Freshman Year
ASHA
“That did not just happen,” I say in horror as I bring my hands to my face and wipe off the water. “Tell me I’m not soaked.”
“Oh, my god.” My friend Emma moves to my front, her eyes scanning my body. “You’re drenched.” Blue eyes drift up to mine. “Completely wet.” She holds my gaze, her eyes empathetic for all of two seconds before her lips start to curl into the start of a smile.
“You are not about to laugh,” I say, wholeheartedly upset. “This is so not funny. You know how important today is to me.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s not funny.
” She pulls her backpack off and unzips it.
“You can wear my sweater.” She offers me her Ridgewood embroidered pullover.
I stare at the sweater, shocked that I’m standing on the side of the road for my first day of freshman year with my outfit completely ruined.
“We can run back to the dorms and change. We’ll only miss the first period. ”
“No.” I take the sweater defeatedly. “I can’t skip first period. I have Mr. Greco, and he’s one of the teachers who oversees the council.”
She blows out a breath. “Okay, well, let’s hurry up, and you can freshen up in the bathroom…” she trails off, pinching the top of the sodden papers I’m still clutching against my chest. “We can make you a new banner during homeroom.”
This is what I get for stopping at the stables instead of walking straight to campus.
I needed to see Buttercup before my first day; she's my reminder of home.
Dad sent me to Ridgewood when I was six, and Buttercup has been my comfort since.
Pressing my face into her neck almost brings back my mom's laugh in the stables back home.
She's my good luck charm, and God knows I needed it today for my first day of freshman year.
Apparently, the universe had other plans.
My uniform now clings to me like a second skin.
My once-pristine white knee socks are splattered with mud.
Fantastic. I look ahead. What once seemed picturesque and magical now feels like a postcard gone wrong.
The white-trimmed dormers and tall chimneys that have always felt so stately and welcoming now feel like they're watching me trudge up the hill like a soggy disgrace.
Ridgewood is surrounded by the rolling Adirondack foothills, maples and birches pressing in on all sides.
In autumn, the trees are gorgeous, all gold and crimson like a painting.
But now, in the gray August morning, their branches look skeletal against the low clouds.
“Whose car was that anyway?” I say as I clomp toward the entrance where clusters of students in perfectly pressed uniforms are already gathered.
“I don’t know. It must be someone new. No one drives to school.”
No one drives to school because Ridgewood isn’t your typical private school. It’s a boarding school, and we're all trapped here behind ivy-covered walls. Our student body is a catalog of wealthy dysfunction, split into three types: the misfits, the afterthoughts, and the silver spoons.
The misfits were shipped off by parents who had given up. They hoped boarding school could fix what years of therapy couldn't. The afterthoughts come from families too busy with mergers and galas to raise their own kids. They learned early that nannies make better listeners than mothers.
Then there are the silver spoons, the legacy kids. They see this place not as exile but as birthright. They walk these halls like they own them. In many ways, they do.
Three types of wealth, three types of damage, all in matching navy blazers.
Except for me. Mine is now splattered with mud, but I suppose it’s only fitting.
I’ve never been able to fit myself into one of those boxes.
My reason for being shipped off to boarding school isn’t black and white.
As messed up as it sounds, I wish it were.
“Asha, I know today started off shit, but you have this in the bag. You’ve been at the top of our class since third grade. Everyone is scared of you,” Emma says as she finishes coloring in the last bubble letter on my new banner.
“What?” I question, confused, looking up from the printer.
“You know what I mean. Everyone knows you’re smart, and this is your thing.
No one would dare try to take this from you.
You’re focused on more than changing the snacks in the vending machines.
” She snaps the lid on a marker. “And I can promise no one wants to go head-to-head with you in a debate.” Standing up, she smooths her skirt.
“So, it’s like I said, you’ve got this in the bag. ”
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Eldridge pops his head up from the back row, startling us both.
“How long have you been sitting there, you little twerp?” Emma asks, her hand over her heart as she glares at her twin brother. They’re twins, but technically she’s three minutes older and never fails to remind him of that tiny detail.
“I suppose as long as you.” He smiles. “Did I scare you? I didn’t mean to,” he says sincerely as his eyes roam down my body, taking in my disheveled appearance, only fueling the self-consciousness that’s already plagued me for the first half of the day.
I don’t have any romantic feelings for Eldridge Morrison, but he’s also not hard to look at.
He’s your typical pretty boy and mirror image of his sister with blond hair and blue eyes, the only difference being his tall stature, angular face, and muscles that refuse to stay hidden beneath a polo and vest.
“I had my earbuds in. I didn’t know the two of you were in here until I pulled them out,” he adds tossing his bag over his shoulder and crossing the room to where we have our things scattered across one of the tables.
“This year, Headmaster Trejo is making sure athletes participate, male athletes specifically.”
“I’m not following,” I say as I tap my marker against my lips.
“To boost involvement and give the school board what they want. More well-rounded portfolios for Ivy League colleges to scout.” He leans against one of the desks.
I pace in front of the printer and search for a solution.
“What if you volunteer?” I whip around, excited that I may have just found a solution. He’s on the lacrosse team.
Eldridge and I aren’t close, per se, but I’m friends with Emma, and while the two of them throw jabs at each other regularly, they’re actually really close. The three of us have hung out together more than once. I can’t say that he likes me, but I also don’t think he hates me.
“Can’t. The polo team drew the short end of the stick.
From what I heard, when the coaches got word of Trejo’s plan, they all got together with a plan of their own.
None of them want their teams focused on anything outside of winning a game.
This student council election would do that.
” My face visibly deflates as I try to think through another plan, and he adds, “If you want, I’ll run for treasurer.
” His tone peaks with playfulness as he tries to lighten the mood.
That’s the one thing I’ve always liked about Emma’s brother.
When the people around him are down, he tries to pull them back up.
“Let me guess,” Emma says flatly. “Because you’re a treasure?” Her eyes narrow, and her voice drips with unimpressed sarcasm.
“You’re finally catching on,” he mocks before heading toward the door. “It only took you, what, fifteen years?” His hand slaps the doorframe, garnering my attention. “If you’re there, I’m there, Fairfield. See ya around.”
“Sorry about that,” Emma sighs when he’s out of earshot.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” I say as I start packing up my supplies. “Eldridge is always trying to make light of the heavy stuff. He’s harmless.”
“I’m not so sure that’s all that was.” She grabs her bag off the floor.
“Are you implying your brother likes me?”
“The better question would be, who doesn’t?”
“That’s your op—” I start before slapping both hands on the table.
“I got it. I’ll just make Hollis run against me.
He doesn’t care about winning, but running will satisfy Headmaster Trejo’s participation requirement.
He might want them to run, but he can’t make them win.
Class presidents are elected, not appointed. ”
“See, in the bag.” Emma pops her hip out. “Now help me roll this up. Lunch is almost over, and I need to eat something, even if it is just a piece of fruit. My stomach feels like it’s going to eat me from the inside out.”
I consider going back to her comment, the one where I was about to tell her that the way she perceives everyone liking me is her perception, not reality.
Instead, I leave it. Emma has made those comments offhandedly since we became friends, and I've never liked them.
They make me feel like she puts me on a pedestal—one I never asked for.
While they still bother me, I don't see them the way I once did.
It's not a me problem. It's a her problem.
She had a falling out with her friends—one she never talks about—so I can't be sure what exactly went down.
But I think her comments about how everyone likes me stem from her own insecurities about herself.
I glance at the Cartier watch my father got me for my birthday over the summer. "If we hurry, we'll make it to the lunch hall before the lines close."
“Mrs. Jean, did you make me one of your veggie packs?” I raise up on my tippy toes and lean over the glass a little to ask my favorite lunch lady for the special snack she makes me when she’s chopping up vegetables for the salad and soups.
“I’m sorry, Asha,” she says regretfully. “Lunch was almost over, and I thought maybe I’d missed you coming through the line. I just gave your snack to another student.”
“You gave my snack bag away?” I say, a little upset because I’m missing out on my snack, but more so surprised. No one knows about her veggie snacks. That’s our thing.