Chapter 4
Four
HANNAH
By six thirty, my new roommate has decided we are crashing a private party.
I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed, surrounded by stacks of clothes, books, and toiletries I bought from the campus store at three times their normal price because the airline still hasn’t found my suitcase.
Piper stands in the center of our room with her phone pressed to her chest.
“There’s an athlete mixer tonight.”
I keep folding T-shirts.
“Congratulations to the athletes.”
“At the beach.”
“Still happy for them.”
Jules and Kenzie crowd into the doorway. They have already spent more time in our room than their own.
Jules shuts the door behind them.
“We overheard two basketball players talking about it in the quad.”
I slide another shirt into the dresser. “That sounds like a private conversation.”
“It sounded like an invitation.”
“It was not directed at you.”
“It was directed toward the universe,” Kenzie says. “We’re part of the universe.”
Piper throws open my closet.
I stare at her.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding you something to wear.”
“No.”
She looks over her shoulder. “No to the clothes or the party?”
“Yes.”
“Hannah.”
“Piper.”
“It’s our first night at Stanford.”
“And?”
“And you’re going to stay here alphabetizing books?”
I glance at the stack beside my bed.
“They’re sorted by subject.”
Jules drops onto Piper’s desk chair. “We just got here. We have to do something reckless.”
“Unpacking in this economy is reckless.”
Kenzie picks up the housing packet from my desk and fans herself with it.
“We need to meet people.”
“We could attend an event we were invited to.”
“Where’s the thrill in that?”
“The reduced chance of being escorted out?”
Piper holds up a black tank top, studies me, then tosses it onto my bed.
“We can borrow jerseys.”
“From whom?”
“People.”
“You’ve known people here for four hours.”
“Dick’s Sporting Goods sells Stanford stuff.”
I stop folding.
“You want to buy uniforms, sneak onto a private beach, and pretend we play sports?”
Jules points at me. “Now you’re getting it.”
“What sport?”
“Synchronized swimming,” Kenzie says.
I look between the three of them.
“None of you can synchronize walking down the hall.”
“We’ll say we’re new.”
“To swimming?”
“To the team.”
“Stanford doesn’t have varsity synchronized swimming.”
The room goes quiet.
Piper narrows her eyes. “How do you know that?”
“I can read.”
Jules snaps her fingers. “Croquet.”
“Not a varsity sport.”
“Competitive sailing.”
“You don’t know how to sail.”
Kenzie lifts her chin. “You don’t know my life.”
“You grew up in Arizona.”
“There are boats in Arizona.”
“Name one.”
I go back to my shirts.
Piper reaches down, grabs both my wrists, and pulls.
“No.”
“Get up.”
“I’m unpacking.”
“You’ve unpacked seven books and three identical sweaters.”
“They aren’t identical.”
“They’re all beige.”
“One is oatmeal.”
She drags me off the bed.
I catch my balance and look down at myself.
My legs are pale from a Chicago winter that lasted half my life. I’m not overweight, but no one is going to mistake me for a beach-volleyball recruit either. My body was designed for carrying library books and avoiding unnecessary attention.
“Yeah, I’m not feeling very athletic.”
“It’ll be dark,” Jules says.
“Comforting.”
“I have spray tan,” Kenzie offers.
I take a step back. “You’re not spraying me with anything.”
“It’s professional.”
“It came from a drugstore bag.”
“Drugstores sell professional products.”
“No cherry-colored makeover. No jerseys. No fake team.”
Piper folds her arms.
“Fine. Stay here.”
Her tone changes.
Not playful now.
She glances at my books, then at the clothes spread across my bed.
“It’s your first night of college. You can spend it alone with your laptop if that’s what you want.”
The dig is small.
It still finds the right spot.
I came here because I wanted something different. A life that didn’t revolve around Dad’s practices, his players, or the gym. I wanted friends who knew me before they needed something.
That requires leaving the room.
Even when the plan is terrible.
“Fine.”
All three girls brighten.
“I’ll go.”
Piper squeals and hugs me.
“But I’m dressing myself.”
Her excitement drops by several degrees.
“We can help.”
“That sentence sounded threatening.”
“You at least have to wear something cute.”
“I own cute things.”
Jules glances at my thick glasses.
“Do you?”
I give her a flat look.
“My contacts are enjoying a private vacation with the rest of my luggage.”
Kenzie winces. “Those glasses are intense.”
“They help me see.”
“They also let the moon see you.”
“Good. I was worried we’d lost touch.”
Piper laughs, then lifts both hands.
“All right. No makeover. We’ll do our own thing, and you can dress like yourself.”
“Thank you.”
“Even if yourself is a divorced art teacher who makes her own soap.”
“You’re all very kind.”
* * *
I take my hair down because the knot has started pulling at my scalp.
It falls past my shoulders in waves flattened by the flight, so I wash it in the communal bathroom, then blow-dry it while Piper applies fake lashes across the room.
Without the bun, the glasses look slightly less severe.
Not much.
I add concealer, mascara, and lip gloss. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to prove I didn’t arrive at Stanford intending to audit a funeral.
My jean shorts survived in my carry-on. I pair them with a fitted white tank, Birkenstocks, and a chunky cream sweater that hangs off one shoulder.
California may be warm during the day, but beaches get cold at night.
Piper steps out of the bathroom wearing a tiny red dress and stops when she sees me.
“Well.”
I look down. “What?”
“You upgraded.”
Kenzie circles one finger in the air, signaling for me to turn.
I don’t.
“You went from cat-lady librarian to crunchy granola librarian,” she says.
“Living the dream.”
Jules leans against the doorframe. “You’re pretty. The glasses are just…”
“Necessary?”
“Committed.”
Piper swats her arm.
“Stop. Hannah looks good.”
Her voice is firmer this time.
Jules shrugs and returns to her lip liner.
Piper comes closer.
“I’m sorry if we were being mean earlier.”
“You were.”
“I know.”
She tucks a strand of blond hair behind her ear.
“I’m excited and nervous, and I want this to work. Us being roommates, I mean. I think you’re cool.”
I study her.
The apology appears genuine. There’s no smirk waiting behind it.
“I want it to work too.”
Her shoulders relax.
“I just don’t understand why athletes bother you so much.”
“They don’t bother me.”
All three girls look at me.
I amend the statement.
“Some do.”
“Is it the partying?” Piper asks.
“No.”
“The WAG thing?”
“That part is strange.”
“It’s not strange to want security.”
“It is when you’re choosing a husband based on his draft projection.”
Kenzie walks past us toward the mirror.
“I’d marry a first-round pick.”
“You don’t know any.”
“That’s why we’re going to the mixer.”
Piper smiles at me. “What are you here for, then?”
“Besides the Ivy-level education?”
“Stanford isn’t technically Ivy League.”
“You understood the point.”
She waits.
I look at my reflection.
My oversized glasses. My bare legs. The sweater slipping low over one shoulder.
“I don’t know. I’ve never spent much time thinking about guys.”
Jules snorts.
“You could say that.”
“I’ve been busy studying.”
That part is true.
What I leave out is what I studied the most.
Basketball.
Plays. Spacing. Form. Movement. Film. Every adjustment my father made and every one he missed.
I could write a thesis on the game without opening a book.
Instead, I came to Stanford to study anything else.
Piper claps her hands once.
“Then tonight is educational.”
“How?”
“We’re studying male behavior in its natural habitat.”
“That habitat being a private party we’re sneaking into.”
“Field research.”
They begin drinking before we leave.
Piper has miniature bottles hidden inside a toiletry bag. Jules produces canned cocktails from beneath her bed. Kenzie pours something pink into a metal water bottle and refuses to tell me what it is.
By the time we reach the parking lot, they are loud enough to make our cover story impossible.
Piper hands me her keys.
“You’re driving.”
“I thought that was already decided.”
“You’re the responsible one.”
“You’ve known me since lunchtime.”
“And look how much we’ve learned.”
Her car is a white convertible that smells new and has more buttons than my laptop.
I adjust the mirrors while the three of them debate our imaginary sport.
“Synchronized swimming,” Piper says.
“No,” I tell her.
“Rowing,” Jules offers.
“You don’t have the shoulders.”
“Rude.”
“Believable lies require research.”
Kenzie leans between the front seats.
“Curling.”
I look at her in the mirror.
“You’re committed for curling?”
“No one knows enough about it to challenge us.”
“That is actually your strongest argument.”
Piper points toward the road.
“We’re the Stanford women’s curling team.”
“There is no Stanford women’s curling team.”
“There is tonight.”
“And I am?”
“Our manager.”
“I’d rather be the driver.”
“Fine. Designated driver and assistant manager.”
“I hate all of you.”
Piper turns up the music.
“No, you don’t.”
Not yet.
* * *
Security at the beach consists of two student volunteers wearing Stanford shirts and checking names against a digital list.
That should end our night.
Instead, Jules walks straight toward them with the confidence of someone who has never been told no by anyone holding a clipboard.
“We’re with women’s curling.”
The volunteer looks up.
“Women’s what?”
“Curling.”
He checks the screen.
“I don’t see that.”
“Our program was added this semester,” Piper says. “Club expansion.”
“This is for varsity athletes.”
Kenzie leans toward him and lowers her voice.
“We were told all sports with balls were included.”
I look toward the ocean and pretend I have never seen these women before.
The second volunteer looks exhausted.
“Just go in.”
Piper beams. “Thank you.”
He points at us.
“No causing trouble.”
“You won’t even know we’re here.”
That prediction lasts until we reach the bonfires.
Music pounds across the sand. String lights stretch between poles, glowing over coolers, food tables, and clusters of hot bodies.
Athletes are everywhere.
Tall men.
Taller women.
Muscular legs, broad shoulders, perfect ponytails.
The kind of bodies built through years of repetition and pain, now dressed like none of that effort occurred.
Piper grabs my arm.
“We made it.”
“You committed sports fraud.”
“Worth it.”
Jules spots the keg.
All three disappear before I can remind them I am their ride home.
I stand alone near the entrance for several seconds.
A cooler sits beside one of the tables. I reach for a hard seltzer, then remember the three drunk women I’m responsible for and swap it for plain sparkling water.
I walk away from the crowd.
The Pacific is dark beyond the bonfires, waves rolling toward shore beneath a thin line of moonlight. I take off my sandals and carry them by the straps as I cross the cool sand.
Water reaches my toes.
I gasp.
It is colder than I expected, but I don’t move.
Another wave comes in, washing over my feet and sinking them deeper into the sand.
A laugh slips out.
“My feet are in the Pacific Ocean.”
I say it quietly, but apparently not quietly enough.
A guy passing behind me calls to his friend.
“This one’s already drunk. She’s talking to her toes.”
I don’t turn around.
“Mind your business.”
He laughs and keeps walking.
I take another sip of sparkling water.
The wind catches my hair, pushing it back from my face. My sweater slips farther down my shoulder. Music drifts from the party, softened by waves and distance.
I made it.
Three thousand miles from Chicago.
From winters so cold the air stole your breath before you reached the bus stop.
From the lounge where I opened my books every afternoon and waited for Dad to finish fixing someone else’s jump shot.
From the whistles. The bouncing balls. The snap of nets. The chemical shine of freshly waxed floors and the stale jerseys boys left piled beneath benches.
That gym had worked its way beneath my skin. The sounds followed me home. The smell clung to my backpack, my clothes, my hair.
Even silence used to feel like waiting for the next whistle.
Not here.
Here, there is salt in the air.
Sand beneath my feet.
Palm trees somewhere behind me.
A cold drink in my hand.
I stare at the dark horizon and smile.
I escaped.
For tonight, that is enough.