Deciding to take the long way around the buildings, I walk the quad, let the spring air shock the sweat from my skin and make my head clear. When I finally return to the dorm, I pause before my door. There’s something waiting on the floor, half pushed under, a white corner peeking out. Not a flyer, not an administrative warning—something heavier, deliberate. I nudge it with my boot, then bend and pick it up. It’s an envelope, thick as cardboard, sealed with a circle of deep blue wax stamped with the Westpoint crest. In the corner is a fancy H in gold script.
My heart thuds, and for a moment I just stand there, running my thumb over the embossed letters, tracing the sharp outline of the eagle.
Inside my room, it smells like instant noodles, making me hungry. The ventilation here sucks dick. I set the envelope on my desk, staring at it as I change out of my gym clothes. I wrap up in my tattered old robe and sit, dripping a little, water pooling under my chair. The envelope just sits there, a tumor of possibility, and I can’t stop looking at it.
There’s no return address. No name on the front. Just the seal, and the weight.
I should throw it away.
I should tear it open, read the words and get it over with.
Instead, I open it with a paring knife, slow, careful not to rip the contents.
The letter inside is written in golden ink, each letter perfectly handwritten:
Ms. Allen,
You are cordially invited to an exclusive gathering at Harrington Hall this evening at 7 PM sharp. Formal attire required. Please wait at the Westpoint gate at 6:45 PM. Transportation will be provided.
Attendance is mandatory.
Yours,
Dean Marcus
I read it twice, then a third time, searching for the catch. The handwriting is too neat to be real. The phrase “mandatory” catches in my throat, burns a little on the way down.
There’s a postscript in smaller print:
Failure to appear will be considered a forfeiture of your Scholarship.
I almost laugh, but the sound comes out wrong, like a hiccup. There it is—the real threat, dressed up in gold and forced politeness. I could stay here, skip the whole thing, but they’d just drag me out anyway. And then I’d lose everything.
I stare at my closet, which isn’t a closet, just an open metal rack with four hangers. I don’t even own anything “formal.” Nothing even close. There’s the navy dress from this morning, which isn’t good enough for something like this.
Next to it, the only other dress I brought: red, sleeveless, bought on clearance for junior prom, never worn. The color is too bright, the cut too sharp for a place like this. I know it will look desperate, even needy, but there’s no choice. It’s the only thing I have.
I take it down, hold it up in the light. The tag still flaps on the inside seam, five dollars, final sale. Ripping it off, I pull it over my head and twist, looking in the full-length mirror mounted to the back of my door. The red is like a wound on my body, but it fits better than I remember. The hem ends a little above my knee, conservative by real-world standards, but I know I’ll stand out in this crowd like a bloodstain on marble.
I sit at my desk and try to remember how to do makeup. My mother taught me once, before she left, but I was never good at it. I find the tiny kit at the bottom of my bag, the one with cracked blush and a mascara so old it’s half dry. I dab a little powder under my eyes, just enough to kill the shine, then run a swipe of mascara over my lashes. It clumps, but I pick it off with my fingernail. My lips are the wrong color, so I wipe them on the towel, leave them plain.
My hair is worse. The humidity has made it frizz up at the temples, and I have nothing to tame it with. I wet my hands, slick it back, then braid it tight and wind the tail into a knot at the base of my skull. The effect is severe, but it makes my face look older, more capable.
I try out a smile in the mirror. It doesn’t work.
There’s time to kill before the event, but I can’t sit still. I clean up my desk, stacking the books by subject, then alphabetically, then by weight. I toss the gym towel over the radiator and smooth the sheets on my bed. I line up my shoes under the rack, polish the tips with a tissue, even though they’re just flats and will never pass for new.
At six-thirty, I’m ready. At six-forty, I’m pacing. At six-forty-three, I put on my coat and step into the hall.
The other girls are gone. The wing is silent, the air thick with the scent of straighteners and expensive perfume that always reminds me of old ladies at church. I walk fast, head down, heels clicking on the tile. By the time I hit the main floor, my hands are shaking again, so I shove them in my pockets.
Outside, the world is blue and glassy. The walk to the gate which is uphill, and by the time I reach it, I’m sweating under the coat. I look back once, just to make sure I’m alone.
A black limousine idles at the curb, engine rumbling low. It’s the kind you see in movies or funeral processions. The driver is faceless behind the tinted window. He doesn’t get out.
I stand on the sidewalk, waiting for a signal. After a minute, the rear door pops open, slow and deliberate, revealing a cave of leather and dim yellow light. I slide in, careful not to flash myself, and pull the door shut behind me.
The inside smells like money and cold gin. There’s a divider between me and the driver, a wall of black glass. The seats are butter soft, stitched with a pattern of eagles and crests that look hand-sewn. I keep my bag in my lap, hands tight around the strap.
