Chapter 2 Morals vs Rent

Emma's apartment waited for her like a loyal, slightly needy pet-faithful, small, a little rough around the edges. She unlocked the warped third-floor door, which always required a precise lift-and-shimmy, and stepped inside, dropping her messenger bag in its usual graveyard beside the bookshelf.

The space exhaled the scent of old pages, eucalyptus from the window box, and, somewhere, a lingering undertone of cinnamon left over from winter break. It was barely February, but Emma felt as if the semester had already lasted a year.

She shut the door behind her and leaned back against it for a moment, listening to the quiet.

Her classroom, even in its death throes, had always vibrated with presence-kids, the building's ancient heating system, the faint hum of fluorescent lights. Here, silence was total, as if the world had pressed a pillow to her ears.

Emma set her keys on the counter, toed off her shoes, and padded to the couch. The springs groaned in a familiar greeting as she collapsed onto it, laptop already in hand.

The coffee table, an ancient trunk she'd rescued from a neighbor's curb, wore a neat, accusatory stack of unopened bills. She studiously ignored them.

Emma opened the laptop and thumbed her way through the day's emails. The cursor blinked in the blank search bar, waiting for her to conjure a future out of nothing.

She typed, "Teaching jobs, mid-year, open positions."

The results loaded with a sluggish inevitability.

The first five were ads for "lucrative" online education platforms that promised six-figure incomes, as long as she was willing to cold-call strangers and sell educational software.

She closed the tabs in quick succession, a series of small, satisfying deaths.

She tried the district's own job board. All positions, filled. She scrolled through the listings anyway, each one reminding her of the world's indifference to her loss.

There were dozens of "paraprofessional" posts-half pay, no benefits, and the professional status of a used tissue. Emma was beginning to question her crusade to sacrifice higher pay to reach more underprivileged kids.

If she had more money saved up she wouldn't be so desperate to consider the job offer posted on that flyer Grace gave her.

"God, Emma. Get it together. Money isn't everything."

After thirty minutes, her head buzzed with that special kind of fatigue reserved for the newly hopeless. She propped her feet on the trunk and massaged her temple with the heel of her palm.

A neighbor's television rose up through the floor, the swelling strings of a game show theme. She let the noise fill the room.

Eventually, she ran out of reasons not to. She pulled the flyer out and began to search for the company. It was a staffing agency that specialized in paraprofessional jobs for the rich and famous.

Emma's stomach was already doing flips at the idea of selling out her morals to pay her rent. She looked through the job postings and found the way Grace was referring to.

She hovered for a second, then clicked.

We are seeking an academic coach for a highly motivated, uniquely talented student. Compensation is above industry standards, commensurate with your experience and education. Discretion and professionalism essential.

Emma scrolled through the qualifications and froze when she say the salary. "No wonder Grace held onto this for herself," she thought.

Salary: $110,000 (six-month contract, with possible extension).

Emma blinked, convinced she'd misread it. She checked again, one hundred and ten thousand dollars. For six months of tutoring a single student.

She let out a low, stunned whistle, the first sound she'd made since arriving home. The glow of the laptop bathed her in blue, as if she'd been submerged.

Her gaze shifted to the stack of bills on the coffee table. The top envelope was from her landlord, a gentle but unmistakable "reminder" that rent would be due in less than a week. Below that, a letter from the student loan servicer-"Immediate Action Required." And, as a closing argument, the final notice from the electric company, which had been threatening to pull the plug since November.

Her thumb hovered over the trackpad.

She'd built her whole identity around principles, on the idea that education was a public trust and not a commodity to be auctioned off to the highest bidder.

She remembered the student who'd drawn that charcoal portrait, the group projects she led the students through, the mock business presentations. She imagined having to look those student in the eye and explain why Miss Carter was now moonlighting for the plutocracy.

But she couldn't ignore the sharp edge of need, how it cut deeper than any abstract ideal. She couldn't ignore the truth, she had no other options.

Emma closed her eyes, just for a moment, and let herself feel the loss, the surrender, the humiliation. Then she opened them and, without ceremony, selected the apply button and began filling out the application.

She read through her information one last time, inhaled deeply, and clicked submit. The screen froze for a heartbeat before displaying a spinning wheel. Emma's shoulders tensed as she waited for the inevitable rejection-some politely worded variation of "your qualifications don't align with our needs at this time."

Her laptop chimed. A new message appeared in her inbox, the subject line bold and unread. Emma squinted at it, then clicked. "Interview Request: Tomorrow, 9:30 AM" followed by an address in the financial district.

"Probably just an automated courtesy," she muttered, even as she rose from the couch and crossed to her closet. She pushed aside the casual shirts until her fingers found the smooth fabric of her interview blazer, still wrapped in dry cleaning plastic from the last time she'd worn it.

The price tag from that expense still made her wince. She held it against herself, studying her reflection in the bathroom mirror, rehearsing answers to imaginary questions until her voice no longer shook.