printed only with the university seal on the front.
“Has anyone else checked in under my name?” I asked.
Martha tapped a few keys on her keyboard, her eyes squinting at the monitor.
“No,” she said. “No one has registered for the guest badges yet.”
“Are you sure?” I asked. “I sent the online guest registration link to my mother three months ago.”
