Chapter 72
My legs shook as I walked up the stairs.
I felt like I needed to pee even though I knew I didn’t.
No one was singing outside anymore, at least that I heard.
The night had a mushy shape to it. My second of euphoria had been snatched away, traded out for an ugly exhaustion.
In the grand hall, the lights were off save for a row of sconces giving off hazy yellow tones.
I felt the wear of the night behind my eyes.
Everyone, except for those on watch, was asleep, though the sleep was restless: Glancing around, I saw people flopping on their backs, breathing out sighs of frustration.
Milan hadn’t answered my text. Maybe she already knew Ryen was a monster. Or maybe he was just one to me.
I spotted Nia inside a sleeping bag on the stage.
Hauling myself up, I sat on the edge and looked at the ceiling, its stunning moldings.
So much beauty that meant nothing. Students long after me would look at this same ceiling and wouldn’t even know about tonight.
A cry curdled in the back of my throat. I closed my eyes and bit down my nails, not caring about the dirt beneath them.
It was as close to comfort as I was going to get, and I claimed it.
“What’re you doing?” Nia’s words came out jumbled with sleep. I looked down to find her squinting up at me.
“I didn’t bring a sleeping bag.”
She laughed. It was rough-sounding, not her usual glittery tinkle. She made herself small so I could squeeze beside her, stretching the waterproof fabric to make an opening for me.
“That won’t be weird?”
“I mean, not weirder than you trying to kiss me the other day.”
A real laugh left me. It was a relief, to just say what had happened between us. I stuffed myself into the bag. “It’s like we’re inside a womb.”
“Like sisters,” she said, yawning.
“Like twins.” I was choked up all of a sudden. “I’m sorry.”
“What do you have to be sorry about?”
I paused. “For kissing you.”
She snorted. “We’re friends. Who cares.” Then she turned away and fell asleep.
When I woke up, she was gone, off to her meeting with the school president.
There was more buzz in the hall that day.
Someone had opened a giant tub of homemade hummus that a group of people had congregated around, scooping with pita.
Despite myself, I searched for Tristan, though he wasn’t there.
The atmosphere was upbeat but brittle, like the high spirits could snap at any second.
The Post had run a story on us early that morning.
Someone was reading it aloud. It didn’t contain the grandiosity I felt; we were just a bunch of rowdy students, Vietnam War hippie wannabes.
A junior who was part of the lock-in had posted a TikTok of herself breaking into the vice provost’s office, a kind of “day in the life” of a political activist. It was gaining steam for being stupidly incriminating but also inarguably cool.
The world knew about us now. We’d reached one of our goals. We were also fully vulnerable.
Looking at my phone, I saw my interview was in five minutes.
I hurried out of the hall in search of a quiet room.
The office of the dean of undergraduate studies was unlocked, so I ducked in there: dark mahogany desk, mint-green walls, a glass armoire with books on display.
I dropped into the rolling desk chair, eyes like paperweights in their sockets, and opened Zoom on my phone.
I was about to give the worst interview in history.
The interviewer asked about my retail experience, to tell her about myself.
The human ability to compartmentalize was truly astounding: It was like I wasn’t there to defend democracy, hadn’t just been assaulted, wasn’t mourning one of the most meaningful romantic relationships of my life.
Every now and then, my eyes found the grandfather clock in the corner.
It felt like I’d been in that office for a century, but only fifteen minutes had passed.
When I was explaining how I’d assist customers in finding the right products for their skin goals, a notification dropped from the top of the screen, covering the interviewer’s forehead. It was from a number I didn’t recognize.
(202) 555-4005: Negotiations unsuccessful. Police were called. Brace for arrests NOW.
As if by dark magic, I looked out the window and saw a troupe of police storming the building, at least a hundred of them.
Someone spoke into a bullhorn: something, vacate the premises, something, suspension, something, illegally.
But also: Students, faculty, community members had made a chain around the building.
There were twice as many people as there were last night, chanting, singing.
A few people were dancing. Hope and fear wound into a knot inside me.
The interviewer blinked on a delay. “Are you there?”
I said, “Yes, thankyousomuch, hopetohearfromyousoonbyeeee.”
Ending the call, I rushed into the hallway to see if the police had entered yet.
The energy had tilted entirely into tension.
People in black shirts were directing the masses, explaining that the police were outside.
The sound of fists banging on the door echoed through the hallway.
Heads turned, whipping around to reveal young, worried faces.
Everyone was so young. It was as though fear highlighted the look of inexperience.
I pulled out my phone and texted Jay that I loved him.
Edgar was on the big stairs, a sign limp in his hand. I went to join him. “What do you think’s going to happen?” I asked.
He said, “I think we’re gonna win.”
Uniformed arms reached through the broken windows, a loud and agonized cracking sound wailed through the hallway, and then, as if I were watching a tape being fast-forwarded, the doors fell down and at least a hundred officers swarmed inside, faces covered by plastic shields like a Zombie apocalypse movie.
They marched down the halls, yelling and grabbing people.
Despite our instructions not to resist, people resisted and got Tasered.
First you heard that awful electric buzz, crackling like artificial lightning, then you’d see someone flipping around on the floor in handcuffs, vacant-eyed.
It was like the apex of power, making a person convulse against their will with the press of a button.
Edgar and I exchanged alarmed glances but didn’t move.
I thought maybe if we stood still enough, they wouldn’t see us.
Sounds bled together: shouting officers, protestors chanting outside, people jostling in the crowd.
A protestor above us threw a chair over the railing, aiming at a cop, but it hit another protestor.
A few feet away, an officer slammed a female professor to the ground, and I screamed before I even understood it, how easily she folded to the floor.
The expansive feeling I’d had breaking the windows last night atrophied into a small animal fear.
Everything had felt inextricably bound to the future then, but this moment held only the blunt question of survival.
A guy a few steps down from us had been elbowed in the nose and was bleeding all over the floor.
Edgar said, “We should help him,” but suddenly there was no helping.
My arms were pulled behind my back until my shoulders popped.
I lost my balance. It took a second for me to understand I was being dragged.
My heart thundered so hard the blood pumping in my ear drowned out all sound until it was white noise.
My hair had come loose from its ponytail and was spilling behind me like a curtain getting trampled.
The officer holding my wrists tightened plastic zip ties around them and yanked me up.
My feet stumbled over each other as we were led to a police van.
On the way out, a girl I’d seen around campus many times but whose name I didn’t know was out cold on the floor as several officers stepped over her until two came to carry her away. I peed in my shorts and felt like a dog.
The sunlight was blinding. It felt like emerging from a bunker.
Protestors cheered for us outside, but the sound reached me muffled.
I struggled to put my arms around the situation; my brain was too busy sorting through senses.
Even as we were being pushed into a police van, I failed to register that we were being arrested.
There were eight seats in total, four already filled.
When I looked over at Edgar, he was clearly trying to manage his excitement.
“At least we got to stay together,” he said.
I realized he was one of those white guys who jumped out of airplanes, and all this was just a different version of that.
I thought my life was over, and I had nothing to show for it.
The top of Nia’s head appeared in the van door, and a flash of joy broke through my otherwise confused senses. I went cold when Ryen entered behind her.
Nia was cussing at an officer, kicking her booted feet in his face.
I was scared he was going to Taser her, but he just pushed her in and slammed the door.
It was quiet save for the low hum outside.
Strangely, I felt better knowing where we were going, what was happening.
Back at Heathrow, when the cops busted down the doors, anything was possible, but now the only possibility was jail.
As the van rolled forward, Ryen’s eyes landed on me like a grenade.
He leaned over to say something in Nia’s ear.
She laughed uncomfortably, the way women laugh when men approach them in public.
But he gave her a serious look. Slowly, she turned around to study me.
The space between her eyebrows collapsed like she was tinkering out an important problem, one whose answer would upend everything.
But then, calmly, she turned around, staring out the window with a tight mouth.
As campus shrunk from view and we curved around the congested roundabout, I tried to get her attention. She ignored me.
There was only one thing he could’ve told her.