The Goal (Off-Campus #4)(22)

“Kale mistook a student visiting Prof Fromm for a homeless person.”

With burning cheeks, I meet the eyes of the receptionist. “You gotta do something about those acoustics.”

She shrugs. “If you think that’s the worst thing I hear every day, you’re in for a sore surprise.”

What a cheerful thought. The idea of lingering here isn’t so appealing anymore, so I take the steps two at a time. Professor Fromm’s door is at the top of the stairs. She’s talking on the phone but notices me right away.

“Sabrina, come in.” Placing a hand over the receiver, she gestures for me to enter. “I’ll just be a minute.” To the person on the phone she says, “I have to go. A student walked in. Don’t forget to pick up the dry cleaning.”

The office is lined with books, most of them legal publications marked by the olive hardcovers with the North Eastern Reporter words in gold lettering on the spine.

I take a seat in the black leather chair in front of the desk and wonder what it’d be like to sit on the other side. It would mean I’d arrived, and no one would mistake me for a legal aid recipient ever again.

“So… Congratulations!” She beams at me. “I wanted to tell you the other night, but I didn’t want to ruin the surprise.”

“Thank you. I can’t tell you how thrilled I am.”

“Your credentials are impeccable, but…” She pauses and my heart starts beating wildly.

She can’t take away my acceptance, can she? Once it’s mine, it can’t be revoked, right?

“Kelly mentioned that you work two jobs?” she finishes.

“Yes, I wait tables and sort mail.” Professor Gibson knows exactly where I wait tables, but she told me it wasn’t necessary for Harvard to know, so I keep that under wraps. “But I plan to quit both jobs before classes start this fall.”

This makes Fromm happy. “Good. I was hoping you’d say that. While the old Paper Chase saying that if you look to your left and right and one of you won’t be here next year is no longer the case, we do have a few students that drop out after the first year. I don’t want you to be one of them. Your focus this coming fall needs to be on your studies. You’ll be expected to absorb more information in one night than most undergrads do in a semester.”

She plucks two books off a stack on the floor and pushes them across the desk. According to the titles, one is on administrative law and the other is on the art of writing.

“When you have time, and I suggest you make it, practice your writing. The pen is your strongest weapon here. If you can write well, you’ll go places. The other is on ad law. A lot of people get stumped on regulatory practice versus corporate and tort law. It’s good to be a step ahead.” She gives the books another nudge toward me.

“Thank you,” I say gratefully, gathering the books and placing them in my lap.

“You’re welcome. Tell Kelly I said hello when you get back to Briar.”

Okay then. I’m clearly dismissed.

“Thank you,” I repeat awkwardly, and then I take the books and rise to my feet.

I skipped class, rode the subway, and endured a humiliating encounter with a jerk named Kale, and for what? A five-minute conversation and two book recommendations?

When I reach the door, Professor Fromm calls my name again. “And Sabrina, allow me to give you a tip. Spend a little of your loan money on a new wardrobe. It will help you feel at home here, and the playing field won’t seem so uneven. You dress for the job you want, not the one you have.”

I nod, hoping that my cheeks aren’t completely red. And here I thought the Humiliate Sabrina hour was over.

On the walk across the campus, everything looks a little duller. This time I notice that the large patches of lawn are really mostly brown and that the trees are naked without the leaves. The students have an unrelentingly sameness to them—rich and privileged.

When I get home, I toss the books on my dresser and lie down on the bed. There’s a corner near my window where the plaster is cracked and yellowing. Water has been seeping in for as long as I can remember, but after bringing it up to Nana once and getting a blank stare in return, I haven’t mentioned it again.

I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling. There are cracks in the plaster up there too, along with brownish stains that I’ve always wondered about. Maybe there’s a leak in the roof?

A rush of shame washes over me, but I’m not sure what I’m feeling ashamed about. My ugly, rundown home? My cheap clothes? Myself in general?

Pity yourself later. It’s time to pay the bills.

God. The last thing I want to do right now is leave one place of shame and go to another one, but I don’t have much of a choice. My shift at Boots & Chutes starts in an hour.

I force myself to my feet and grab the booty shorts and bra that serve as my uniform. I’m only going to have to do this for ten more months, I remind myself as I shimmy into my outfit and then apply my makeup. I slip on my six-inch platform stripper shoes, throw on my tattered wool coat and head for the strip club. Which, sadly, is the one place where I really do fit in.

I’m trashy. I live with trashy people. I belong in a trashy place.

The question is, will I ever be able to rub off the stench of my past to belong at Harvard? I thought I could.

But tonight, I honestly don’t know.