Chapter 6
Six
HANNAH
A month into Stanford, I know three things.
The athlete quad never sleeps.
My housing transfer request has moved from under review to still under review, which feels less like progress and more like administrative mockery.
And Kane Haverhill is a sophomore.
I learn the last fact against my will.
Everyone talks about him.
At breakfast, two swimmers debate whether he’ll declare for the draft after this season.
In the laundry room, a girl from soccer claims she saw him leaving a track athlete’s room before sunrise.
Piper says he’s still hung up on Stella Cortez, though Stella has been spending most of her time with Tristan Vale.
Or maybe Vale has been spending time with the Texas soccer girl.
The story changes every twelve hours.
Today’s version has Stella heartbroken, Kane sleeping with a sprinter, and Vale secretly dating Texas.
Piper drops into the chair across from me with her lunch tray.
“I’m telling you, T and T is happening.”
Jules sits beside her. “Tristan and Texas?”
“Who else?”
“People are calling them T and T?”
“They have a hashtag.”
I stab my fork into a piece of lettuce.
Kenzie clutches one hand to her chest. “But the way Vale looked at Stella during practice last week.”
“You don’t attend volleyball practice,” I say.
“I saw a video.”
“A six-second video filmed through a window.”
“It was enough.”
Piper leans across the table. “No, listen. Vale is using Texas to get over Stella. Stella is pretending she doesn’t care, but she does. Kane sees the opening, starts hooking up with the track girl to make Stella jealous, and then—”
I set my tray down hard enough to rattle the silverware.
They stop.
I look around the dining hall.
Athletes occupy most of the tables near us. Red hoodies. Training gear. Ice packs strapped to knees beneath the table. Every third conversation seems devoted to who kissed whom, who left whose room, or which couple might become important enough to earn a merged nickname.
“Are we here to get an education,” I ask, “or did I accidentally enroll in an episode of TMZ?”
Jules gives me a flat look. “You’re such a prude.”
“I’m not a prude. I’m bored.”
“With hot people?”
“With people discussing hot people as if that counts as a personality.”
Kenzie points her fork at me. “You could always go back to your books.”
There’s a bite beneath it.
Small, but clear.
I grip my tray.
“Maybe I should.”
I push away from the table.
My glasses slide down my nose when I stand, and I shove them back into place with one finger.
I tried wearing contacts this morning. Something had gotten trapped under the right one—dust, hair, a microscopic shard of broken glass. Whatever it was, my eye turned red and began burning before I reached class.
So the tortoiseshell frames are back.
My right eye still looks irritated behind the lens, which completes the exhausted librarian effect.
I turn too fast.
A solid chest stops me.
My tray tilts.
Iced tea, salad dressing, and half a bowl of tomato soup hit a black Stanford shirt.
“Shit.”
The dining hall quiets around us.
Kane Haverhill looks down at the mess spreading across his chest.
A tall girl beside him covers her mouth, failing to hide her laugh. She has long, sculpted legs beneath tiny running shorts and the sleek build of someone who treats five miles as a warm-up.
Kane lifts his eyes to mine.
“Aunt Gina,,,.”
“Who did you call me?”
His gaze flicks over my tortoiseshell glasses.
“Nothing.”
The track girl snickers.
Kane pinches the wet fabric away from his stomach.
“This is the second shirt you’ve ruined.”
I recognize him then.
The beach.
The spilled beer.
The ego.
He studies my face.
“Sandy.”
I don’t correct him.
There is no reason Kane Haverhill needs my real name.
“You remember me,” I say.
“You’re hard to forget.”
“That almost sounded flattering.”
“It wasn’t.”
I glance at the soup dripping from his shirt. “Now we’re even.”
“How are we even?”
“You ruined my sweater. I ruined your shirt.”
“You walked into me both times.”
“That is a creative retelling.”
His track companion touches his arm.
“Maybe you should take it off right here.”
A cheer rises from one of the nearby basketball tables.
Kane looks toward them, and the corner of his mouth lifts. He grabs the hem of his shirt.
I turn away before he can pull it over his head.
“That’s my cue.”
“You’re leaving without apologizing?” he asks.
“I said I was sorry.”
“You said ‘shit.’”
“It carried the same emotional weight.”
I set my crooked tray on the nearest empty table.
The track girl looks me over, lingering on the oversized glasses and swollen eye.
“You should watch where you’re going.”
I meet her stare.
“You should try a longer shirt. That one’s fighting for its life.”
Her smile drops.
Someone behind Kane chokes on a laugh.
He steps between us before she answers.
“You always this friendly, Sandy?”
“Only when cornered by charming people.”
“What happened to your eye?”
The question catches me off guard.
I push my glasses higher.
“Contact lens.”
“You lose a fight with it?”
“It cheated.”
His mouth twitches.
The track girl hooks her fingers around his wrist.
“Come on. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
Kane stays where he is.
His attention remains fixed on me, curious now, which is worse than irritated.
“Sandy,” he says. “Freshman. Not an athlete. Crashes private parties and assaults people with food.”
“That summary leaves out your personality.”
“What about it?”
“It explains the assaults.”
Laughter breaks from the surrounding tables.
His jaw shifts.
Good.
I pick up my bag.
“Enjoy lunch.”
“You took mine.”
“You look capable of finding more.”
I walk out before he invents another reason to keep me there.
Behind me, the track girl asks, “Who was that?”
Kane answers without hesitation.
“Sandy.”
I smile despite myself.
Let him think that.
The housing office closes at four thirty.
I arrive at four twenty-two.
A student employee sits behind the desk wearing headphones around his neck and the resigned expression of someone who has spent the day explaining policies he did not create.
“I need to check my transfer request.”
He asks for my student ID, types my number, and studies the screen.
“Still pending.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here.”
“There aren’t many openings.”
“I’ll take anything.”
He glances up. “Anything?”
“Yes.”
“Shared triple?”
“Fine.”
“Older dorm?”
“Perfect.”
“No air-conditioning?”
“I’m from Chicago.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“It means I’ve suffered before.”
He clicks through another screen.
“You’re in Cypress now?”
“Yes.”
“That’s one of the most requested dorms.”
“Then someone should be thrilled to trade.”
He turns the monitor slightly, as if a new angle might create a vacancy.
“Your placement is tied to the freshman residential program. Moving you could affect your assigned cohort.”
“My assigned cohort thinks romantic gossip qualifies as a core curriculum.”
“That isn’t a housing violation.”
“Neither is bad taste. Yet here we are.”
His mouth twitches.
He types another note.
“I can mark the request urgent.”
“What qualifies it as urgent?”
“Documented conflict, safety concern, medical accommodation.”
“What about severe exposure to athletes?”
“No.”
“Basketball specifically?”
“Still no.”
I look through the glass doors toward the quad.
A group of football players crosses the courtyard. Two girls hurry after them, laughing too loudly at something that wasn’t funny.
“Put me anywhere quiet.”
“I’ll add that.”
“And far from Cypress.”
“I can’t promise.”
“Try.”
He nods and returns my card.
I step outside.
The afternoon sun warms the stone path. Palm fronds shift overhead. Somewhere beyond the dorms, a whistle cuts through the air, followed by the steady thump of a basketball.
My shoulders tighten.
A month ago, the sound belonged to another life.
Now it follows me across campus.
I adjust my glasses and head toward the library. My new life was hardly Malibu Barbie.
I haven’t found my people, my place here and the last text from mom suggested I do-fast. Because my tuition and housing bill will be due soon and the portion my scholarships and grants don’t cover… will put my family under.
The email arrives during my eight a.m. lecture.
Housing Transfer Approved.
I read it twice beneath the desk.
A space opened in Briar Hall, one of the older residences on the opposite side of campus. No athlete quad. No basketball court outside the window. No girls shouting draft projections through the bathroom stalls.
Move-in begins tomorrow.
I accept before the professor reaches the next slide.
By lunch, I have boxes.
By four, half my room is packed.
Piper watches from her bed while I tape the bottom of a carton shut.
“You’re really leaving?”
“My request went through.”
“I didn’t think it would.”
“Neither did I.”
She picks at the corner of one pink pillow.
The room feels different with my books gone from the shelf. Her side is still bright, glossy, and crowded with perfume bottles. Mine has been reduced to cardboard and a bare mattress.
“We weren’t that terrible,” she says.
I look at her.
“No.”
It’s true.
Piper apologized when she crossed lines. She saved me a seat in the dining hall, loaned me shampoo while my suitcase toured the country, and defended my glasses after spending the first afternoon insulting them.
We might have become friends under different circumstances.
“I just need somewhere quieter.”
She nods toward the window.
A basketball strikes the pavement outside.
Once.
Twice.
A whistle follows.
My shoulders tighten.
Piper notices.
“You really hate basketball.”
“It’s complicated.”
“That means yes.”
I press another strip of tape across the box.
My phone sits facedown on the desk.
Dad still hasn’t called.
Not since the night I told him I chose Stanford.
He stood in the kitchen holding the acceptance letter while I explained the financial aid, the scholarships, and the campus jobs I could apply for.
He heard none of it.
“What about the gym?” he asked.
Not Are you excited?
Not How did you manage this?
The gym.
His building. His program. His next collection of boys.
“You made that plan,” I told him. “I didn’t.”