As president of Westbrooke’s chapter of the Black Women in Development (BWD), I had the honor of spearheading events for Black women on campus. Our organization worked to foster connections and encourage personal and professional growth through workshops, lectures, and events. And since this semester marked my final year before graduation, I wanted everything I did for the org to be big. I needed to solidify my place in its history.
My mom had been the president when she was on campus. She’d not only gotten the role as a sophomore, but she single-handedly put our chapter on the map with her incredible fundraising abilities and her (now staple) end-of-year balls.
My oldest sister, Aimee, had followed in her footsteps, making her mark by partnering with local hospitals to raise funds for research.
All the presidents before me at Westbrooke had done their part in making our chapter one of the most successful. They’d left their own unique marks. And then, I showed up.
Since becoming president, our chapter membership has been at an all-time low. Attendance at meetings was sparse. And I practically had to drag pledge members out of bed to attend events. The appeal of sorority rushing rang far louder and shone ten times brighter to new students.
I’d done everything in my power to bring the chapter back to life. Partnered with after-school programs, coordinated unhoused outreach, and silent auctions for art funds. But eachendeavor had minimal success, and each semester felt like falling back down to the base of a mountain. I wouldn’t admit it out loud, but on most counts, this chapter was dead. For my senior year, I was going to do everything possible to defy the odds and breathe it back to life… or die trying.
“Do you always pick the same spot?”
I started and looked over to find a bare-chested David in my doorway. He had wrapped a fluffy pink towel (somewhat loosely, very risky) around his waist.
“What?” I cleared my throat and tried not to look as startled as I felt.
David gestured at the back of his head. “Your hair. You were picking at it.”
“No, I wasn’t.” I shot out of my seat, ignoring the churn of embarrassment in my stomach, and headed to the closet. “I might have a shirt for you.”
“I’m fine.”
I frowned, still rummaging through my clothes. “You’re half-naked. No one’s fine half-naked in a stranger’s room.”
“Is that what we are? After all these years? Strangers?” He was on the move now, near my dresser, where I kept most of my books. “That can’t be accurate.”
“Well, we’re not friends,” I countered, glancing his way for some sort of clarification.
“No, definitely not friends,” he agreed with a nod.
“Acquaintances, probably.” I pulled out a black oversizedHalloweentee.
David didn’t accept the shirt when I held it toward him. I wiggled it, doing everything short of tugging it over his head myself. Washing and drying the clothes would take forty minutes to an hour. I didn’t think I could wait that long without falling into the trap of distraction. I’d started counting the freckles on his shoulders, for goodness’ sake. Ten on the right, eight on the left.
“Acquaintances don’t feel right either.” David gestured to my books. “Are these all film novelizations?”
I raised a brow, readying for some quip. “Yes…and?”
David shook his head. “Nothing. I’ve never known anyone who brought these, let alone read them. And from the looks of it–” He leaned in closer, inspecting cracked spines and peeling covers. “–enjoy them.”
See, this was why I never invited people into my room. Not even Haven got the chance to scan my belongings and cast judgment on their value.
I scoffed at David’s assumption. “There’s an entire market for them.”
“Maybe in the eighties,” he countered.
“I didn’t say booming. I said, market.”
He shrugged, unfazed by the bite in my tone. “What’s your color-coding system? These little circle stickers.”
I laughed, surprised he noted the inconsequential detail. “Really, David?”
“What?” He blinked, confused.
I squinted at him, searching for an ulterior motive, but there was none amidst his tired eyes and water-activated curls. “Purple’s my comfort reads, blue’s copies I’m willing to lend out, and red is ones I love but will never read again.”
“Why keep a book if you’re never going to reread it?” He seemed genuinely perplexed.
