Chapter Eight Journeys end in lovers meeting
CHAPTER EIGHT
Journeys end in lovers meeting
ORIENTATION WASN’T SUPPOSED TO BEGIN for a few hours.
The way Honey had described it, all of the events would begin later in the afternoon.
But when I arrived on the path back to main campus, voices seeped through the woods.
In the distance, the sound of music filled the air, the operatic notes of a scorned singer’s cries.
It was muffled only by the soft ring of laughter.
I drew closer, peeking my head past the arching trees that obscured the main lawn.
Faces emerged; the familiar stuck-up smirks of the legacies and regular admits who’d been separated from us after arriving at Westfield.
They stood gathered on the front steps of Westfield’s main building, where a sign reading WELCOME FRESHMEN had been strung across the towering building’s arches.
Everyone was here. Everyone except for us: scholarship students.
It’d been only a few hours, and of course the nepo babies had already formed their circle.
One that was sanctioned by the university.
Groups of faculty wove in and out of the clusters of first-year students.
They were dressed in formal Westfield robes and drank from tall champagne flutes as they spoke to freshmen who trickled in and out of the main building.
For a moment, I thought of turning back. But I’d always known what I’d be getting into coming here. I just had to pretend like I was one of them. I closed my eyes, forced a smile on my face, and then walked the path toward the main lawn.
The first thing people did when they saw me was glance at my blazer and then look back at me in confusion.
Which, again, I’d expected. I was used to those looks from rich assholes.
But I’d hoped wearing the lily-embroidered Westfield blazer would help me fit in.
I wasn’t even the only first-year donning the navy-and-green plaid jacket.
Actually, there were a handful of other freshmen wearing it.
But instead of Westfield University’s lily symbol, some of the freshmen’s jackets had emblems of their specific dorms; most with an ivy, others a rose.
I was sure the campus store sold blazers with a poppy emblem, but wearing one signifying Poppy House likely didn’t have much cachet.
It’s probably why most of the Poppies like Vivian wore blazers with the lily emblem instead; as the university-wide symbol, it tied them to Westfield without singling out that they were scholarship students.
A reminder again of what Vivian had said about Ivy House and Rose House. Ivy for the legacies. Rose for the regular admission.
Even the crest could be a status symbol.
I kept walking, trying to ignore the long glances and whispers that trailed behind me. But the second looks made my blood boil. Just as I arrived at the entrance, a waiter stopped me.
“Move,” I said. And then, realizing this was friendly fire and that he wasn’t one of the nepo babies who kept glaring at me, I added, “Sorry. I meant ‘excuse me.’”
He glanced at the lily crest on my blazer for a long moment before swiping a drink from the tray of champagne flutes that he was carrying.
“Apple cider?” he asked, offering the flute to me.
“Oh,” I said. “Yes.” Of course the university wouldn’t be serving alcohol to its freshmen.
I took the drink but regretted it almost immediately.
An image painfully flashed in my mind: the waiter standing in the kitchen moments before, pouring sparkling apple cider into the champagne flutes before spitting into the glasses.
A small circle of other waiters surrounded him, and they laughed as they placed the contaminated drinks onto the serving tray for guests.
I couldn’t even be mad at the waiter. Just an hour before, Honey and Joseph had conned us scholarship students into missing the welcome celebration. It wasn’t surprising that some people weren’t taking the slight sitting down.
The waiter stared at me, waiting for me to drink with a measured smile on his face.
“I’m actually okay.”
I placed the glass back on the tray. He looked disappointed but quickly moved to the next empty-handed legacy student, who took the drink and downed it in one gulp. I hid my disgust and looked away before making my way farther into the welcome celebration.
When I walked through the double doors of the main hall, I was greeted by the chilling bite of air-conditioning set three degrees too low.
Inside, ribbed arches lined the vast ceilings.
The walls of the university were carved out of stone, and the marble floors had been shined to a glowing finish.
There were more legacies and regular admits gathered together, all in their own spheres of orbit, talking with one another, networking, laughing, and mingling.
Up ahead, a group of faculty gathered. There were two men, and a blond girl with a pixie cut. I recognized her immediately.
Honey.
She talked animatedly to the two men; the first had pale skin, dark gray eyes, and light stubble on his chin with a chestnut-brown tinge that matched his trimmed straight hair. The second man was of a deeper complexion, his skin a rich shade of brown, his hair shaved into a buzz cut.
Their jackets looked different from Vivian’s or even the one I wore—they were newer, the lily emblem reimagined as a modern tessellation.
For a second, Honey’s gaze fell over me. The gesture, as minuscule as it was, caught the attention of both men.
I tried to pretend that I didn’t recognize Honey or the man with the buzz cut, even as he stared me down. But Jojo had already excused himself from the group. And now he was making his way toward me.