Making Waves
LaShonda locked the café door behind the last two lunch guests and cleared the tables. The only remaining person was Sloan, who had college catalogs spread out on the table before her. Her friend stared at her laptop, a perturbed expression on her face. LaShonda set two cappuccinos down, picked up one of the heavy catalogs and flipped through its colorful pages.
Swirls of graphic designs crawled the pages. Photographs popped of students chatting on a tree-lined campus, staring at giant computer screens, forming massive blocks of clay, painting huge canvases. Everything at this school seemed larger than life.
“Wow. This looks like a cool place,” LaShonda said as she perused the thick publication. “I see why you want to go here.”
LaShonda had agreed to help Sloan slog through financial aid applications. LaShonda had been through the entire lengthy process herself a few months before, so she was somewhat of an expert on financial aid. She knew they were too late to apply for aid for the upcoming fall semester. They were looking to the January session now.
The first thing Sloan had to do, before any other aid option would be available to her, was fill out the Free Application for Federal Student Aid, but she was stalled by the part about her parents’ financial situation.
“I have no idea how to fill this out,” Sloan complained. “How much property do we own? Does that mean my dad’s office, too? We don’t own our whole house, so how do I tell them that? I can get my dad’s tax information, but how do I explain that my parents are hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt and that I need financial aid for everything because we have no money. And I mean no money.”
“I didn’t have all those complications you have, but seriously, they’re not going to give you every penny you need anyway. I mean, even with my dad reporting less than thirty thousand dollars a year, I couldn’t get all the money I needed. That’s why I’m working here and why I help out selling shrimp on weekends. You need to find out about student work programs.”
Sloan started as if LaShonda had just slapped her. Her heart was set on this fancy art school, but she didn’t seem particularly skilled at making things happen in that direction. She had been floating along, just expecting everything to turn out for her. LaShonda had heard people say artists were dreamy sorts of folks, people who had a hard time with deadlines and forms and things everybody else took for granted. Maybe there was some truth to that theory.
“Hey,” LaShonda said. “Do you even know what the bottom line is on Savannah?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, once you pay tuition, books, room and board, activity fees, computer lab fees, all kinds of extra stuff they tack on, what’s the bottom line for a year at your fancy school?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, look here.” LaShonda flipped to the back of the thick catalog to a section marked Schedule of Tuition and Fees. She set about writing everything down and soon had a figure. She whistled.
“You won’t like this.” LaShonda slid her figures across the table to Sloan. The bottom line was more than thirty-five thousand dollars per year.
“Shit. I thought it was like eighteen.”
“Then you didn’t add in all the fees and all your living expenses.”
Tears edged Sloan’s eyes. She stuck out her bottom lip in a pout. LaShonda always walked a thin line when it came to her friendship with Sloan. While Sloan was one of the few girls at school willing to cross the color line, she was also somebody who didn’t really seem to need friends. So when Sloan went away into her own world LaShonda tried not to take it personally.
But for all her independence, Sloan was weak. She was one of those girls who had always been taken care of, never made to work. What was that word for it? Sheltered. Even LaShonda, who lived on a remote island, sometimes knew more about the world than Sloan.
“So what were the other schools you applied to? Have you heard back from them?” LaShonda asked her.
“Yeah, I got into all of them but UNC. I got accepted at USC and the College of Charleston.”
“I checked into the College of Charleston. It’s like thirty grand a year too if you live in the dorms, but at least then you could use in-state scholarship money. The Palmetto Scholarship is nearly seven thousand and you’ve got the grades for that.”
“That leaves more than twenty grand.”
“Charleston’s an expensive place to live. You could live at home and drive.”
“Wow. What fun.”
“You’re way past the point where fun is what’s important. What about USC? You could use the Palmetto Scholarship and go there practically for free. Why didn’t you apply last year?”
“Because my sister was going through chemotherapy and my parents didn’t have time to think about me.”
“So why didn’t you do it?”
“Because I assumed I’d be going out of state.”
“In-state might be the place for you to start and then you could transfer.”
“Charleston does have a good art department,” she said without enthusiasm. “But I don’t want to take English 101 and History of the Civil War. I want computer animation and illustration and digital photography.”
“I thought you wanted to do sculpture.”
“I want studio classes, too, but I need to be able to use the latest technology. I want all art, all the time. I don’t want to waste my time doing something mundane just to get a degree.”
Sloan’s attitude was wearing thin. It was time for a little tough love.
“Maybe you should get a job. Live with your parents for a year and save your money.”
“Are you kidding me? There’s no way. I’d have to live at home and save money for two, maybe three years before I’d be able to go to Savannah.”
“Okay, then. Let’s look at that application again. So, just guess. About how much money does your dad make?”
“I think about a hundred and fifty a year.”
LaShonda sucked in a little breath. “Really? He makes that much money?”
“Yeah, really. That’s why I didn’t apply for financial aid before. My parents thought my dad made too much money.” She held up an application. “Expected family contribution? Right now, that would be a big fat zero.”
“Maybe you should go to the community college.”
“LaShonda, come on. Community college is great if you want to be a teacher like you do, but there’s nothing there for me. No art classes that’ll transfer for me. It would be a waste of my time.”
“Maybe you can move to Georgia and establish residency there. That way you can qualify for in-state tuition.”
“That won’t help. Savannah isn’t a state school. It’s private, so I don’t think they care where their students are from.”
LaShonda threw up her hands. “What do you want from me? I can’t help you if every time I suggest something you tell me why it won’t work.”
“I’m sorry, but things are just more simple for you.”
“And just how’s that? Why do you think things are so easy for me?”
“I didn’t say easy. I said simple. Your life’s not so complicated. You want to be a teacher. You have a lot of places you can go to school. What I want to do is very specialized. Not many schools teach it, so I have limited choices.”
“Poor you. Maybe you need to go ask your boyfriend to help you pay for school.”
“Cal doesn’t have any money. People don’t have as much money as you think they do. People have stuff like houses and cars and things, but not money.”
“Why would you date him if he didn’t have money?”
“I like him.”
LaShonda studied her.
“I think,” Sloan said. “I don’t know…I think I might love him.”
“You got no business falling in love with Cal Wannamaker.”
“Why not?”
“I’m just saying.”
“You’re just saying what? You’re not saying much of a
nything except you don’t like him. Well, you know what? His parents don’t give him very much money. He’s a smart guy and makes most of his own money.”
“He has a job?”
“He’s got ways.”
“Sounds like my stupid cousin Ronald to me. There are always ways to make money. That don’t mean a thing.”
Sloan was silent.
“Girl, I don’t care what you say. There are those people and then there’s the rest of us. We’re pretty much on our own, so get used to it. You’re just in their club right now. You won’t be staying. They’re not really your friends. I don’t see you asking any of them to help you with your financial aid.”
Once again, LaShonda had hit the mark. Sloan had never admitted to any of Cal’s friends that her parents were going bankrupt.
“That’s a shitty thing to say. You are so wrong.”
“I call it like I see it. Money makes it easy to get what you want. Makes it easy to want too much. Easy to walk away from mistakes. A little bit of money can make you think you deserve things you don’t necessarily deserve.”
Sloan cut her eyes at her but curbed some submerged impulse. She took a sip of her coffee and said, “Look, LaShonda. I don’t think I’m better than you.”
LaShonda smirked. “You’re the only one.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Shit, girl. Every weekend I sit out by the side of the road with my daddy selling shrimp and all them women from Lafayette Isle come buy our catch. They pull up and let those big SUVs idle and belch fumes all over us while they talk us down on the price of a pound of shrimp. They flit around in those little tennis skirts gossiping about all their neighbors like we’re deaf-mutes. Like what we think about their people don’t count.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Why you apologizing? It’s not your fault.”
Sloan looked out at the lawn where sprinkler heads had popped up, spewing dandelions of mist.
“I do find out all kinds of stuff that way,” LaShonda said. “I heard something about your boyfriend’s mom just the other day.”
This tweaked Sloan’s interest and she cocked an eyebrow.
“There was two Isle women talking about her. Her name’s Bitsy Wannamaker, right?”
“Right.”
“They said she’s got a drinking problem. They said she was being shipped off to one of those spa rehabs out in Arizona or some place.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, they talked about how they saw her out at Al’s by the Creek sound asleep in one of the booths. They said soon as her husband saw she nodded off he jerked her up and dragged her out to their car. Pretty funny, huh?”
“No. I don’t think it’s funny at all.”
“Why? It’s not like she’s your mother-in-law or something.”
“She’s been nice to me.”
“Well, she never was nice to me. Guess maybe it makes me feel better to know those people ain’t so perfect.”
“Is that what you think? That people in big houses have perfect lives?”
“I’d trade problems. Think about it. If you had your boyfriend’s money, you wouldn’t be sitting here wondering about financial aid.”
“You know, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. That’s their private business.” Sloan started packing up her books, shoving her laptop back into its case. “And I’ve got a little bit of advice for you. You need to learn to mind your own business.”
CHAPTER 26
The Way Home
A few miles south of Pawleys lay Georgetown, a fishing village generally spared the coast’s influx of tourists with their demanding ways and tired, unruly children. Emmett drove across the highway bridge, turned left, and worked his way through a neighborhood of low-slung Lowcountry houses, Georgians with wide verandahs, and a sprinkling of tall Victorians. Along Front Street, restaurants and bars opened back decks to a handsome boardwalk along the Sampit River. Among the pleasure boats, a tour boat rigged to look like a pirate ship was docked and from her deck Blackbeard called to the thin tourist crowds of summer. Diners sipped wine beneath hanging baskets of festive flowers. Emmett frequently brought his family here for Sunday brunch. That was, of course, before they’d started pinching pennies.
Emmett parked across the street from the town hall and courthouse in a lot under a giant oak. It was his habit to always find the shady spot. Emmett was here to catch up on issues that affected his company and home, like beach renourishment, growing development, and increasing traffic problems. Today, the South Carolina Department of Transportation was meeting with locals to discuss the growth and traffic increase along Highway 17. Emmett had a number of projects in the works that could be affected. His daughter was also interested to learn about the county’s plan for beach renourishment, since scientists theorized that drastic beach change could confuse mother turtles returning to familiar spots to lay their clutches of golf-ball eggs.
He stopped on his way in to read the historic marker in front, stalling to avoid conversation with a gathering of men in seersucker suits and bow ties at the top of the stairs. The marker said the yellow building with white trim was Classical Revival, designed in the early 1800s by Robert Mills, who also designed the Washington Monument.
Inside, a board on an easel directed him to the room for the DOT meeting. The board also had directions to chambers for a case pending between the Southern Environmental Law Center, which represented conservationists and residents, against Wannamaker & Pinckney, one of the area’s biggest developers. Emmett had never worked for W&P. His was a small shop with only five employees, including himself, so Emmett had never gone after one of the enormous jobs that kept pushing natives into the interior of the country while the superrich ringed the coastline.
But there was another reason he hadn’t approached Trip Wannamaker and his massive W&P. They had what Emmett considered a scorched-earth policy when it came to development. They’d take a pristine site, completely denude it of native trees and plant water-thirsty ornamentals that withered in the punishing Carolina sun. To compensate, they’d irrigate like crazy. But Emmett worked toward sustainable design with more drought tolerance, mostly native plants and collection ponds and cisterns that provided free water independent of the city.
Another issue was run-off control. When buildings and parking lots took the place of land that held water, there was the problem of where the displaced water would go. Once again, holding ponds were an answer, unless, of course, the area was so saturated the excess couldn’t be contained. That was the reason wetlands were not appropriate for construction projects. But tell that to W&P. Their lawyers were fighting to allow construction of a mega upscale community along the Waccamaw River. They had purchased 5,000 acres with the intention of capitalizing on what they thought was a loophole in restrictions concerning man-made sites. The land they purchased was wetlands formed by rice farmers flooding fields for cultivation before the Civil War. W&P wanted to call their new development Waccamaw Plantation Pointe, but conservationists wanted to call it an animal sanctuary.
Of course, there were design guidelines and ordinances in place on a local level, but those were routinely ignored by council members who didn’t understand them or didn’t care. That’s where Caroline Crawford came in. She was a good city manager. She understood things, knew how to get things done, as well as how to prevent things from happening. Caroline tried to guide the council in the right direction. She had supported a tax break on infill projects, but the council had voted it down. So there was no incentive for developers to contain sprawl and DOT was struggling to keep up with the road improvements needed to handle the extra traffic. To Emmett, local government, state government, and developers were all one big cluster fuck.
Still, there was no stopping developers. The deepest pockets eventually won. Even if the tree huggers defeated W&P this time, the company would merely wait another three years and launch another attack, hoping for a change of bench in chambers or new town leaders
hip that could be bought.
And sometimes larger companies went ahead with their plans—fines, penalties and negative newspaper coverage be hanged. Most people had short memories, and a few years down the road, nobody would remember or even care that a few thousand animals were rendered homeless, that unlucky neighbors were flooded, or that the floodplain corridor was permanently scarred.
Through a glass door at the end of the hall, Emmett saw Caroline on a cast iron bench in the courtyard, her smooth legs ending in four-inch heels. Her hair fell around her face in that way that made Emmett swallow hard. He pushed through the door into the inner courtyard. She smiled upon seeing him and swung her hair behind a shoulder.
“Well, hey, stranger. Long time no see,” she purred.
“How’s city life?”
“Been better. Been worse.” She took a drag on her cigarette, a habit Emmett found appalling. How he could be so attracted to somebody who smoked was a mystery to him, but Caroline’s danger vibe was what he liked. She was all business on the surface, but underneath lived a woman who drank too much and danced when she felt like it. She was a woman who embraced desires. She smoked and ate chocolate and slept with any man she wanted.
He let his guard down then, only for a fleeting moment. Damn. She’d seen him scanning her. A fleeting second of desire, but she’d recognized it as quickly as if he’d spilled his guts onto the ground at her glossy shoes.
“You’d never cheat,” she teased.
“No.”
“So why do we go through this every time we’re around each other?”
“I don’t know. Maybe I just like to think about it.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t just think about it.”
“I can’t.”
“You can. You just won’t.”
He shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Suit yourself.” She pitched her cigarette down on the walk and ground it out. Another habit Emmett found unacceptable, but he really liked her shoes.
“You sitting in on the hearing on the Wannamaker deal?” he asked.
The Ocean Inside Page 17