Chapter 1 #2
Five minutes later, I'm sitting in a lecture hall surrounded by the smartest people on campus, and all I can think is…I hope I don't throw up on someone's MacBook.
All around me, people are murmuring to each other. I, on the other hand, am pretending to look very interested in the grain pattern on the table.
Most of them are in smart outfits. There’s always a chance to network with the faculty after these and people are obviously taking their final year way more seriously. Someone has a tablet stylus clipped to their shirt collar like they're starring in a tech start-up documentary.
Meanwhile, I'm in black jeans and trying not to sweat through my black T-shirt. I'd spent fifteen minutes debating if it was the right look or not. Social gatherings of ambitious overachievers aren't exactly my natural habitat.
“Oh my god, is that Troy Hawkins?” a girl whispers from the row behind me, her voice dripping with disdain.
I glance up, spotting him instantly—slouched two rows ahead with the casual confidence of someone who never doubts they belong somewhere. He's scrolling through his phone, occasionally smirking at something on the screen.
“What's he doing here?” her friend replies with a scoff. “This is for Future Innovators, not Future Beer Pong Champions.”
The first girl snickers. “Exactly. I had him in Engineering 3.0 last semester. He just charmed his way through group projects while everyone else did the work.”
“Classic frat-type. All swagger, zero substance. But he is pretty to look at.”
“I heard he got Professor Wilson to change his grade after flirting with his TA.”
“I believe it. Look at him—I’d give him an A if he smiled at me enough.”
I find myself bristling slightly at their dismissive tone. I've seen Troy in action all summer at Camp Pinehaven, and while he's insufferably arrogant, he's not stupid.
But then I remember what he did to me and my momentary impulse to defend him evaporates. The girls behind me are probably right. He's here because he thinks his smile can get him through anything.
As if sensing the attention, Troy glances back, his eyes sweeping the room before landing briefly on me. Recognition flickers across his face—a slight widening of those irritatingly blue eyes—before he offers a small smirk.
I glare back.
He stands, gathering his things with that same effortless confidence. He stops to exchange a few words with Professor Klein from Engineering, who actually laughs and claps him on the shoulder like they're old friends. Then he heads for the exit, weaving between chairs without a care in the world.
“See? Didn't even stay for the meeting,” one of the girls whispers triumphantly. “Probably realized this requires actual work.”
“Or he's late for a spray tan,” her friend adds, and they both giggle.
I should agree with them. I really should. But something about watching Klein's respectful nod as Troy left doesn't quite fit their narrative. It's annoying how he seems to charm everyone—students, professors, camp directors—with minimal effort.
My phone buzzes with a notification. Mom.
Mom
Have a great first day, sweetie! So proud of my little architect!
I stare at the screen, my jaw tightening. Three weeks of silence and now one loving text, like she hadn't promised to call “every Sunday” over summer. The heart emojis only make my own heart twist.
I set the phone face-down without replying and grab my laptop instead.
A tall man with rolled-up sleeves steps onto the podium at the front of the room. Professor Holwell. He's got the look of someone who bikes to work, composts religiously, and knows how to guilt you into recycling without saying a word.
“Good morning, everyone,” he says, his voice carrying easily. “Welcome to the Future Innovators Design and Innovation Challenge.”
F.I.D.I.C
I note down. Sounds like a virus.
I settle in to his speech about UMS’s waves in sustainability.
To be fair, the University of Mountain Springs is impressive.
They push boundaries. They like to do things differently.
The campus is known for being cutting-edge, especially in STEM.
But they also love to remind you of it. Loudly.
Repeatedly. The first fifteen minutes of every new term usually feels like a marketing video come to life.
After four years, I can recite the speech myself.
“You're here because you’re the best in your field,” the speaker says. “Each of you in your final year, each representing a different branch of STEM innovation—architecture, environmental engineering, sustainable design, urban planning, clean tech development.”
My fingers tap against my arm. I’ve spent weeks digging through past competition entries, white papers on carbon-neutral infrastructure, smart city case studies, system modeling simulations. I know what’s coming next. Or at least, I think I do
Winning this means prestige and visibility. A chance to stand out in an industry that barely notices students like me. The kind of architecture firms that toss resumés in the trash unless you’ve got three internships and a famous last name. They’ll have to look twice if—when—I win this.
Holwell gestures behind him, and a slide appears on the projector: a grainy image of a derelict concrete building surrounded by cracked pavement and a rusting bike rack.
“The old D4 toilet block.”
A few chuckles ripple through the room. Everyone knows it as the campus eyesore—the place where people sneak off to smoke or hook up. If you walk past it at 8 AM on a Monday, you'll find discarded joints and condom wrappers adorning its perimeter like horrific confetti.
Holwell smiles. “Yes, glamorous. But this little slab of concrete has become a bit of a campus joke. So we thought... let's give it one last hurrah.”
He clicks to the next slide, a blank blueprint of the area.
“You're going to redesign it.”
I sit up straighter. This isn't a paper.
“Yes, instead of an essay, this year we want a practical proposal,” Holwell continues.
“A complete project outline that could actually be implemented, including costs, materials, energy usage projections, and environmental impact assessments.
The project aim is simple but challenging: 'Reimagine the D4 toilet block area as a space that benefits both our campus community and our planet.' How you interpret that is entirely up to you. We won’t be sharing any more details.”
I came prepared to write a paper that would showcase my ideas but never see the light of day.
Something I could do in my freezing apartment after work.
But, at the same time, this actually sounds really interesting.
I'm already mentally sketching possibilities.
I love the idea of using architecture and design to not just build new spaces, but reimagine old spaces.
Unlike most of my classmates, I know exactly what sustainability means when you're living it.
When you can't afford to waste anything, every drop of water and kilowatt of electricity has to count.
You learn to repurpose everything because new isn't an option.
It's not trendy minimalism when it's just your life.
“You'll submit your proposals just before Christmas break,” Holwell says. “The winner will be announced the first week of term after the new year, and”—his eyes scan the room—“UMS will actually build it.”
The room erupts in murmurs. This is unprecedented. Usually, winning gets you grant money and prestige. Not seeing your ideas become reality.
“The winning team receives the standard ten-thousand-dollar grant,” Holwell adds, “plus, of course, the real-world implementation of their project. Which looks rather nice on a resumé, I might add.”
Wait.
Team? My hand freezes mid-tap against my arm. Murmurs fill the hall. Some students are already nudging their friends confirming a partnership.
“This is a team competition this year. You’ll work in pairs,” Holwell says, as if reading my thoughts. “To simulate real-world collaboration across disciplines.”
My stomach drops through the floor. Partners? No one said anything about partners. This has always been a solo competition.
“Will the grant money be split?” someone calls out from the back, asking exactly what I was thinking.
Holwell shakes his head. “The ten thousand is per person, not per project. But consider this—the real prize is seeing your work built, and the doors that will open afterward. After the unveiling we will have a ball afterwards with many industry professionals and university benefactors and the winners will be the guests of honor.”
Great. All the money but twice the headache of dealing with someone else's opinions and schedules.
“And here's the twist,” Holwell continues. “You must partner with someone outside your discipline. You know, like architects with engineers. Policy specialists with urban planners. No same-field collaborations.”
Around the room, I see smiles falter. Friends who had been nudging each other excitedly now looking crushed as they realize they can't work together. I almost feel satisfied watching their entitled expectations crumble. Ha. Shows you can’t just do well because you’ve got the right friends.
He clicks to another slide with a QR code.
“Full brief and site specifications are available here. We'll be sending an email with complete details and a list of all participants, including their disciplines and university email addresses, so you can identify potential partners from complementary fields. Team names must be submitted by next Monday. I’d recommend you all start emailing each other soon to find a good fit.”
Great. Cold-emailing strangers, begging them to work with me. My idea of hell.
Holwell wraps up with a brisk reminder about registration deadlines, then claps his laptop shut like this was all very casual and not a life-defining competition.
Chairs scrape. Voices rise. All around me, people are already forming clusters—heads bent together, laughing, talking fast, trading numbers. Easy, effortless.
I stay seated.
I pull my notebook into my lap, pretending to check a note while my eyes scan the room.
There’s a guy from Environmental Engineering I recognize from a seminar last year—sharp, organized, good on his feet.
He’s already deep in conversation with two girls, gesturing toward something on his phone.
Across the aisle, a girl from Sustainable Energy is laughing with a group, her binder tucked under one arm like she doesn’t even need it.
I watched her give a talk once about solar integration. She got a standing ovation.
My stomach twists.
I shift my gaze to the corner of the page, where I’ve written and rewritten the same sentence twice. Hi, I’m looking for a partner for the Future Innovators competition...
Fuck. This is going to be impossible. I don’t doubt my abilities. I know I might not be the smartest, but I’ll work every hour to make this project work. Charm wins. I don’t have that. So I have to be better — smarter, sharper, faster.
A gust of laughter echoes near the door. Someone fist-bumps someone else. Plans are already being made. Teams are forming like puzzle pieces snapping into place, like everyone got the memo months ago, and I just wandered in by accident.
I gather my things slowly, trying to look calm. Unbothered. Like I’m just... thinking.
But the truth buzzes low in my chest, irritating and persistent.
I can’t afford to miss this.
Not because it’ll look good on a resumé. Not because I’m trying to win some campus clout contest. Because this is the plan. The whole plan. The only plan.
And now I have to convince someone to bet on me, without sounding like I’m begging. Or sounding like I have everything to prove, even though I do.