The heel of her simple nude pump is muffled by the industrial patterned carpet square that lines the hallway. She folds her hands in her lap and shifts against the hard plastic seat of the chair just outside the office door.
One way or the other, her life is about to change forever and it’s all in the hands of the people who sat in judgment of her for the last hour as she answered question after question, batting away their attempts to find a weakness in her defense.
And now all she can do is wait.
She knows she did her best and if there’s any kind of justice in the world, they’ll rule in her favor.
But there’s still that niggling doubt in her gut, the doubt that has her practically drilling a hole in the carpet beneath her feet.
The door opens, any potential squeak dulled by the several decades of ecru-colored paint that always seems to line the walls of any academic institution. She stands and smooths the fabric of her skirt suit down, fighting against the roiling in her stomach, praying it holds off at least until she can get somewhere private.
The older woman that emerges sends her a tight smile, one she can’t interpret despite how long they’ve known each other. Dr Miranda Wilkins, PhD in Information Science, her doctoral advisor and one of academia’s most highly renowned experts on media literacy. They met at the start of her program and Bianca was immediately intimidated as all hell and absolutely in awe of the woman who’d published the only research she respected in their mutual field of study. It’s why she came to USC and why she never regretted that decision, no matter how hard Miranda pushed her.
“If you’ll step back inside, we just have one final question left for you, Dr Dimitriou,” Miranda trails off, a corner of her mouth lifting into a slight smirk.
Bianca focuses her attention on her advisor, trying to ignore the dread that’s in her chest after hearing they have another question. She tries to conjure up the response to their final inquiry from a few minutes ago – a four-parter that truly helped her sum up the entirety of her research for the panel, about the philosophical shift necessary in information literacy and digital fluency instruction that will hopefully serve her future students for years to come, everything she spent the last five years developing, finally coalescing.
But then it clicks.
Miranda said . . . she said . . .DrDimitriou.
Doctor.
As in . . .
. . . she passed.
The smirk on Miranda’s face grows into a full-fledged smile as the woman who guided her through the last years of her education, who kindly tortured her and helped shape her research, and the voice of reason when stress would pile up and it all became too much, let her know that it’s over. She did it.
When she moves back into the room, the rest of the panel is all smiles as well.
“Our last question,” Miranda says, “is how will you be celebrating tonight?”
After four handshakes, one only slightly awkward hug with Miranda and a quick invite to the party she planned, she’s out the door, into the halls of the building she practically lived in for the last half of her twenties.
Done.
She’s done.
Dr Bianca Dimitriou, PhD.
She’s a doctor.
And now it’s time to celebrate.
She’s been running on adrenaline for weeks and she needs it to hold her upright for another few hours because now that the defense is over, exhaustion is starting to settle in.
She barely remembers the walk back to her apartment, winding her way through the streets through sheer force of habit. It’s not student housing, but it’s on the fringes of that neighborhood, a sort of ring around campus that no one unaffiliated with the university would want to live in, with the swarms of undergrads flooding the streets every night for nine months out of the year.
It’s not the worst place she’s ever lived – that honor belongs to the barely 100-square-foot apartment she squeezed herself into back in New York while she did her master’s.
She can’t complain really. Her place is neat and clean and safe, even though it’s been way quieter in the last couple of weeks. Her roommate, Julie, a musician, left for an opening-act gig on a national tour after years of struggling to make it. While it’s been a little bit lonely, it did give her the silence needed to prep for her defense. And Julie’ll be back soon, at least for a few days, when the tour swings through California.
Until then, she has Amelia, who is waiting for her at the door, rolled onto her back, soft white belly exposed, having clearly heard her coming down the hallway and wanting some immediate scratches to make up for her absence in the last few hours.
“Meals, I passed,” she squeals to the cat, who lets out a soft purr in return.
Sitting right there in the entry, her back against the door, she lets the cat curl up into her lap while she strokes gently against her fur, up under her chin and then back down again, over and over, a slow lulling motion. Bianca’s head lolls back against the door and the moment catches up with her as she falls asleep.
