7. Kylie
7
KYLIE
“Welcome,” a chipper young woman with a clipboard said. “Are you a first-year?” The orientation for new MBA students was being held outdoors on a sunny field between towering buildings that housed, according to the names over the doors, the biology department and mathematics.
The weather was warm and sunny, which gave me an excuse to wear my sunglasses. I loved sunglasses. No one ever stared at my eyes when I wore sunglasses. “Yes.”
“Great! You can start anywhere, there are booths set up for the various specialties, and also some great clubs you might want to check out, and then at one—” She stopped mid-sentence and frowned at me. “Wait, you’re a first-year in graduate school, right?”
Shit, did she think I was a freshman? I knew I looked a bit young for my age, but not that young. “Of course.” If I were taller, she wouldn’t have asked me that.
“Just checking,” she said cheerfully, her high ponytail bouncing up and down as if nodding in agreement. “Anyway, at one, the dean of the business school will give the official welcome. After that, you can pick up your schedule and choose a cohort and everything.”
“Cohort?” I echoed, but Ms. Perky Ponytail was already greeting someone else, a man about my age. I bet she wouldn’t ask him if he was really in graduate school.
I wandered around for about a half-hour, checking things out and picking up brochures. One booth, which seemed to be promoting a social club for business majors, had a cardboard display that reminded me of the tri-boards I used to use for science fair projects as a kid.
As I squinted in the sunlight, I examined the action shots of the club's past activities, and I saw a familiar face. Parker was in three of them, and he was smiling in each one. It made me want to find the woman who broke his heart and punch her. Not that I knew the full story, but he sure as hell was miserable now.
I was half tempted to snatch one of the pictures off the board because I doubted I’d see him smile in person any time soon. If ever.
The welcome speech at one was pretty standard, but it was nice to sit in the grass and soak up the sun while I listened. I stretched my legs out and leaned back, my face angled upward. It was warm enough to take off my sweater, but I didn’t feel comfortable wearing just a tank top with so many strangers around. Most of them—most of the women, at least—had dressed a bit less casually than I had. There were still a lot of women in shorts—probably all of us were making the most of the warm weather while it was still here—but most looked a bit more put together than I did.
Maybe I should’ve asked Parker if he knew what to wear. He must’ve attended this last year. But he’d been his usual silent self at breakfast, and I hadn’t thought to ask—partly because I’d been too busy enjoying the food. Jude had been right about how good it was. For the millionth time, I was grateful to snag a bunk in the Henderson building. If the guys had made me get reassigned, I probably would’ve ended up in one of the older dorms that didn’t even have its own dining room. Trudging through snow three times a day during the winter just to eat didn’t sound like my idea of fun.
When the speeches were over, there was a mad rush to pick up schedules. I stood in the K-M line for ten minutes before it was my turn. It was ridiculous that they didn’t do this electronically. They had at my old university. I was beginning to think that the business school here was a bit old-fashioned. It had a good reputation, though.
I folded up my schedule without looking at it. I wanted to do that somewhere quiet. I’d already chosen my classes—not that there was a lot of choice during your first semester in the program—but there was some question of which sections and which times my classes would be.
Instead, I headed over to another crowded table, the one where we signed up for cohort groups. I’d looked it up on my phone during a boring part of the speech. The business school here assigned each new student to a more experienced student with a year or two under their belt. That student would serve as something of a mentor for our first semester. They’d answer our questions, hold a few meetings, and in general, impart their knowledge and experience on us.
Once most of the crowd had dissipated, I saw my mistake. There were sign-up papers taped to the table—again, why didn’t they do this electronically?—and nearly all the slots were filled. I supposed most people signed up before the welcome speeches.
Oops.
The first page listed the mentors alphabetically, and after each name, there were spaces for five first-years to sign up. Most of the slots were filled. On the second page, there were a few more openings. I scanned over the unfamiliar names, looking for a female one. It might be nice to have a female mentor. But then I came across a name I recognized. Parker Stanton. At least I thought that was him. How many Parkers could there be that were second- or third-year business students?
But the five slots under his name were filled. Damn.
One was in pencil, and I spent a few moments indulging in the fantasy of erasing it and putting my name there. But it probably wasn’t a good idea.
A tall young woman with short blonde hair was watching me from behind the table. “Having trouble deciding?” Her eyebrow arched.
“Yeah.”
“It really doesn’t matter. All of our mentors know their stuff.”
“Good to know.” She was probably right, but for some reason, this felt important. Like a decision that could turn out to help me—or come back and bite me in the butt. Frustrated, I took off my sunglasses and squinted at the last sign-up sheet, as if it held hidden answers.
While I did that, the woman behind the table was squinting at me. “What’s wrong with your eyes?”
Crap. That was my least favorite way for people to ask me about my heterochromia. To save time and frustration, I lied. “I lost a contact.”
“Bummer,” she said, satisfied now that the mystery had been solved. Briefly, I contemplated asking her name so that I would know not to accidentally choose her group.
She wasn’t the only one I was irritated with, however. It wasn’t like me to have this much trouble making a decision. Usually, I decided something quickly and did my best to make it happen—like when I’d decided I wanted to stay in that suite yesterday. But today, I felt less confident. My time as an undergraduate had involved a ton of hard work and effort, and graduate school would be even harder. It was important to get off on the right foot.
“Is it possible to get on the waiting list for a cohort that’s full?”
“No. Just pick another one.”
Another woman glanced over from the table next to me. She had curly red hair and was closer to my height. “Which cohort were you wanting to get into?”
“Parker Stanton’s.”
The blonde woman smirked. “If we let people get on a waiting list for his cohort, it would be a mile long.” Her tone was condescending, but the redhead’s wasn’t.
“I don’t blame you. He’s great.” She gave me a quick smile before turning back to her taller friend. “Remember what happened at the end-of-the-year barbecue last year?”
The tall blonde didn’t seem to be in a reminiscing mood. “No, but?—”
The redhead turned back to me. “The Corporate Sustainability class challenged the Strategic Management class to a volleyball game. Susan Oliver tried to spike the ball and it hit a post, made a wild bounce, and nailed Professor Foley in the back of her head. She was so pissed! Susan just stood there in horror, but Parker jogged over to Professor Foley and apologized. He not only took the blame, but he somehow got her to laugh. She actually laughed after being hit with the ball! I’ve never even seen her smile, have you?” That last part was directed at the blonde.
The tall, snooty woman looked unimpressed by the redhead’s story, but I loved it. It was further proof that Parker hadn’t always been like he was now. “No, but it doesn’t change the fact that she can’t be in Parker Stanton’s cohort.”
“Who can’t be in my cohort?”
All three of us jumped when Parker appeared at my side. He nodded when he noticed me and then looked back at the blonde.
“This first-year,” the blonde said. “I told her your group is full.”
“She can join,” Parker said, his voice soft but deep.
“But—” Her protest trailed off as Parker walked away.
Grinning, I picked up a pen and added my name. “Thanks for your help,” I said to the blonde woman, probably pissing her off more, but I couldn’t resist.