11. Proving Ground
11
Proving Ground
Sophie
The long weekend ends: true to our deal, Evan drops me home at dawn, when campus is still deserted.
The warmth of the hotel fades like a dream.
Term resumes.
Autumn bleeds into winter.
The trees in Harvard Yard go from being painted red and gold to their bare branches scratching against a hard grey sky.
Frost creeps along brick walls, the air stings my cheeks and chaps my lips, but I barely notice.
My days blur into an endless cycle of casebooks, lectures, and the pressure to keep up.
Contracts, Torts, Civil Procedure: L1’s hellish trinity.
I tell myself I can keep up.
I tell myself I deserve to be here, but the cases keep piling up— Hawkins v.
McGee, Palsgraf v. Long Island Railroad —circling my mind like vultures when I collapse into bed, too wired to sleep.
The reading never ends.
A thousand pages a week.
My classmates show off their records of pages read like medals, like trophies, a badge of honour earned after weekend trips to Europe, while I can barely keep up.
And when exhaustion creeps in, when my thoughts wander against my will, I think of Evan.
The way he looked at me in that hotel room, the hurt I saw in his eyes but refused to acknowledge.
I made a choice. I can’t let it be for nothing.
My skin is wan from lack of sleep, my hair dull because I don’t have time to wash it daily, my desk buried under highlighters and frantic scrawls I can’t decipher the next day.
The radiator in my room rattles like it’s as exhausted as I am, but the nights still feel cold.
And if, by some miracle, I manage a good day, Max and his twin shadows are there to remind me of my place.
Their interest in me hasn’t waned.
They oscillate wildly between inviting me to expensive dinners and then quietly tittering when I stumble through an answer in class.
I don’t know whether they want to befriend me or destroy me.
But it doesn’t matter.
They don’t need to sabotage me: they can just sit back and watch me struggle just as well all on my own.
As the months pass, Evan stays true to our deal.
He keeps his distance, checking up on me every now and again.
He doesn’t offer to come see me in Harvard, although he does tell me I can come stay at his apartment in New York anytime.
I don’t take him up on it—I’m too busy—but there are some weekends when I have to fight the temptation.
Resist the urge to ask him to fly me out, to spend a night in his bed, to let him make me forget all my problems with his mouth and hands and skin .
There are nights when I’m so stressed and tired and sad that I can’t think of anything else except Evan.
Those nights, it feels like I’d do just about anything to avoid being alone.
But every time, I push back that longing, locking it away in the coffin where I keep all of my useless emotions.
How I feel doesn’t matter.
Only Harvard matters.
A few weeks before winter break, Mr Park ends our last session of the week with an announcement that makes my heart sink.
“Before you all leave,” he says, cocking an eyebrow at the two or three other students already packing away laptops and shrugging on coats, “I just wanted to speak to you all about an event in the spring.”
The whole class waits in silence, eyes on him.
Even Anthony, sitting a few desks away from me, hasn’t yet pulled out his phone, his dull black gaze fixed on Mr Park.
“This spring, the Harvard Law School Alumni Association will host its annual Spring Gala in New York,” Mr Park says, flipping open a thin folder and pulling out a single sheet of paper.
“Some of you might already have heard of it. It’s a prestigious event, attended by alumni, legal luminaries, and a few well-placed benefactors. It’s an invaluable chance to network, impress, and make meaningful connections that could shape your careers—typically, only a few invitations are handed out to the best students we have to offer.” His smile, a rare, frank thing, suddenly brightens his normally grave features.
“This year, I am pleased to announce that the DART cohort has been invited to attend.”
The room shifts as everyone straightens in their seats.
Even Max has stiffened ever so slightly—a sure sign that this is a big deal.
“This invitation,” Mr Park continues, still smiling, “is due in no small part to Mrs Eleanor Knight, a Harvard alumna, patron of the gala, and a great supporter of the DART programme.”
My heart stutters at the name.
Eleanor Knight. Evan’s mother.
My grip tightens and something crunches against my palm.
I look down.
The shell of my pen has shattered noiselessly in my grip.
“She has spoken highly of the programme and its participants,” Mr Park says, his words weighted with expectation, “and as such, this is an opportunity not only to represent yourselves but also to honour the trust she has placed in us.”
There’s a ripple of whispers, this time, students bending their heads to exchange excited comments.
Neither Max nor Anthony, sitting on either side of me across the classroom, move.
Instead, their heads tilt towards me.
I stare straight ahead.
“This gala,” Mr Park continues pointedly, raising a hand to silence the group, “is not just an evening of fine dining and polite conversation. It’s a proving ground. Partners from top firms, judges, policymakers— these are the people you’ll be rubbing elbows with. First impressions matter, and trust me when I say this is a world with no second chances. I expect every last one of you to do your research, learn who will be attending, and prepare accordingly. You have several months to make yourselves worthy of notice; use that time wisely.”
My eyes remain fixed on Mr Park as he takes questions at the front of the class and hands out last-minute feedback to a handful of students, but my thoughts are a thousand miles away.
Max, Dahlia, and Anthony tried to confront me about Evan after the long weekend.
I told them only that we broke up.
My stomach churns. What are they thinking right now?
That I was with Evan for this ?
That I’ve somehow schemed my way here, using him as a stepping stone?
And even if they believe that we’re broken up, I know they’re going to be watching me during the gala.
Waiting for me to do what girls like me do and cash in my investment.
And the worst thing is that I know Mrs Knight will want to help me.
She’ll greet me warmly, like she always does.
I’ll know the truth—but they won’t .
They’ll see her behaviour as proof of their suspicion.
Mr Park snaps his folder shut, drawing my attention back to him.
“You’ll receive further details closer to the event,” he says, “but I suggest you begin your research straightaway. And don’t forget that your Comparative Legal Systems paper is due on Wednesday. I expect thorough research and rigorous analysis, nothing but the best, and no excuses.” He turns with a curt wave.
“Have a good weekend, all.”
The moment he leaves, the room explodes with excited voices.
I shove my notebook and laptop pell-mell into my bag, head down, hair hiding my face, and rise from my chair so fast it teeters, almost falling.
I grab my coat, don’t even bother putting it on.
I just need to leave—now.
But when I reach the door, they’re already there.
Max blocks my path, smiling broadly.
Dahlia leans casually against the door frame, her vape pen already pressed between the glossy cushions of her lips, and Anthony stands beside her, his hands in his pockets, his smirk insufferably confident.
His phone is nowhere to be seen; this , clearly, is far more interesting.
“Fancy that, Elizabeth,” Max says, voice oily with perverse amusement.
“Guess we already know who’s going to be the star of the gala. ”
My chest tightens, my breath catching, a noose drawn taut.
Max leans in slightly, the weight of his gaze pressing against my skin like an invasive touch.
“I envy you,” Dahlia says, eyes flickering up and down my body.
“You’re going to be like Cinderella at the ball.”
Her tone is odd, hard to read, something almost wistful beneath the mockery.
“I’m not,” I bite out, clutching my coat tighter.
“I’m terrible at networking, you’ve seen me—”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” Dahlia snaps, rolling her eyes.
“There’s nothing wrong with being noticed.”
“Besides, you don’t need to be good at networking when you’re good at other things,” Anthony adds.
There’s no insincerity in his voice, not even mockery.
He speaks with a warmth that feels so real it chills me to the bone.
“Anyway, I’m sure Ella Knight will have your back. She’s practically family, after all.”
My throat is sore from a hundred cutting replies, but what would be the point?
They’re like vicious children watching a small animal drown.
The struggle is the pleasure to their watching eyes.
So I don’t say anything.
Instead, I tighten my grip on my coat and shove past them, their low, derisive laughter trailing after me.