At the community college and the small Christian college just outside town, commuting students are having to work extra hours to cover the cost of gasoline.

The national economic downturn is certainly felt in college towns like this one, home to three very different institutions within a few miles of one another, in a region still smarting from the loss of thousands of textile jobs.

As for job prospects for new graduates, the news is mixed. Last fall, a survey by the National Association of Colleges and Employers predicted that campus hiring would be up 16 percent for the Class of 2008. An updated survey earlier this month revises that figure downward, but still predicts an increase of about 8 percent over the Class of 2007.

For colleges themselves, an economic slump can be good for business, reminding people of the value of more education and pushing them to get a diploma when other opportunities are scarce.

Colleges plan for the long haul, so many can take advantage of the effects of an economic slump, such as lower construction costs and - if the credit crunch passes - lower costs to borrow money.

In short, the economy on campus is a complicated story, best told from the point of view of some people in the midst of the forces at work:

On a break between classes, Hannah Bolt tries to get some work done in a campus coffee shop at Southern Wesleyan University, a small Christian college in the town of Central, a few minutes from Clemson.

Every minute is precious. She comes to campus four days a week, and often works the other three days at a department store. Her parents - a commercial fisherman and a seamstress - have pushed her to pick a steady career, so she is studying to become a special-education teacher.

There is no such thing as a typical student, here or anywhere else. But Bolt is representative in some respects. Like most students here and about 57 percent nationwide, she has a job. She is also a commuter, as are about 4 in 5 American college students who do not live on campus.

That is why to college students, the price of gasoline is an education issue. It used to cost Bolt $20 to fill up her VW Beetle weekly for the 26-mile trip from her home to campus. Now it is $37 to $40.

Given her family's finances, you might wonder what Bolt is doing at a private college.

But the financial hit is not too bad. Wesleyan tuition and fees run about $17,000 a year, but about 90 percent of students get aid. With a state scholarship and $7,000 from Wesleyan, Bolt has had to borrow only $3,000 - and that should be paid off by a state teacher-training program.

At Clemson University, campus consumerism is at full throttle.

The Chili's restaurant in the student union does a brisk weekday lunch business. The number of riders on the campus bus is up because of climbing gasoline prices, but overall more students than ever have their own cars.

Marvin Carmichael has worked in financial aid since 1973 and now heads the office. Times have changed.

As a student here, Carmichael worked his way through school mowing lawns and tending bar. Going out to a nice dinner was something to celebrate graduation, not the end of the week.

Of about 12,500 undergraduates, about 1,950 receive federal Pell Grants, meaning they likely come from families earning under about $40,000. One student came to Carmichael complaining about a $35 late fee, saying that was his food for a week.

But Carmichael, and many students here, say they think most students are relatively sheltered economically. He is glad for them, but does worry about two of the reasons that may explain why.

The first is that the student-spending splurge is paid with borrowed money - particularly from private lenders, as opposed to the government. Nationally, the College Board reports that nonfederal loans account for 24 percent of total student aid, up from 6 percent just a decade ago.

The change is even more alarming at Clemson. Just five years ago, about 700 students had private loans, totaling $4.2 million, Carmichael said. Last year, there were nearly 2,400 who had borrowed a collective $17.5 million.

The second reason Clemson students appear flush is that many are well-off to begin with. Like a number of states, South Carolina has fundamentally shifted how it spends money on public higher education in recent years.

For the most part, it used to hand money directly to universities. Now, much of the money comes through merit-based scholarship programs, like South Carolina's LIFE and Palmetto Fellows scholarships, which give students who meet certain academic criteria thousands of dollars to spend on in-state schools.

A few miles down Route 76, Tiandra Best, 19, is heading to class at Tri-County Technical College. Next year, she hopes to be up the road at Clemson.

"We've been struggling and struggling and struggling for many years," Best said of herself and her mother, who raised her alone. "I know if I go to Clemson and come out, I'll be able to support both of us."

At the moment, there is not quite room for her. Merit-aid programs are helping fuel demand for slots, and Clemson is determined not to expand its student body. This year, a record 15,104 students have applied for admission. For the first time ever, it is likely that fewer than half will get in.

Best, though, is one of about 250 who just missed direct admission for this fall, but have another shot through a bridge program at Tri-County Technical College. They will spend the year in classes here but build up connections at Clemson, and if all goes well transfer in as sophomores.

It is not a bad deal. Full-time tuition for a year here runs about $2,800. At Clemson, it's $10,370.

University of Pennsylvania president Amy Gutmann and Inquirer education editor Rose Ciotta talk about Penn's plan to enable low- and middle- income students to attend tuition-free. Video at go.philly.com/collegecost