David
I have my dare. Where are you?
I snorted and typed,
‘Student Center.’ But I have a meeting, so I can’t talk to you right now.
David
After. What floor are you on?
Do NOT come find me. Wait on the first floor. I’ll come to you.
When he didn’t reply, I figured he’d listen to my command for once. But in case he didn’t internalize the order, I sent a follow-up text that said,
I mean it. I’ll find you in 30 mins.
Though I regrettably appreciated the digital distraction, I didn’t need David here in flesh and blood. I didn’t want him to see me like this. I didn’t want anyone I knew to see me. I was a half-blob of a human right now, melting with every minute that passed.
With a last roll of my shoulders, I pushed off the wall and started toward the table.
The president of Women in Business, Hana Yosef, was the only one who looked up from her laptop when I came into sight. She offered me a smile that made her already warm exterior inviting. The muted blue hijab she wore highlighted the smoky gray shade of her eyes.
“Yara, hi,” Hana greeted as she removed her bag from the only other chair that wasn’t occupied. “So great to meet you in person. It’s nice to finally put a face to the email.”
My other two guests (jurors?) looked up. Anthony Follow, the president of BSU, raised a brow at me. He had starter locs with red tips and wore black-framed glasses that slid down his nose when he took a not-so-subtle glance at his watch.
Like me, he was a stickler for time. We’d collaborated on a couple of projects in the past, and every time I worked with him,I experienced what it was like to be the slacker in the group project. The guy could write a ten-page paper in a night while also getting a run in, cooking a healthy dinner, and organizing a successful panel. I’d witnessed it all first-hand and reconsidered all my hopes and dreams.
“This should take just thirty minutes, correct?” he asked, voice coated in a kind of heavy exhaustion I’m sure all of uscould relate to, even though this semester was just getting started.
“Correct. I’ll have you guys out of here in no time.” I attempted a smile, but the corners of my lips fought me every second of it. Thankfully, I sounded steadier than my balance felt. I quickly sat down and pulled out my tablet.
Olivia Johnson fanned herself with a brochure for the new grocery store opening up on campus. Her brown skin had a flawless complexion that celebrities often claimed to achieve naturally. Her ponytail, made with honey-dyed curls, easily fit under a worn baseball cap.
During our first year at Westbrooke, Olivia was Haven and I’s third roommate. We’d set out to revive BWD together. But once she met some girls from her STEM courses, she converted. We were friendly whenever we ran into each other, but never ‘stay up late gossiping, do you want to make a late-night run for ice cream’ close.
“I read your write-up.” Olivia’s dark eyes never left mine. Her tone was a flat, low-effort noise. Post-freshman year, with rose-colored glasses removed, it was nearly impossible to elicit any kind of feeling from Olivia other than moderate intrigue.
For the past couple of semesters, I’ve reached out to her for event collaboration. She’d passed every single time with a simple: not interested. When she agreed to this meeting, I couldn’t believe it. And honestly, I’d accidentally asked because her email remained on my mailing list of student orgs I thought would give us the time of day.
A part of me figured maybe she humored me because this was our final year as Presidents. And perhaps some part of her felt guilty for ditching our goals and essentially our friendship… but from the slight frown of her round lips, I’d say guilt was the farthest thing from her mind.
“What did you think?” My stomach twisted to prepare for the incoming rejection. I remembered enough about Olivia tounderstand that once she touched the top of her tongue against her upper lip before speaking, whatever response she was going to give wouldn’t be constructive.
She leaned back in her chair, glancing at the ceiling for a second. “It’s a lot of work.”
“Most of which, Yara says she has covered,” Anthony countered. He rested his hand underneath his chin, gaze on Olivia. “Seems simple enough on our end.”
He sounded like he was on my side, but the way he brushed his pinky across his bottom lip revealed Olivia could persuade him to think differently if she moved the correct chess piece.
“I agree with Ant.” Hana shrugged. “We post a few things on our socials. Sell a few tickets at our meetings. Attend a handful of fundraisers. Sounds easy to me.”
“But the money from the tickets we sell goes right into the BWD’s account, right?” Olivia looked at me for clarity.
I swallowed. My throat felt like the abrasive side of a sponge. When I reached for my water bottle, it was empty. I felt silly holding the empty bottle, but I was too nervous to set it back down. “We will keep the income, yes. Most of which will go towards the event cost and an elementary after-school program charity. This isn’t a cash grab?—”
“So, sounds like we’re basically your street team,” Olivia mused as she closed her planner. She’d been using one of the same styles since freshman year. It was red and glittery, with stickers of ‘90s cartoons.
