The remainder of my days over the next week soar mindlessly, the only way pushing carts and handing keys can make happen. So mindless in fact, that a majority of my time is spent creating internal wagers with myself. Little bets on just how many items from the not allowed list my fellow classmates try to smuggle into their carts.

Nothing says college dorm like toaster and candle contraband.

When I'm not working in the dorm room border patrol, I've spent time collecting supplies and textbooks allowing for ample preparation for my classes. I've even taken the time to walk the campus and find where all my lectures and one lab will be housed. I am determined to not be the clueless freshman the first week of classes.

I've also skirted by on no real interactions with my dad, sans for the second unannounced visit a week ago. He randomly strolled up the sidewalk in front of the dorm hall I was assigned to for the day. I hadn't told him where I would be or when I would be there, so I can only assume one of his spies tipped him off.

He attempted to use a half ass excuse about checking in on his players, but the double take reaction as they came out of their building told me they weren't expecting him either. I watched as one of them barely shuffled his feet across the concrete to make a greeting, the plastic of his slide sandals scraping against the ground with each step. I laughed to myself then, at the fact that he was literally dragging his feet towards my dad to delay the conversation. Apparently I'm not the only one who doesn't look forward to seeing him.

The unannounced encounter accompanied with the unprompted knock at the door to my room right now tells me it's him. There is a barometric shift in the atmosphere happening like a sign that an unwanted spirit has entered the space. I can already feel his presence judging my choice to not brush my hair today through the door. I practically hear him saying, physical appearance is a sign of pride, too Camryn. As if I haven't grown up a female, very aware of societal views of appearance. That's him though, always on, no matter if he's in front of a crowd of a hundred thousand fans or in his own home with his family.

Another not so surprising fact is that it's the first time he has actually been here to my dorm. Even though I've lived here for almost a week at this point and he works less than a mile away. I climb down from my bed to open the door, but not before I twist my hair into a claw clip and throw a t- shirt over my current one, not wanting to have the conversation about how crop tops are socially acceptable for girls my age even though he finds them trashy.

Deep breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth, I think before pressing down on the door handle.

My father doesn't wait for me to greet him and instead steps inside my room and presents the reason for his visit. That's one problem with who he is. He always has a million things on his plate, but can't be bothered to prioritize or move at a slower pace. He stands ankles crossed with one hand leaned on my desk, the other snug in his pocket as he turns to face me.

"Listen Rynnie, I know you're busy," he pauses, no doubt spotting my laptop open to the latest episode of Vanderpump Rules frozen on my screen, "but I wanted to stop by and give you the details about the opportunity I told you about."

When I don't confirm or deny that I have any idea what he is talking about he continues, "I told you about the Success Center needing more tutors...well I took the liberty of signing you up. You seemed to do okay at the library last year and staying busy is best for everyone."

"Hold the fucking phone!" I say raising a hand to my dad's face and he mutters language under his breath. "You can't just come in here and start signing me up for more activities that I didn't ask you to do...I'm an adult, in college," I say first pointing to myself and then waving my hands around me for dramatic effect.

I leave out any inclination about the fact that I did enjoy working with the kids at the library and I do enjoy staying busy. Busy is the easiest way to keep my mind and body clear of my historical preferences to fill my time.

My father adds, "You are an adult and I thought you might like to start making your own money so you can start saving for that plan of yours. I know you don't want to rely on me forever, right?"

I roll my eyes at the way he says plan, like I'm a child who spends their days practicing their glow stick tracing for the day they make it onto Disney Channel even though they hold no theatrical talent whatsoever. And damn him for playing into the fact that my own money would mean more financial freedom and more financial freedom means more freedom, period.

"Details..." I cross my arms to signify a need to be sold, when in fact I've already made up my mind. I don't care what type of work it is. Short of selling a vital organ, the money would be nice.

"Twelve hours a week split between two or three students. You only get assigned students who are taking the same classes as you, and you help them finish their homework and study for exams. Two hundred and fifty dollars a week."

I squint at him, as if that action alone will provide the clarification I need. Two hundred and fifty dollars a week?! That's over twenty dollars an hour. There are grad students eating one block of ramen a week while trying not to let their tears streak up their grant applications too much. Meanwhile, this university will pay me to monitor that kids are doing their homework and I can put it on my transfer applications which could lead to another job at Vanderbilt. I should just agree to get him out of here, but instead I hesitate by uncrossing and recrossing my arms.

I've spent eighteen years being a pon in my father's game never knowing when he would change the rules. Like a sixth sense I feel a tingle. And these rules seem too good to be true, I could possibly win the game by these rules. I hate the skepticism I feel whenever he's involved, "And you're not like stealing a scholarship away from some poor third string player to secretly pay me, right?"

"I do have pull here, but not that much. If I wanted to pay you, and I have offered Camryn, I would. But you've always been... headstrong."

"I'm just supposed to believe that the perfect job scenario just fell from the sky and into the lap of your assistant before you presented it to me?"

"You promised me one year... That's still our deal, right?" My dad points a knowing finger at me. The only reason I'm here, in this room, at this university is because we agreed that if I stayed close to home for one year after graduation and finishing treatment, that he would pay for me to go to whatever university I wanted after. It's his way of maintaining some sense of power over me. We compromised on me living on campus rather than in his house, but I know this job is just another way for him to keep tabs on me, to prove that his influence is great, and that I need him in my life.

I hesitate a beat longer to gather myself, and to maintain the same argument I've always exhausted myself trying to make. I don't need him, but at this very moment, with this proposition, maybe I do just a bit. I'm not proud, but maybe that will change when the first paycheck hits.

"Tell them I'm in."

"Excellent Ryn! They will be lucky to have you. I will let them know, just check your email for more information."

He begins to walk out of the room. His reason for being here is now over so obviously there is no need for him to linger. When he reaches the door he turns back towards me, giving me a once over.

"Are you getting enough sleep?" he asks.

So incredibly close, I think. We almost made it through a conversation without an insult directed towards me. I ignore him and begin to move things around on my desk.

"Are you using the journal Dr. Hartwell gave you? Katie looked it up and journaling is a great way to let go of stress," he says.

"Of course she did," I say, returning to tidying the same three books and five pens on my desk for the third time.
"Make sure you take care of yourself, Ryn. That's how you will stay out of trouble." He turns around again, actually opening the door this time. I waited for the sound of the door slamming shut behind him and then a few seconds more before glancing at the now empty space.

I haven't slept peacefully through the night for four years. But my dad wouldn't know. That's what happens when you spend your life choosing to look the other way.

I can't help that his words have caused me to now move to my desk drawer. I open it and reach inside, pulling out the black journal. I run my fingers over the slight bumpy texture of the black leather cover before running my finger over my initials encrusted on the front cover in fancy gold script.

The action is enough to take me back to the last time I did it. The first time I ever saw this stupid thing in Dr. Hartwell's office.

"Just because our time together has come to an end doesn't mean you just stop working on yourself," she had said as I unwrapped it in her office. Pushing the black and white striped paper to the side, I remember running my finger over the cover the same way I am now. She had called it a graduation gift. For finishing my time with her, for being in a headspace and place where she felt we didn't need one another anymore.

I remember the way I hesitated when I opened it, Ambivalence lingering around me like smoke at both the gift and my being finished with her. Being who she is, she waited unmovingly for me to speak first, no matter how long it took.

"What? I'm just supposed to write my thoughts down? How does that help me work on anything except basic writing conventions?" I had asked.

"Writing in a journal is much like our time together. We talk about the feelings you experience from one session to the next. Sometimes it's deep and we break new ground together. Sometimes we just catch up with current life events, like we did today. If you haven't noticed Camryn, you guide our sessions much more than I do. Journaling can be the same. You write what you feel, in as many or as few words as you need to that day," She said in her always calm voice. I don't remember, but I imagine I just continued to stare a hole into my lap. I know she waited patiently though, for a few minutes at least.

When I still didn't speak she continued, "But I do encourage you to write everyday. Journaling is a reflective tool used to understand the positive parts of your day while also recognizing the negatives, the things that offer room for growth. It lets you reflect on the things you can control and the things that unfortunately you have no control over. Journaling will require no new skills from you Camryn, just a new space to share them. Besides, if you're half as creative as I think you are, you may surprise yourself with the positive release you experience."

I had felt betrayed by her before, but because she knew more about me than the average person. Sometimes walking into her office for a session felt like walking into a battle where the other team already knew every single move I'd make before I even had the chance to.

Dr. Hartwell knew, because I talked about her frequently, that my photography journal was my way to reflect and to focus on the monotony of the day to day. That it was something my mom and I started together. She also knew the reason I stopped. That I no longer saw the value in capturing events. It was enough to have to live in my reality, let alone spend time reflecting on it. I had to do that enough in our sessions.

But I took the journal anyway, and thanked Dr. Hartwell with a convincingly genuine smile. Only because that's what you're supposed to do. One trick I learned early on is that people only want you to do what you're supposed to do, what is expected. It makes life easier for everyone.

I crack open the spine now for the first time, feeling it crunch under my fingers from lack of use. I pick up my favorite purple pen and hover above the page. I have no idea where to begin, just like I had no idea where to begin back when I first got the journal. The only thing that got me to this point is the fact that I know if I want to leave this place for good I actually have to try. Instead of creating my familiar thin line, I create a T shaped chart.