I would need to apologize to Laura. I would need to find her and apologize like my life depended on it. I would give her whatever she wanted. I would tell her that I was drunk, too drunk, and walked into their suite by accident. Maybe I’d tell her thatI had taken some hallucinogen and had thought that she was someone else. I could even tell her about the subway incident, make it out to be worse than it was, and frame my reaction as a symptom of post-traumatic stress disorder. Maybe she would empathize with my plight if it came from a place of trauma. And of course, I’d get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness if I had to. I would do anything. Then hopefully, she wouldn’t try to ruin my life, wouldn’t press charges, would just forever think of me as the weird but harmless psycho who ruined her night. Her friends would hear about it, but that would be a minor inconvenience compared to what could happen otherwise.
And of course, I would need to give up my scheme to get her rescinded from Harvard. I had already fucked up too much. I shouldn’t give myself the opportunity to fuck up even more. From now on, I would stop messing with Laura. I didn’t need to get her rescinded from Harvard. She could keep her Boring Asian Female slot, and I’d just apply again next year. I had told my friends that I had gotten in already, but that was an easy fix. I’d just tell them that I wanted to take a gap year. They wouldn’t question it. Messing with Laura had only caused more stress and headache, so it was time to focus on myself, the baby, and our future together. I had learned my lesson.
—
I was eager to findLaura on campus, simply to beg for forgiveness. On Monday, I showed up to History of the Modern Middle East fifteen minutes early and stared at the door. She usually showed up two minutes before class started, so I wasn’t too worried when I waited five minutes, then ten, and she still didn’t appear. But then, it was 10:10 a.m. on the dot, and theprofessor began his lecture. My neck hurt from staring at the door. There were already a few people looking at me curiously, and it would be even weirder if I continued to turn toward the back of the room when class had started. Reluctantly, I turned to face the stage. I was sitting in the very back row, so I would see if Laura walked in, unless she spent the entirety of class standing behind the back row, but I had never seen anyone do that before.
Lecture ended with no sight of Laura. This wasn’t like her; I never missed class, which was how I knew that she also never missed class. I looked up the symptoms of getting pepper sprayed again. The effects were only supposed to last an hour or two. The police used it all the time to temporarily subdue a subject. There was no way that she would have to miss class because of the incident. Maybe she was taking a mental health break? Maybe I had traumatized her? In which case I needed to be careful how I approached her to apologize, as I did not want to trigger her and make her think I was an even bigger threat than she already thought I was.
The next few days, still no sightings of Laura. No new posts on social media either. I considered messaging her but decided against it. It would be better to approach her in person so I could gauge her reaction in real time, gauge how much I needed to worry about potential retribution.
—
In the meantime, I triedto focus on my own future. My top priority was dealing with the Laura situation, but I also couldn’t forget that I was literally “with child.” The phrase grossed me out, but it was true, nonetheless. I called the free clinic andset up recurring appointments with Dr. Jordan. I ordered a bottle of prenatal multivitamins and a bottle of magnesium tablets. I emptied the magnesium tablets into the floor common room’s trash can and dumped the prenatal vitamins inside the empty container so no one would suspect I was pregnant. I placed the bottle on my desk to remind myself to take them every day.
I considered where I would go when the school year ended. I wanted to stay in New York, but I was pretty sure child support didn’t start until the child was actually born. Would I move back to South Dakota, have the baby there while living under my mother’s roof? I dreaded the moment I would have to confront her with the news, that her only daughter, unmarried and only twenty-one, was having a baby.
A memory returned of ninth-grade health class—specifically, the unit on teenage pregnancy. Our homework assignment was to ask our parents how they’d react if we got pregnant in high school (or if you were a boy, if you got someone else pregnant in high school). By then, my father had not been in the picture for a few years. When I handed my mother the orange slip of paper with the “imagine this” scenario written at the top, she frowned and I felt for a moment as though I were actually telling her that I was pregnant. I wiped my palms against my jeans.
“I would be deeply, deeply ashamed of you,” she said when she was finished reading the slip of paper. “Very ashamed.”
I nodded. I wrote down “My mother said she would feel ashamed” on the piece of paper.
“But obviously this isn’t going to happen, because I raised you to be a respectable girl.”
I wrote down, “She says it won’t happen because I am respectable.”
Then she sighed and rubbed her forehead. “But of course, I would not disown you. You would still be my daughter. And I would help you and do whatever you needed to do.”
I wrote down, “But she would still be my mom and would help me do what I needed to do.”
I never asked her what she meant by the last line. I always assumed that she meant an abortion. But perhaps that was too presumptuous. I hoped that it was too presumptuous. I hoped that helping me do what I “needed to do” also meant holding my hair back when I needed to puke in the bathroom, taking me to doctors’ appointments, forgiving me for doing whatever it took to achieve my dream, even if it meant sacrificing the “respectable girl” that she wanted me to be.
NINETEEN
We all received the emailat the same time. Friday, March 20, at 7:06 p.m.
It is with great sadness that I am writing to share the tragic news that Laura Kim, a Columbia College senior, has passed away.
Laura was an exceptional student double majoring in economics and history. Originally from Greenwich, CT, Laura planned to attend law school after graduation to work in the public health sector. A passionate scholar, she had been working on a thesis about disparities in health outcomes between different socioeconomic groups in New York City. Her friends and family have stated that there was nothing Laura wanted more than to improve the lives of others.
Outside of her classes, Laura was passionate about mentoring younger students and spent the past two yearsas a tutor for the Columbia Writing center, where students who worked with her described her as “gracious” and “kind,” always willing to help answer questions even outside of her shifts.
My deepest condolences go out to Laura’s parents, James and Nina, as well as the rest of her family and friends. A vigil will be held at Morningside Park on April 8th to commemorate Laura’s life of academic diligence and unwavering generosity.
We are not releasing any additional details at this time as a police investigation is currently underway. If you have any information about the circumstances surrounding Laura’s death, we ask that you please contact the police at the number below.
Eunjin burst into my room crying. Alex and Leah blew up the group chat. All over social media, people were posting heartfelt messages on Laura’s feed.
I can’t believe it was just two days ago when we were sitting in Ferris…
Laura, we never knew each other well, but I always wanted to tell you how smart and insightful you were…
The world has lost a brilliant human…
I wondered what people would post if I died. I wondered how many people would come to my vigil. I wondered what the official Columbia email would say about me. But most of all, I wondered:
Did I kill Laura?
