“Yes, I wait tables and sort mail.” Professor Gibson knows exactly where I wait tables, but she told me it wasn’t necessary for Harvard to know, so I keep that under wraps. “But I plan to quit both jobs before classes start this fall.”
This makes Fromm happy. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that. While the old Paper Chase saying that if you look to your left and right and one of you won’t be here next year is no longer the case, we do have a few students that drop out after the first year. I don’t want you to be one of them. Your focus this coming fall needs to be on your studies. You’ll be expected to absorb more information in one night than most undergrads do in a semester.”
She plucks two books off a stack on the floor and pushes them across the desk. According to the titles, one is on administrative law and the other is on the art of writing.
“When you have time, and I suggest you make it, practice your writing. The pen is your strongest weapon here. If you can write well, you’ll go places. The other is on ad law. A lot of people get stumped on regulatory practice versus corporate and tort law. It’s good to be a step ahead.” She gives the books another nudge toward me.
“Thank you,” I say gratefully, gathering the books and placing them in my lap.
“You’re welcome. Tell Kelly I said hello when you get back to Briar.”
Okay then. I’m clearly dismissed.
“Thank you,” I repeat awkwardly, and then I take the books and rise to my feet.
I skipped class, rode the subway, and endured a humiliating encounter with a jerk named Kale, and for what? A five-minute conversation and two book recommendations?
When I reach the door, Professor Fromm calls my name again. “And Sabrina, allow me to give you a tip. Spend a little of your loan money on a new wardrobe. It will help you feel at home here, and the playing field won’t seem so uneven. You dress for the job you want, not the one you have.”
I nod, hoping that my cheeks aren’t completely red. And here I thought the Humiliate Sabrina hour was over.
On the walk across the campus, everything looks a little duller. This time I notice that the large patches of lawn are really mostly brown and that the trees are naked without the leaves. The students have an unrelentingly sameness to them—rich and privileged.
When I get home, I toss the books on my dresser and lie down on the bed. There’s a corner near my window where the plaster is cracked and yellowing. Water has been seeping in for as long as I can remember, but after bringing it up to Nana once and getting a blank stare in return, I haven’t mentioned it again.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. There are cracks in the plaster up there too, along with brownish stains that I’ve always wondered about. Maybe there’s a leak in the roof?
A rush of shame washes over me, but I’m not sure what I’m feeling ashamed about. My ugly, rundown home? My cheap clothes? Myself in general?
Pity yourself later. It’s time to pay the bills.
God. The last thing I want to do right now is leave one place of shame and go to another one, but I don’t have much of a choice. My shift at Boots & Chutes starts in an hour.
I force myself to my feet and grab the booty shorts and bra that serve as my uniform. I’m only going to have to do this for ten more months, I remind myself as I shimmy into my outfit and then apply my makeup. I slip on my six-inch platform stripper shoes, throw on my tattered wool coat and head for the strip club. Which, sadly, is the one place where I really do fit in.
I’m trashy. I live with trashy people. I belong in a trashy place.
The question is, will I ever be able to rub off the stench of my past to belong at Harvard? I thought I could.
But tonight, I honestly don’t know.
8
Tucker
“We suck,” Hollis gripes.
“We’re not great,” I acknowledge.
Today’s practice was another disaster, which doesn’t bode well for tomorrow’s game against Yale. I was hoping the road trip to Boston would distract us from how badly we’re playing, but we’ve been sitting in this bar for almost an hour, and so far all we’ve talked about is hockey. The Bruins game flashing on multiple screens all around us isn’t helping matters—watching a good team play good hockey is just the icing on the shit cake.
I peer at my empty beer bottle and then wave it in the air to signal the waitress. I’m going to need about five more of these if I want to snap out of this sour mood.
Hollis is still grumbling beside me. “If we don’t start playing some defense, we can kiss our chances at another Frozen Four goodbye.”
“It’s a long season. Let’s not throw in the towel yet,” Fitzy says from across the booth. He’s sipping on a Coke because he’s our DD tonight.
“Are you guys going to talk hockey all night?” Hollis’ brother, Brody, complains. He’s twenty-five, but looks way younger with his clean-shaven face and backwards Red Sox cap.