In college, though, everything feels more anonymous. When I was growing up, my teachers kept telling me I was supersmart, which was awesome, but here, I’m surrounded by people who heard the same thing all their lives from their teachers. I still want to make perfect grades, obviously, but—I mean, it’s Harvard. There’s no way I’m going to be at the top of my class. I don’t know if there even is a top of the class.
Plus, I’m four weeks into my Foundations of American Government class and the main thing I’ve learned so far, aside from the fact that buying a semester’s worth of government textbooks meant putting upward of two hundred dollars on my mom’s credit card, is that there are way too many conservatives at Harvard.
Lacey dismisses the section, and I glance at my watch. I’m about to be late to meet my friends. I’m shoving my laptop into my bag when I hear my name.
“Stick around for a few minutes, will you, Antonia?” It’s Lacey calling to me from the front of the room.
I grit my teeth. I hate it when people call me Antonia.
Wait. Did Lacey notice me texting? Crapola. I gear up for a lecture and meet Lacey at the front of the class.
“That was an interesting perspective,” Lacey says as the rest of the class filters out. Lacey’s young, maybe a year or two out of undergrad, with long, deep brown hair that’s always wound into a messy braid. As though Lacey’s too busy being smart to worry about anything so frivolous as hair. “Some would argue our two-party system is getting stronger as candidates move further to the left and right extremes.”
Oh, right. During the first half of the discussion, before I got Audrey’s text, I said I thought the Democrats only had a couple of decades left in them before the party collapsed for good. Half the room tried to shout me down.
“That’s absurd,” I say. “Party identification is decreasing. How many people in the US said they considered themselves independents in the last election? More than forty percent, right?”
“Either the Democrats or the Republicans have won every presidential election since 1852,” Lacey says. “It’s easy to get caught up in media hype about one party or the other being up or down, but looking at the arc of history—”
“The arc of history shows that the parties have evolved,” I say. “No one’s trying to resurrect the Whigs anymore, but it’s reductive to say all we’ve ever had is a party that loves abortions and a party that hates nonwhite people. We’ve only known it one way, but that doesn’t mean it can’t evolve. Or that evolution has to be a bad thing.”
“You know, I think you’re absolutely right,” Lacey says. I blink. “Especially in a foundations class like this one, we have to be able to put aside our presumptive, twenty-first-century views and focus our analysis on the bigger picture.”
That isn’t what I was trying to say at all, but I don’t want to argue anymore. I started the day fighting. My roommates have very strong opinions about how long my showers should take.
“So thank you for speaking up during the discussion.” Lacey smiles. Not a teacher-like smile, either. More of an isn’t-it-cool-how-smart-we-both-are smile.
I nod, uncertain. I don’t know what to make of this conversation.
“So, I hope to hear more from you next class, Antonia,” Lacey says.
“It’s just Toni, actually.”
“Okay, then. Toni.” Lacey smiles again.
I turn to go without smiling back. I’m not sure what just happened, but something about it left me feeling vaguely anxious.
I try to shake it off as I hurry outside. It’s only the beginning of October, but it’s already getting cold. I’m getting sick, the way I always do when the seasons start changing. Of course, it probably doesn’t help that I only slept four hours last night. The night before, too. Between reading, writing my piece for PolitiWonk, more reading, working on the transition guide, more reading, and hacking up lungs while my roommates yelled from the other room for me to be quiet, and then, yes, more reading. Sleep is a luxury I did not sufficiently appreciate in high school.
I’m crossing the street into the square, now officially late to meet the guys, when my phone rings. It’s Chris. I hit Accept.
“Hey, you,” I say.
“Hey back,” Chris says, then pauses. “So.”
Chris never calls me to say “So.” Chris texts me or emails me or messages me. I haven’t gotten a phone call from Chris since June.
I play dumb. “What’s up?”
“So,” Chris says again. “Um. I have news.”
“What kind of news?”
“Um, so I. Uh. Not so much with the virginity thing anymore.”
I laugh. “Congratulations. When did this happen?”
“Last night. He came for a visit.”
“This is Steven, I assume? You’re back together?”
“Yes. Hello. Obviously. What kind of guy do you think I am?”
“Sorry.”