Chapter 5
Malena
The next night, I decided to wait for the car at nine o’clock on the dot. Our building sat right on High Street, one of the central streets that ran from off-campus, through campus, and all the way into town.
The crisp breeze rattled against the kaleidoscope of colors along my dress. Delicate blue and pastel yellow hues interlocked beautifully over black lace, creating the illusion of stained glass. It ended just below my knees.
A black SUV approached the curb at the same time I spotted a familiar face.
A group of about six people made their way down the road in outfits that looked ready for barhopping.
It took me less than ten seconds to identify who they were and even less time to wish this driver would hurry up and park.
Alarm twisted through my muscles.
“Malena.” The group stopped when one person—Sonali Shah—called my name. A kind smile bloomed on either side of her lips. Next to her were a few familiar faces, Kash’s being one. His gaze lingered on my bare legs. “You look great.”
My fingers traced the lace on the mask in my hands. My heart soared and the knots in my stomach loosened slightly. Sonali had always been welcoming to me.
She and the other three girls in her friend group were some of the first people I met here at Winchester. We’d all gone through the first round of dance team auditions together.
My mom loved to hear about the dance team girls. In her head, they were the good girls I should’ve been friends with. By nature of their background, my mom assumed they had parents like I did—controlling—who raised children that politely conformed. The type of influences my mom wanted in my life.
For me, I just figured we’d have a lot in common as first-generation South Asians.
I regaled them with stories about hookups, my other friends, what I wanted for the future, and how it differed from my parents’ plan.
I’d been hoping to commiserate, to carve out space to be myself, but those hopes quickly evaporated beneath a mountain of unanswered texts and whispered jabs I pretended not to hear.
When the final day of auditions rolled around, I decided not to go, and Sabrina found me hiding out in the ballet studio. She and I had been inseparable ever since.
I shook my head and smoothed a clammy palm down my dress. “Thanks,” I answered curtly, hoping they’d just keep on strolling.
The SUV’s driver’s-side door finally opened and a man dressed in a suit rounded the car. I handed him my invitation and he opened the door for me.
“Where are you going?” Sonali asked, taking another step toward me.
A few mumbles from the group behind her became louder. Her attention put a giant spotlight on me, and without Cora and Sabrina as my parasols, it was a heat lamp I slowly melted under.
“It’s sort of a long story.” I swiveled the toe of my heel against the pavement, nervous. A minute ago, I’d felt like a supermodel in haute couture, and now I just wanted to run back inside, take the elevator up to my floor, and eat junk food with Cora on the couch.
Thankfully, the driver chose that moment to clear his throat.
“Well, you look great,” Sonali repeated.
“Thanks.” I got into the car, the dull thud of the door shutting sending a shiver of relief down my body.
I was happy with who I was, but growing up in Western Massachusetts, there weren’t many South Asians. The few I knew were kind, but they’d served as the only exposure to my culture outside of my family. I got to Winchester and saw the opportunity for more, naively hoping to expand my circle.
After multiple humiliating attempts with Sonali and her friends, it became easier on my heart—and ego—to stop putting myself out there.
I buckled my seat belt and stared out the window, watching them grow smaller as they headed toward town.
My mind flashed back to last semester, when Kash and I were sort of seeing each other. Those types of awkward interactions with his friends had been commonplace and only succeeded in making me feel small.
I closed my eyes as the car pulled away, wondering if it would ever happen. If I’d ever belong.
The car pulled up to the far side of campus, at a clearing where the old clock tower was. Lovingly nicknamed Big Ben because it resembled a scaled-down version of London’s famous landmark, the square stone structure overlooked the entire campus and the bay.
I walked up the cobblestone path to the wooden doors, pressing my hands flat and giving a slight push. Slowly, they creaked open.
Gone was the hum of a silent night on my deserted campus. In its place was the buzz of chatter, glasses clinking, raucous laughter, and the reverberations of the orchestral version of a familiar party song ricocheting off the stone walls.
Between the twinkling lights, the elegant garments I’d already spotted other guests draped in, and the general decadence, the chilly air was transformed into something entirely new. It was like something out of Fitzgerald’s New York, but in the last place you’d expect.
“Where to start?” I muttered.
The steps leading up the tower were interspersed with more partygoers, all donning masks and drinking out of crystal coupes. No one seemed to notice me, which I was grateful for.
“I recommend the bar,” a voice answered. I turned to find a woman with luscious blond curls smiling at me from behind her mask. She wore a gold floor-length gown that fit like it was made for her. “I got here five minutes ago, and this gimlet is divine.”
“Thanks,” I said, meeting her amber-colored eyes and returning her smile.
“Azalea Burton.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m a junior.”
I didn’t expect to run into anyone I knew here, since these were the types of crowds Sabrina generally avoided, but I was glad not to have to linger by myself a minute longer.
“Hi,” I answered, shaking her hand. I moved on quickly so we didn’t get hung up on the fact that I was crashing. “Do you know what happens next?”
I looked around at the landing. There were about twenty-five people, if I had to guess, wandering around in merriment.
“Nope. Honestly, I’m surprised I got an invitation,” she said meekly.
I nodded and reminded myself to keep a low profile, get something of interest, and slip out unnoticed. Preferably before I talked myself into a corner.
“I think I’ll start with a drink.”
Azalea smiled, and with a wave, I made my way up the steps of the tower, stopping occasionally to take in the view from this angle and snapping pictures discreetly as I went.
From campus, the town, or the bay, Big Ben could be spotted towering over the trees—but seeing the view from the other side made my heart race.
When I finally made it to the top floor, it was just me up there.
I glanced out the windows but could hardly distinguish the stars in the sky from the specks of dirt on the aged glass.
I paused by a quiet alcove and opened my Notes app.
Typing as quickly as I could, I jotted down every single sight and sound.
The chatter, the music playing in the background, the distinctive clack of stilettos and dress shoes.
It was cool to experience, given how few people ever would.
But honestly, I couldn’t help feeling disappointed.
I’d spent the last few days reading the previous Keller awardees’ pieces.
They ranged from in-depth looks at payment structures for incoming professors to poetic comparisons on how an overemphasis on STEM-only educations had harmed not only the arts but the collective critical thinking capacity of college students.
They were deep and meaningful. Scholarly.
I pressed myself against the railing and peered down at the party below before turning back toward the New Harbor expanse. If I squinted, I could make out the shops that lined the bay and make an approximation as to where my favorite bookstore was.
I let out a bored sigh.
A night at a fancy party I had no business being at, in a building I didn’t even know could house it, was cool. It just wasn’t Keller-worthy.
No rituals, no traditions, no secrets. This was a letdown.
Maybe I’d put too much stock in my expectations for tonight. I took a few pictures of the view and tried to think of an angle that competed with the ones I’d read.
“No pictures.” A voice, deep and familiar, filled the empty top floor.
I froze.
“You should know that,” he added.
I tucked my burner phone away and checked that my mask was in place, then spun around to face him.
Unsurprisingly, he was dressed like every other man I’d passed on my way up here: tailored black tuxedo, polished Oxfords.
Except his mask was white, and it didn’t do anything to mute the bright blue of his eyes.
A tingle moved from my toes up my legs.
“Umm… oops,” I stammered.
“And you are…?” He took a few steps closer to me, and suddenly the cavernous clock tower walls seemed to press closer.
Unsteady nerves pushed out my answer. “Sabrina.”
I could have said a thousand things that were marginally believable, and instead I said that. Dammit. I was better at lying than this.
He cocked his head. Disbelief drew lines between his brows. “Alders?”
The shaky feeling of being caught melted into something else.
“Mm-hmm.” I chewed on my lip.
Moonlight streaked across his face as he closed the space between us.
His tawny brown hair, piercing eyes, and that deep, luxurious voice. Understanding set tiny little fires in my chest. Behind that mask, I knew who he was. I’d seen those eyes occasionally passing in the lobby of my condo building, and more notably, the paper.
“Sabrina Alders?” he repeated. His eyes moved along my body slowly, until they met mine. And stayed fixed there.
My heart slowed a beat, and an inexplicable tension thrummed between us.
“Y-yes,” I stammered.
He lowered his head until his mouth was inches from my ear.