I pass photos of the university presidents, one after another, their polished frames gleaming. It used to be a punishment for students who had broken a rule—dusting the frames and cases of old trophies and plaques—in order to return to good standing. I wonder if that’s still a thing.
The first event on the itinerary I was given is a mixer held in the Solace Garden. I make my way through the mostly empty halls with a puffed chest and trembling hands—further proof my emotions are battling inside me. Every action, every decision, is met with further questions. I still don’t know if I’m doing the right thing here. If the right thing actually exists.
I spot the giant white tent the second I exit the building. The flaps wave in the breeze, fighting against their ties. There are easily two hundred people here, maybe more. The place is a sea of purple. Lavender shirts, plum blazers, violet scarves.
Ralston’s face is everywhere. Following me. Smiling at me. She is on pins, T-shirts, tote bags, books, posters.
There’s a large photo of her placed on an easel in the corner when I first enter the tent. A quote below her photo reads, “The revolution starts with us.”
Us.
Lies.
I hover at the edge of the gathering, turning down a glass of champagne when it’s offered by a waitress. From my corner, I watch people laughing and hugging, seeming to buzz with energy. They take photos in front of the poster, posing with her books.
They’ve made her into a legend. Almost a mythical creature. Something to be admired from afar, something only the luckiest few ever get to touch.
I was one of the lucky ones, once, until that luck dried up.
There’s no time to dwell on that, no sense in it either. I know the instant the crowd changes. It’s a ripple. A visceral shift in the air that I feel before I realize what’s happened. Heads turn. Phones come out. It’s as if, collectively, we’re all holding our breath.
Then…
“She’s here!” A voice squeals the words, seemingly disembodied. Ethereal.
The air in my lungs swells, the muscles in my chest tightening. I turn my head slowly, sensing her before I see her.
And there she is.
She glides into the tent like she alone owns the earth below our feet, dressed in a neatly tailored purple suit. Her lipstick is just a few shades lighter than her suit, but perfectly complementary. Her graying-blonde hair is brushed back behind her shoulders, pinned near her ears, not a strand out of place.
A slow roar builds in the crowd, and people start to cheer.
Actually cheer.
As if we’re at a concert. As if she’s Taylor Swift.
Her small smile grows wide on her lips, proud as she scans the crowd, waving away their applause in an effort to look self-effacing. She plays humble, and they assume she is. They assume she doesn’t want any of this.
As if she’s read my mind, her eyes find me. Sharp. Dangerous.
My blood goes cold. Frozen. Nothing moves. Even my breathing stops.
For just a moment, her smile falters, and I have my answer. For the first time, I’m certain she had no idea I’d be here. She wasn’t the one who put my name on the list after all.
Why do I feel sad about that? I swallow, refusing to look away. Forcing myself to wait. Our eye contact lasts only a second or two, my breath still frozen in my chest, before she’s gone again, swallowed by the crowd. Her adoring fans.
I search inside myself for what this feeling growing in my stomach should be—anger, sadness, frustration. Maybe? But it feels different. A word, a feeling I don’t have a name for. Jealousy. Uncertainty.
I feel as if I don’t belong when I so desperately want to.
And I hate myself for the wanting.
The memory hits me all at once?—
Students file out of the classroom, the lesson already forgotten by most as they chat. I remain in my seat, too afraid I’ll be just like them if I leave, that I’ll lose all of this. The feeling of being in the room with her, of learning from her.
In the months after finding out I’d been accepted to Havenport, I’ve learned even more about the woman I’ve spent most of my teen years admiring. She’s everything I want to be. Strong. Confident. She doesn’t question herself or her place.
