At the end of the hall, Dr. Leavitt stops before a heavy oak door. He keys a code, and we’re in.
The office is a reliquary of bad taste. Taxidermy, oil paintings, shelves burdened by old law books no one has read since Nixon. He gestures me to a seat, and the other two remain by the door, guards not friends.
He slides a folder across the desk. “Your credentials, Miss Bonaccorso. Please confirm for accuracy.”
I open it, flick past transcripts and intake forms. They already have my blood type, immunization records, criminal background check (sealed). The last page is a formal letter: “We are honored to welcome you to the Westpoint Family, as a representative of the Bonaccorso name and all it stands for. We trust you will honor the traditions of our institution.”
Tradition. A polite synonym for control.
I sign the bottom line in precise, looping script.
Dr. Leavitt produces a ring of keys, heavy enough to double as a weapon. “This grants you access to the east wing, your private quarters, and the Board’s chambers. You will be expected to attend an orientation at eleven sharp.” He hands me a folder of orientation materials, embossed in gold. “Uniform fitting is at ten. Your escort will take you there. You may choose your family colors and crest at that time.”
I stand. The two students are already alert, ready to shepherd me like I’m a hazard, not a guest.
As I turn to leave, Dr. Leavitt adds, “A word of advice, Miss Bonaccorso?” His tone is light, but his fingers drum a warning on the desk. “Westpoint rewards those who know when to lead, and when to observe. I suggest you do a bit of both.”
I look him dead in the eye. “Thank you, Dr. Leavitt. I suggest you do the same.”
He laughs, thin and brittle. I let the door close behind me.
The tour is perfunctory, but the girl softens with each corridor we walk. She tells me about the dormitory system, about the Feral Boys, about the rivalries and alliances that run deeper than most marriages. I listen, but only to the things she doesn’t say: what halls to avoid, which professors to fear, where the real power is kept.
At the uniform shop, I strip behind a curtain, peel off the civilian and slide into Westpoint blue. The fit is razor sharp, skirt just above the knee, blazer with gold trim. I study myself in the mirror, see my mother’s face superimposed over mine. For asecond, I consider what it would be like to just disappear, to let someone else fight this war for me. The thought vanishes as quickly as it comes.
I step out. The girl—Camilla, finally introduced—nods her approval. “You wear it better than anyone I’ve seen.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Is that a compliment?”
She grins. “Of course.”
“I’d like this with red and my initials embroidered above the left breast.”
“Of course, Ms. Bonaccorso. It will be ready by days end.”
We finish the fitting and I change back into my normal clothes, and she leads me to the east wing. The halls are less trafficked here, and I feel the watching more acutely. I glance over my shoulder, catch the flicker of movement near the archway, but when I look directly, it’s gone. A test, maybe. Or just the usual Westpoint paranoia.
Camilla slows as we approach my quarters. “Most students get doubles or triples. The scholarship students get the North Tower. The Board likes to keep their special guests separate.”
I nod. “It’s safer for everyone.”
She laughs, genuine this time. “You’ll do fine.”
She leaves me at the door. I watch her recede, counting the seconds it takes for the footsteps to fade. I key in, the lock heavy, built to keep more than secrets.
Inside, the room is cathedral-bright. Floor-to-ceiling windows, four-poster bed, a desk the size of a conference table. Every surface is immaculate, except the nightstand, which holds a single welcome package and a crisp envelope with my name hand-lettered in gold.
There’s a hallway, a big bathroom on the right and my bedroom on the left. It’s a mini apartment in here. I hate to say it, but I love it. My own space.
I set my bag on the bed. From its depths, I pull out a silver case, unclip it, and check the contents: phone, burner, pepper spray, Glock 43 (disassembled), and a thin plastic folder of fake IDs.
Just in case. You never know when you’re about to get fucked.
I transfer the burner to the top drawer, the pepper spray to my sweater, and leave the Glock in the case. My father’s voice rings in my head: “You’re not a target unless you let them see you’re armed.”
I press my palm flat to the window, stare out at the stone and frost below. From here, the grounds look tranquil. Deceptive. I know better than to trust a view.
I catch my reflection in the glass, the way the morning sun turns my eyes molten. I tap my signet ring against the pane, threetimes, a habit I can’t shake. On the street, this would mean something. Here, it’s just a tic. But old habits don’t die, they just get buried under new uniforms and colder traditions.
