He pushed a big clammy hand up my shirt and grabbed my breast. I was so shocked, I stopped breathing. “Get the fuck off me.” The command came out strangled.
He laughed. I thought of screaming, but somehow screaming was worse than being groped in the stairwell.
“What about the girl with you?”
He said in my ear, “I know you’re into threesomes.”
I could almost hear my heart split.
The actress emerged in the doorway, slurring, “There you are.” Ryen calmly released me, like I was a balled-up piece of trash he was dropping in a bin.
Flitting up the stairs, the actress found his arm with a manicured hand. She gave me a look of mild disgust before they left me in the stairwell.
Chapter 72
My legs shook as I walked up the stairs. I felt like I needed to pee even though I knew I didn’t. No one was singing outside anymore, at least that I heard. The night had a mushy shape to it. My second of euphoria had been snatched away, traded out for an ugly exhaustion. In the grand hall, the lights were off save for a row of sconces giving off hazy yellow tones. I felt the wear of the night behind my eyes. Everyone, except for those on watch, was asleep, though the sleep was restless: Glancing around, I saw people flopping on their backs, breathing out sighs of frustration. Milan hadn’t answered my text. Maybe she already knewRyenwas a monster. Or maybe he was just one to me.
I spotted Nia inside a sleeping bag on the stage. Hauling myself up, I sat on the edge and looked at the ceiling, its stunning moldings. So much beauty that meant nothing. Students long after me would look at this same ceiling and wouldn’t even know about tonight. A cry curdled in the back of my throat. I closed my eyes and bit down my nails, not caring about the dirt beneath them. It was as close to comfort as I was going to get, and I claimed it.
“What’re you doing?” Nia’s words came out jumbled with sleep. I looked down to find her squinting up at me.
“I didn’t bring a sleeping bag.”
She laughed. It was rough-sounding, not her usual glittery tinkle. She made herself small so I could squeeze beside her, stretching the waterproof fabric to make an opening for me.
“That won’t be weird?”
“I mean, not weirder than you trying to kiss me the other day.”
A real laugh left me. It was a relief, to just say what had happened between us. I stuffed myself into the bag. “It’s like we’re inside a womb.”
“Like sisters,” she said, yawning.
“Like twins.” I was choked up all of a sudden. “I’m sorry.”
“What do you have to be sorry about?”
I paused. “For kissing you.”
She snorted. “We’re friends. Who cares.” Then she turned away and fell asleep.
When I woke up, she was gone, off to her meeting with the school president. There was more buzz in the hall that day. Someone had opened a giant tub of homemade hummus that a group of people had congregated around, scooping with pita. Despite myself, I searched for Tristan, though he wasn’t there. The atmosphere was upbeat but brittle, like the high spirits could snap at any second. ThePosthad run a story on us early that morning. Someone was reading it aloud. It didn’t contain the grandiosity I felt; we were just a bunch of rowdy students, Vietnam War hippie wannabes. A junior who was part of the lock-in had posted a TikTok of herself breaking into the vice provost’s office, a kind of “day in the life” of a political activist. It was gaining steam for being stupidly incriminating but also inarguably cool. The world knew about us now. We’d reached one of our goals. We were also fully vulnerable.
Looking at my phone, I saw my interview was in five minutes. I hurried out of the hall in search of a quiet room. The office of the dean of undergraduate studies was unlocked, so I ducked in there: dark mahogany desk, mint-green walls, a glass armoire with books on display. I dropped into the rolling desk chair, eyes like paperweights in their sockets, and opened Zoom on my phone. I was about to give the worst interview in history.
The interviewer asked about my retail experience, to tell her about myself. The human ability to compartmentalize was truly astounding: It was like I wasn’t there to defend democracy, hadn’t just been assaulted, wasn’t mourning one of the most meaningful romantic relationships ofmy life. Every now and then, my eyes found the grandfather clock in the corner. It felt like I’d been in that office for a century, but only fifteen minutes had passed.
When I was explaining how I’d assist customers in finding the right products for their skin goals, a notification dropped from the top of the screen, covering the interviewer’s forehead. It was from a number I didn’t recognize.
(202) 555-4005:Negotiations unsuccessful. Police were called. Brace for arrests NOW.
As if by dark magic, I looked out the window and saw a troupe of police storming the building, at least a hundred of them. Someone spoke into a bullhorn: something, vacate the premises, something, suspension, something, illegally. But also: Students, faculty, community members had made a chain around the building. There were twice as many people as there were last night, chanting, singing. A few people were dancing. Hope and fear wound into a knot inside me.
The interviewer blinked on a delay. “Are you there?”
I said, “Yes, thankyousomuch, hopetohearfromyousoonbyeeee.”
Ending the call, I rushed into the hallway to see if the police had entered yet. The energy had tilted entirely into tension. People in black shirts were directing the masses, explaining that the police were outside. The sound of fists banging on the door echoed through the hallway. Heads turned, whipping around to reveal young, worried faces. Everyone was so young. It was as though fear highlighted the look of inexperience. I pulled out my phone and texted Jay that I loved him.
