I lie still and listen to the pipes rattle in the wall, the patter of sleet on the tiny dorm window. The bed is harder than I’m used to. The sheets smell like starch and old moth balls. I run my fingers over the top of the blanket, counting the woven threads because that’s the only thing that grounds me.
The other rooms on my floor are still silent. No one here wakes before six unless they’re running from something, or toward something, and I guess I am both. I take a breath and it shakes. My first day isn’t supposed to feel like a death sentence, but it does.
There’s a blinking red dot on the smoke detector in the ceiling, a constant accusatory glare that makes me want to stand up straighter, even alone. My phone, charging on the desk, glows with a single notification: a calendar alert that says Business and Banking 1001, First Period, 7:00am. There is no emoji, no smile. I swipe it away.
I shower in the bathroom at the end of the hall, careful to keep my eyes low and my towel wrapped tight. The fluorescent lights make me look jaundiced. The tile is cold, and it stings. By the time I return to my cell—because that’s what it is, no matter how many cutesy “dorm life!” emails they sent—I am shivering, but at least I feel clean. A small victory.
My room is the only one on the floor without a view. The other windows face the quad, or the river, or the main drive where the rich kids park their imported cars. My window faces the loading dock behind the kitchen. I can see the trash bins, the crates of wilted lettuce, and the man who is on the early shift at the ass crack of dawn to unload the week’s groceries.
I hang my towel over the radiator and start putting on my uniform. Except it isn’t really a uniform, because I don’t have the money for the official Westpoint sets. Instead, I have the dress. The only dress I own that doesn’t have a stain or a rip or a memory attached. It’s navy, the kind of blue that looks blackin the wrong light. I bought it second-hand from a consignment shop downtown, ironed it five times since yesterday, and still worry it will look cheap next to the pressed blazers and silk ties of everyone else.
There’s a trick to making it look intentional: crisp seams, smooth pleats, clean lines. I lay the dress on the desk and run the iron over every inch, careful not to burn the fragile fabric. The steam hisses. My knuckles go white around the handle. I know if I slip, the scorch will show forever.
In the hall outside, I hear voices. Laughter that’s sharp and cruel even when it’s not directed at me. Someone is already up, probably still drunk from the night before. I peek through the crack in my door. The suite across from mine is open, a spray of blonde hair visible above the futon, four girls crowded around a makeup mirror. One is painting her nails and the other is scrolling on her phone, scrolling and scrolling. The third is trying on a Westpoint blazer, frowning when it doesn’t quite fit her right. The last one isn’t visible, but her voice carries: “Are you serious? The Board is actually letting that girl stay?” The words echo across the hall.
It makes my skin go tight and hot. I return to my room, close the door until it latches, and pull out the only thing that matters: the letter.
It’s printed on thick, cream-colored paper, the kind that leaves flecks of fiber on your fingertips. The seal at the top is gold and embossed, catching the light even in my dim hovel. I’ve read it so many times the corners have gone soft and rounded. The first paragraph is the one I like best:
Dear Ms. Allen,
On behalf of the Board of Governors, it is my pleasure to congratulate you on your acceptance into the Westpoint Academy Scholars Program, fully funded for the duration of your study. Your academic record and achievements demonstrate an unusual degree of initiative, resilience, and leadership. You have been selected from over five thousand candidates. We are pleased to offer you a place among the next generation of leaders.
It goes on for another half page, all flowery and officious, but that first paragraph is the one I need. I press my thumb to the ink. I fold and unfold the paper along the same crease, over and over. I don’t care how desperate it looks—I need the reminder. I am not here by accident. I am not here because the Board felt sorry for me. I am here because I outworked every other applicant and earned it.
I tuck the letter into the side pocket of my bag. The bag is older than I am, canvas faded and straps repaired with mismatched thread, but it is sturdy. I double-check that I have everything: three pens (two black, one blue), one new notebook, the battered laptop with a missing key, and the required textbook, purchased used and annotated with the thoughts of a dozen hands before mine. The book is heavier than it looks. I like the weight of it.
I pin my hair back, no makeup, no jewelry. There’s nothing to embellish, nothing to disguise. I don’t want to be noticed. That’s the only defense I have left.
At six-fifteen I leave the room. I know the campus by heart already. I memorized the map before the semester even started, because I knew every mistake would be amplified, every misstep a signal to the wolves that I was weak. The hall is empty, but smells sweaty already. I descend quietly, each footfall measured, my eyes trained on the floor.
The stairwell down to the main floor is worse. The walls are lined with framed photographs of past classes, all perfect teeth and military posture, rows of faces that look nothing like mine. I keep my head down, but I can feel the eyes and the compulsion to look up wins. A mistake. A group of seniors passes by, three of them in identical rugby jackets, sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms tan and muscular. One glances at me and snorts.
"Damn, she’s actually here," someone mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. Another voice, softer, adds, "She’s the poor project this year, right?"
I want to ignore them, but the words settle in my gut causing my stomach to churn. I keep moving.
The doors to the dining hall are already open. Inside, the tables are divided by invisible lines of power: groups collecting according to power and status, if their blazers are anything to go by. I hover at the entrance, searching for a place where I won’t be noticed, but it’s impossible. Every table is claimed. Every seat is a trap.
A girl in a cashmere sweater—white, soft, pristine—turns to look at me, her gaze sharp. Her friends follow suit. One ofthem giggles, the other covers her mouth like she’s hiding a yawn. I clutch my bag tighter and head for the service counter, determined not to let them see me hesitate.
The breakfast options are minimal: oatmeal, a stack of pancakes already going stale, a bucket of hard-boiled eggs. I grab a banana and a cup of black coffee, careful not to make eye contact with the woman behind the counter. She looks at my student ID a second longer than necessary, as if trying to remember where she’s seen me before.
Everyone avoids me like the plague, so I retreat to a corner table by the exit. It’s not comfortable, but at least it’s defensible. I peel the banana in slow, deliberate motions, the skin breaking with a wet pop. The first bite sticks in my throat, but I force it down anyway. Calories are calories. I sip the coffee. It’s bitter, but hot. I focus on the sensation—heat on my tongue, the faint sting as it moves down my throat.
I can do this.
I hear my name before I see the person saying it.
"Allen," someone calls, his voice deep and raspy.
I turn, and there he is: the boy from the ceremony, the one who never blinked when I looked at him last night. He’s not smiling, but there’s something worse in his expression—a kind of satisfaction, like he’s found the weak spot and intends to press until it gives.
"Colton," he says, as if introducing himself to a roomful of admirers. The table nearest to him laughs on cue. He doesn’t look away from me. "See you in class, Allen."
My first impulse is to look down, to shrink. But I don’t. I nod, once, and return to my breakfast. My leg starts bouncing, my nervous habit to ground myself.
The laughter dies away, but the feeling remains. I am prey. But I am also here. I made it. I did the impossible. Everything else is white noise.
