Chapter 8
I was the youngest and shortest of my siblings. My toes were used to repetitive strain whenever I tried to make myself big enough to be seen in a crowd that was my sisters and a brother. Being surrounded by excellence was a privilege. Drowning in it was a byproduct.
As kids, we weren’t ever expected or encouraged to compete.
Our parents were self-aware enough to refuse to compare.
And yet, the side-by-side notes snuck into our lives anyway from outside sources.
Impressing viewers through glass panes became a sport for me.
Getting pats on the back from my older siblings was my equivalent of the Olympics.
I would pole vault, high dive, and butterfly my way to victory.
It didn’t matter if I didn’t care for sports; it mattered that I fit in my family’s perfect puzzle.
It mattered that I wasn’t the one who dropped a stitch in an otherwise perfect silky sweater.
I pushed through the pain of exhaustion to keep up. And I’d been doing so well up until senior year of high school because that was when shards of metal tore through bone.
My past mistake was a patchwork quilt, draped over my shoulders every time I slowed down for even a second, so I had no choice but to keep moving.
Maybe I could keep myself busy enough to forget my wrongdoing, or push myself hard enough to earn forgiveness.
I allowed myself four hours of sleep before waking up to prepare for a student org meeting that could undo some of those patches.
Maybe it could lighten some of the weight.
During a long day of classes, I slipped in and out of restrooms to stuff paper towels under my armpits.
My breathing was shallow when I left the stall for the last time.
Tonight, I was meeting with the president of the Black Student Union, the president of Women in Business, and the president of Minorities in STEM.
It’d taken some hardcore convincing to get them all in one place at the same time.
The window was small: thirty minutes. But I was determined to make this work.
I needed to get them to work with me, and possibly convince them to pull a little more weight than I initially let on.
You can do this. I repeated the mantra to my reflection in the mirror.
The plum purple on my lips had disappeared from all my coffee guzzling.
I swiped on my lip gloss for a quick touch-up.
My hair was still in decent shape, pulled into a high ponytail.
The blush on my skin had long faded, leaving my brown skin looking a little lifeless.
I searched through my purse, hoping to find something to liven up my complexion, but the only makeup I had besides my lipstick was mascara.
It’s going to be fine. You look as put-together as anyone could be this late.
The words didn’t provide much comfort as I exited the bathroom and moved down the hall. I tried to find shelter in them anyway because it was better than weathering the storm unarmed.
Turquoise carpeted floors and endless hallways filled the student center.
The building had six floors, and the middle three housed meeting rooms. And tonight, every one of those rooms was fully booked.
Westbrooke ranked among the highest for on-campus activities nationwide.
Since I couldn’t secure a booking in time, I’d asked the other to meet me at one of the tables in the hall.
I thought I’d calmed myself enough to come face-to-face with them, but as soon as I turned the corner and saw all three of them already at the table, my stomach dropped. I ducked behind the wall, pressing my back against the cold plaster as I tried to steady my breathing.
What’s wrong with you?
My chest had never been this heavy when talking to people. Talking was the place I thrived, where I could run circles around the best.
I let my hand find its way to my kitchen and gave myself permission to pick at the hair there for a couple of breaths.
My phone buzzed in my bag, interrupting the unfolding panic attack.
I pulled it out and saw David’s name flash on the screen.
My sigh of relief left me conflicted. A David-shaped distraction was exactly what I needed.
Seeing his name reminded me that there were more people on campus than the three I wanted to impress.
But who was I becoming to find comfort in his interruption?
David
I have my dare. Where are you?
I snorted and typed,
‘Student Center.’ But I have a meeting, so I can’t talk to you right now.
David
After. What floor are you on?
Do NOT come find me. Wait on the first floor. I’ll come to you.
When he didn’t reply, I figured he’d listen to my command for once. But in case he didn’t internalize the order, I sent a follow-up text that said,
I mean it. I’ll find you in 30 mins.
Though I regrettably appreciated the digital distraction, I didn’t need David here in flesh and blood. I didn’t want him to see me like this. I didn’t want anyone I knew to see me. I was a half-blob of a human right now, melting with every minute that passed.
With a last roll of my shoulders, I pushed off the wall and started toward the table.
The president of Women in Business, Hana Yosef, was the only one who looked up from her laptop when I came into sight. She offered me a smile that made her already warm exterior inviting. The muted blue hijab she wore highlighted the smoky gray shade of her eyes.
“Yara, hi,” Hana greeted as she removed her bag from the only other chair that wasn’t occupied. “So great to meet you in person. It’s nice to finally put a face to the email.”
My other two guests (jurors?) looked up. Anthony Follow, the president of BSU, raised a brow at me. He had starter locs with red tips and wore black-framed glasses that slid down his nose when he took a not-so-subtle glance at his watch.
Like me, he was a stickler for time. We’d collaborated on a couple of projects in the past, and every time I worked with him, I experienced what it was like to be the slacker in the group project.
The guy could write a ten-page paper in a night while also getting a run in, cooking a healthy dinner, and organizing a successful panel.
I’d witnessed it all first-hand and reconsidered all my hopes and dreams.
“This should take just thirty minutes, correct?” he asked, voice coated in a kind of heavy exhaustion I’m sure all of us could relate to, even though this semester was just getting started.
“Correct. I’ll have you guys out of here in no time.” I attempted a smile, but the corners of my lips fought me every second of it. Thankfully, I sounded steadier than my balance felt. I quickly sat down and pulled out my tablet.
Olivia Johnson fanned herself with a brochure for the new grocery store opening up on campus. Her brown skin had a flawless complexion that celebrities often claimed to achieve naturally. Her ponytail, made with honey-dyed curls, easily fit under a worn baseball cap.
During our first year at Westbrooke, Olivia was Haven and I’s third roommate.
We’d set out to revive BWD together. But once she met some girls from her STEM courses, she converted.
We were friendly whenever we ran into each other, but never ‘stay up late gossiping, do you want to make a late-night run for ice cream’ close.
“I read your write-up.” Olivia’s dark eyes never left mine. Her tone was a flat, low-effort noise. Post-freshman year, with rose-colored glasses removed, it was nearly impossible to elicit any kind of feeling from Olivia other than moderate intrigue.
For the past couple of semesters, I’ve reached out to her for event collaboration.
She’d passed every single time with a simple: not interested.
When she agreed to this meeting, I couldn’t believe it.
And honestly, I’d accidentally asked because her email remained on my mailing list of student orgs I thought would give us the time of day.
A part of me figured maybe she humored me because this was our final year as Presidents. And perhaps some part of her felt guilty for ditching our goals and essentially our friendship… but from the slight frown of her round lips, I’d say guilt was the farthest thing from her mind.
“What did you think?” My stomach twisted to prepare for the incoming rejection. I remembered enough about Olivia to understand that once she touched the top of her tongue against her upper lip before speaking, whatever response she was going to give wouldn’t be constructive.
She leaned back in her chair, glancing at the ceiling for a second. “It’s a lot of work.”
“Most of which, Yara says she has covered,” Anthony countered. He rested his hand underneath his chin, gaze on Olivia. “Seems simple enough on our end.”
He sounded like he was on my side, but the way he brushed his pinky across his bottom lip revealed Olivia could persuade him to think differently if she moved the correct chess piece.
“I agree with Ant.” Hana shrugged. “We post a few things on our socials. Sell a few tickets at our meetings. Attend a handful of fundraisers. Sounds easy to me.”
“But the money from the tickets we sell goes right into the BWD’s account, right?” Olivia looked at me for clarity.
I swallowed. My throat felt like the abrasive side of a sponge.
When I reached for my water bottle, it was empty.
I felt silly holding the empty bottle, but I was too nervous to set it back down.
“We will keep the income, yes. Most of which will go towards the event cost and an elementary after-school program charity. This isn’t a cash grab—”
“So, sounds like we’re basically your street team,” Olivia mused as she closed her planner. She’d been using one of the same styles since freshman year. It was red and glittery, with stickers of ‘90s cartoons.
Hana frowned at her comment. “And what’s wrong with that?”