Mama says Austin was made to be a tiny-big city, but now it’s trying to be a big-big city in tiny-big-city pants, which actually makes some weird kind of sense.
Millie is the model driver, of course, and turns down the music. Both hands are wrapped so tightly around the wheel her knuckles are turning white.
When we finally do exit for the university, Millie and I both marvel at the size of the campus.
“I think this place is as big as all of Clover City,” I say.
“I think you might be right.”
We take a few wrong turns before finally finding the School of Journalism, but parking is another story. The nearest parking is almost a mile away from the actual building.
“Wow,” says Millie. “If having a car in college requires this much effort, I think I’ll ditch the van for a scooter.”
And for just a brief moment, I picture a future version of Millie zipping all over Austin on a baby-blue Vespa. “You’d be a vision,” I tell her.
She maneuvers the car into a parking spot and pulls the parking brake. “Well, before that happens, I have to make myself presentable.” She looks around the lot. “Keep an eye out while I change in the back?”
“What else are friends for?”
While she wrestles around in the back, I check my phone. There’s only one message.
MAMA: I read your note. We will talk when you get home. I spoke with Millie’s parents. Please be careful. This doesn’t mean you’re not in trouble.
I breathe a sigh of relief. That wasn’t so horrible. I’m definitely grounded again, but I can live with that.
“Okay!” Millie says. “Let’s do this.”
When she hops out of the van, Millie’s wearing Mama’s red lipstick and a black dress with daisies all over. “Wow,” I say. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in black.”
She nods seriously. “I wanted to go for something that said serious but fun.”
“Serious fun.”
“Precisely. And the daisies felt like the perfect amount of irony.” She takes a deep breath. “We gotta move before I lose my nerve.”
We walk through the campus and find our way back to the journalism building, and as we stand at the steps, unsuspecting students stream past us. They’re all so close in age to us, but somehow so much more grown-up.
I squeeze Millie’s hand.
She nods, and we walk in shoulder-to-shoulder, straight to the faculty offices.
We stop in front of the office of Dr. Michelle Coffinder.
Millie squares her shoulders and lands three solid knocks on the door.
After a moment, a younger, round Asian woman opens the door. She wears a black-and-white checkered pencil skirt and a pineapple-patterned neon-yellow blouse. Her curly, short turquoise-streaked hair frames her face, while managing to be unruly yet cool.
I watch as Millie’s face basically turns into the heart-eyesemoji. If this is Dr. Coffinder, she’s also Millie’s long-lost edgier twin.
“Dr. Coffinder?” Millie asks in confused wonder.
The woman lets out a full belly laugh. “Oh, hell no. I’m her TA.”
“Oh, right,” says Millie. “Of course. Well, I’m here to speak to Dr. Coffinder.”
The door swings open to reveal a tall, thin but muscular guy with sandy-blond hair. If this guy isn’t already on the news, he will be one day. “Do you have an appointment?” he asks.
“N-n-no,” says Millie, suddenly cowering.
