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Annabel frowns. “We may be a student paper, but this is a professional environment,” she says. “We don’t want anyone using our name to tarnish our reputation.”
“I’m not phrasing that right,” I say, anxious to get this interview back on track. “What I mean is—I don’t have a problem ruffling some feathers for the sake of a story. If you need anyone to get in there and ask the questions no one’s asking, even if it means acting like a complete asshole, I’m your girl.” I force a laugh, trying to sound self-deprecating. “I’ve had plenty of experience with people hating me. Take my roommate, for example—”
“Your roommate already hates you?”
“No, no,” I rush to say. Rein it in. “Well—yes, but only because we went to the same high school. It’s… hard to explain.”
And somehow I’ve made it worse.
“Ah.” Annabel’s gaze drifts toward a stack of paper on her desk. Other students’ résumés. Shit. I’m losing her. Telling someone you’re capable of acting like a complete asshole: a great interview strategy.
Surely my high school reputation can’t cling to me forever. I spent so many nights convincing myself of that while I dug through Vanity Fair archives, so many days walking the halls with metaphorical armor. Logically, I knew not everyone cared about the tennis team, but god, it felt that way. I had to act like I didn’t give a shit—not when kids mimed smacking tennis balls in my direction, not when they paused at my desk to assure me they weren’t cheating when they handed in a test. Not when a history teacher assigned me a report on Benedict Arnold and my classmates muttered “traitor” under their breath when I got up to present.
Because the alternative, letting them break me again and again, was just… so much worse.
For months I wondered whether I’d done the right thing, but I always came back to the same place: this was a preview of what I’d be dealing with as a real journalist. My skin just had to get tougher.
Despite where it led me, my love for journalism has never wavered, and I’ve remained one of a dwindling number of print subscribers to the New York Times and Entertainment Weekly. A job on this paper would mean New Barrett really is an upgrade from the previous model. That journalism is the right place for me.
“This has been really enlightening, Barrett,” Annabel says after a couple more questions, but I can tell her heart’s not in it. She gets to her feet and extends a hand across her desk. “Like I said, we only have a few open staff positions, and it might be competitive, so… we’ll let you know.”
Game, set, and match.
Chapter 3
WAITING IN YET ANOTHER LINE in the dining hall sounds about as appealing as the acrobatic act that is shaving my legs in Olmsted’s microscopic shower. Instead I take a long, long walk through campus, the almost-fall foliage and the centuryold brick buildings contrasting with the newer, energy-efficient ones with their sharp angles and glass walls.
It always felt magical when my mom took me here as a kid, pointing out her favorite spots, pausing by the building she was in when she went into labor. The relationship between my mom and dad didn’t last much longer than the pregnancy, and he wasn’t interested in becoming a father. But my mom is all I’ve ever needed. It was tough, finishing her degree with a new baby, but with some help from her parents, she did it, and I’ve always admired her for it. “This school is in your DNA,” she’d tell me. Part of me thought it was cheesy, but I believed her. We had a connection, the university and I.
Now all I feel is how astoundingly easy it is to blend in with everyone else. The Washingtonian was the one thing I was certain about, and I screwed it up. Because somehow, even when I knew it was going off the rails, I couldn’t stop talking.
My mom calls while I’m mope-walking, but I send it to voicemail. Then she texts me, and I feel guilty for not answering.
Mom: If you miss your dear old mom yet, what say you about Thai takeout tonight? I’m dying to hear about your first day.
Mom: Fine, it’s me. I’m the one who misses you.
The first thing I want to do is tell her what happened, but she doesn’t know the full extent of what high school was like for me. She’s never overly mommed me, and I didn’t want Island’s post-tennis witch hunt to change that. If she swept in and tried to solve my problems, it might wreck the balance between us.
Barrett: Drowning in homework. Day was good. How about this weekend?
It’s dusk when I get back to my dorm. I’m not expecting the sheer delight that overcomes me when I unlock the door and find Lucie inside our room, an array of makeup and clothes spread across her bed and both our desks, despite the cleanliness lecture she gave me earlier. An extension cord connects her curling iron to the outlets beneath my desk, and she’s blasting something I don’t recognize.
Lucie Lamont can be a mess too. I’m going to give her such shit for this.
She rims one eye with liquid liner. “Don’t worry,” she says to the mirror attached to her sliver of closet. “I’ll be out of here soon, and then you can perform whatever ritualistic sacrifices you have planned.”
“It’s actually really helpful if I get a lock of your hair first.” I shut the door, and we awkwardly move around each other before I flop onto my bed.
“Rough day?”
“You could say that,” I mutter into my pillow. “We don’t have to talk just because we’re in the same room.”
“If that’s what you want.” Her good mood is both unexpected and a little alarming.
“Did you talk to the RD? Are our days together numbered?”
“Even better,” she says. “I’m going to rush a sorority.”
