Chapter 11
The lecture hall is packed. Every seat claimed, people sitting on the steps and standing at the back of the room, jackets slung over their arms and backpacks at their feet.
Celine says the association meetings are usually well attended, but that this is the busiest she’s ever seen it. “We spread the word that you were coming, and ta-da!”
She explains the run of show—they’ll go through a few agenda items and then I’m up. She introduces me to the WOTF president, Amani, whose gushing is slightly more restrained than Celine’s was upon meeting me. After she thanks me four times for coming tonight, she directs Ryan and me to sit in the taped-off chairs at the front of the room so the session can get started.
Colleges might just be my favorite venues for speaking events. There’s such vitality in young people whose minds are being opened to the breadth of the world, the possibilities it contains. Feelingtheir energy renews my sense of purpose. This is what it’s all about—what it was all about when I sent that first video to Maral, a grad student dealing with outsized expectations from both the institution and herself. Pushed there for better or worse by parents who worked so hard to give her that opportunity to prove herself.
I texted Maral earlier that I couldn’t meet her and Shanthi thisevening because I was doing an impromptu talk at the Berkeley campus, and I see her response now when I pull out my phone:cool. I swipe away the notification and open the video camera, handing it to Ryan so he can record me for socials.
Amani holds court like a true boss—her bright pink hijab may as well be a crown. By the time she invites me to the podium, I’m so enamored of the WOTF meeting in session that it takes the room erupting in applause to shake me out of it.
“Hello, women of the future!” I say into the mic. Their appreciation reaches a higher pitch, a few whoops ringing throughout the room.
I launch into my usual college speech, making appropriate amendments for the size of the crowd and the specific organization. It’s finely honed at this point, but no matter how many times I do this, it makes me swell with gratification.
Even though there isn’t a formal Q and A session tacked on to the end of my speaking time, I hang around and chat with the students. As a line forms down the aisle, Ryan disappears through the double doors and returns minutes later, two bottles of water in one hand and my phone in the other. He delivers the items to me, apologizing to the student I’m speaking with for the interruption before asking me if I’m comfortable, if I need anything else. A chair, perhaps, or something else to drink or eat. I decline, and he stands aside—but not too far.
It takes an hour and a half before the auditorium is almost empty, with only a handful of stragglers hanging back. Amani and a few others excuse themselves to meet assignment deadlines after thanking me profusely for bringing such excitement to their usual Tuesday night meeting. Celine and a couple of people who I assume are on the board of WOTF are the last ones clustered together near the door.
“There’s a student mixer tonight,” Celine says. “They’ve sourced a couple of kegs—drinks are on us!”
Ryan raises a censorious brow at her, clearly unimpressed with her underage drinking, before his gaze drifts to me. “We should be getting back…”
“No! Hang out a bit,” Celine says, making some kind of eyes at him. “Ana deserves to unwind after doing us this solid.”
His scowl is next-level. “Celine…”
“Ryan,” she says in an admonishing tone of her own. More quietly, she adds, “Let yourself enjoy something. For once?”
“I’m down,” I say, and they both turn to me. Maybe I’m speaking out of turn—there’s clearly some subtextual communication happening between them—but someone needs to be the deciding vote. And while a college kegger is not my idea of themostfun Ryan and I could have together, there’s no need to examine why I’m so eager to spend more of the evening with him when there’s no sex involved.
Celine beams. Ryan’s muscles seem to relax and his frown melts away, which a week ago I would have thought was as good as a smile for this sourpuss. Boy, was I wrong.
“Okay, then,” he says. “Hope you like foam.”
The beer is not only foamy but room temperature.
Ryan and I each nurse a solo cup as we stand at a makeshift bar in the residence hall common room, chatting over the din of music with various students who either introduce themselves self-assuredly or have to be coaxed to join the conversation. Some people clear out a central circle in which to dance while others mill among friends, and soon enough Ryan and I are left alone.
“Subpar alcohol is one thing I don’t miss about college,” I say.
“Couldn’t beat free back then, though,” he says, thunking my cup with his.
An absent smile spreads across my face. “I crashed every faculty reception I could find to stuff myself with the free hors d’oeuvres.”
“I took a cooking class as an elective because it meant taking leftovers home for dinner.”
“I babysat for one of my professors and pilfered her kids’ Lunchables.”
He sips his foam, grimaces. “Free is no longer as motivating when you have disposable income. Why are we here, again?”
“Because your sister invited us. She wanted you to enjoy yourselffor once.” I quirk a brow at him. “Gotta make up for lost time, given you didn’t go to parties in college.”
“Doesn’t seem like I missed much.” He scans our surroundings, the painted cinder-block walls with tape remnants from years of posters being hung and removed. “I overheard some kids talking about midterm exams and my trauma response was immediate.”
“Okay, unpopular opinion time.” I raise a hand. “I loved exams.”
