In My Dreams I Hold a Knife(24)

“It’s a precelebration for Heather’s twenty-first birthday,” Dr. Shelby said fondly. Heather’s mother was a carbon copy of her, down to the too-big forehead. She was dressed in loose, roomy clothes and heavy jewelry, like the proprietor of a spa in Sedona. It was a style I’d grown familiar with at Duquette and taken to calling Rich Woman Over Fifty.

“They got me a new car!” Heather tossed me a set of keys. “No more old Audi. I’m taking Jack and his parents for a ride later if you want to come.”

I caught the keys with the hand holding the red envelope, then jerked away quickly, lest they see it. The keys were large and heavy, inset with the blue-and-white BMW logo, that potent talisman of value. I swallowed and set them down. “Ah, regular old keys.” I smiled to show I was joking. “Thought they’d be gold-plated or something.”

I wondered what they’d do with Heather’s Audi, all of five years old.

“Let’s pour you a glass,” Mr. Shelby said. He was short, balding, and never without a smile. “It’s French. The real stuff.”

“Actually,” I said, clutching the bill, “I forgot I have an art lab.”

“Art lab?” Caro’s mom looked puzzled. “I thought you were an econ major.”

“She is,” Heather said, waving a hand. “Jess is a total brain. But she doesn’t actually like econ. She loves painting.”

“Econ is a much more practical choice.” Caro’s dad shot her a warning look, as if he was worried my impracticality was contagious. “Especially in the middle of a recession. Did you hear they’re saying the housing market—”

“I like having an artist friend, personally,” Heather interrupted. “Not everything in the world has to be about money.” She winked at me, raising her champagne glass. “To Jess, our very own Renoir.”

“Don’t worry,” I said to Caro’s dad, ignoring Heather’s theatrics. “It’s just a hobby.” I backed away to the door, catching a flash of Caro’s confused face as I waved over my shoulder. She memorized my schedule every semester, so she knew I was lying about the art lab. But I had to get out.

I raced through campus, not sure where I was going until I stood in front of Blackwell Tower. I slipped inside and climbed the stairs, tears coming as I moved, circle after winding circle, higher and higher.

Of course I wasn’t an art major. I needed a serious degree, one that could lift you up in the world, open doors. At Duquette it was easy to see what power looked like: students with internships at their fathers’ hedge funds that seamlessly transfigured into jobs; deans who came to academia from private equity firms after donating huge chunks of money; endowed professors who took a break from teaching to advise the president on trade deals. Power looked like Maseratis parked in the season-ticket-holder spots at football games and familiar names on the baseball stadium. It looked like Dr. John Garvey, celebrity economist.

I’d finally gotten into one of Dr. Garvey’s classes this semester, and it was hard not to be mesmerized by his lectures. He had a dry, cutting voice, wore three-piece suits, and name-checked Defense secretaries. He berated any student who dared walk in late, expected us to have read all his books on economic theory.

He’d reminded me of somebody I couldn’t quite put my finger on, someone familiar, and it wasn’t until last week’s class that I’d finally realized, with a kick of shame, who it was. Dr. Garvey reminded me of the man I imagined my father was before he’d become my father—a Harvard econ major with dreams of working in DC, dreams of changing the world. The should-have-been, would-have-been dad.

It was strangely fitting, then, that Dr. Garvey was my best shot at realizing my father’s ambitions. If I played my cards right in his class, worked above and beyond to secure his powerful endorsement, I’d have a strong chance of winning the Duquette Post-Graduate Fellowship next year. The fellowship would open doors to Harvard grad school and give me the money to make it a reality.

Not everything in this world has to be about money, Heather had said.

Heather: my staunchest defender, ever since the day she’d stood up for me to Courtney. But Heather was also the girl who got a BMW just for being born—not for getting high grades, or winning any award, or doing anything remotely special. Heather didn’t need to worry about practical majors. She got everything she wanted, got to fit in effortlessly with the Chi Os and the Phi Delts, all the rich kids who mattered.

Meanwhile, I had to hide where I came from, my family’s lack of money, my father’s…situation. I had to dig myself into a debt-ridden grave just to have one inch of what Heather had, or Courtney, or so many other kids on campus.

Especially Mint. Like Heather, my boyfriend got everything he wanted at the drop of a hat. As much as I loved him, our lives were as different as night and day.

I finally reached the top of Blackwell Tower and burst into the hidden storage room, a secret space known only to upperclassmen. I didn’t bother stifling my sobs.

“Jess? What are you doing here?”

Shit. I whirled, frantically wiping my eyes. Save for the stacks of old furniture and cardboard boxes, the room had looked empty through my tears. But there he was, leaning against the wall in the corner, one hand in his pocket.

“Coop.” I tried to make my voice light. “Figures. Why do you always seem to find me at my lowest?”