Me: Defensive lineman? He looks like a cherub!
Carin: Yup. Turns out he has a sucking fetish. Good thing it’s cold out because tank tops would be out of the question.
Me: Other than him trying to actually suck the blood through ur chesticles, did u enjoy him?
Carin: It wasn’t bad. He knew how to use his equipment.
Me: Ha! My athlete theory is holding strong!
Hope: Between Tucker and Brad Allen, it appears B’s hypothesis is accurate.
Carin: U both know that’s not how the scientific method works, right?
Me: Yup, but we don’t care.
Hope: Does that mean Tucker is getting a repeat?
Me: Doubtful. He’s good, but when do I have the time?
We text for a few more minutes, but my spike of adrenaline is wearing off. I set my partially finished plate on my nightstand and hug the Harvard letter to my chest. It’s all happening. All the good things I’ve worked so hard for are coming to fruition. Nothing can stop me now.
I fall asleep with a big, happy smile on my face.
*
Raincheck, chickadees, I text my girls the following day, after Hope messages to ask if I want to have lunch with them.
Hope: Aw, why??
Me: Professor Fromm invited me for a campus visit. I’m back in Boston, skipping out on my last class. FYI, I’m officially 2 good for u.
Hope: Kisses! Text back on how it goes. Can’t wait until next year and we’re all in Boston as grad students!!!
Carin’s in class, but I know I’ll get a text from her as soon as she’s out.
I take the Red Line to Harvard Square. I swear the subway station even smells good here, unlike any other stop on the line, which reeks of garbage, stale urine, and bad BO. And the campus is gorgeous. I want to swing my arms out wide and spin in a ridiculously happy circle.
According to my map, the eighteen or so buildings that make up the law school are on the other side of campus. There’s no hurry, though, so I take the time to walk through slowly, admiring all the massive brick buildings, the dozens and dozens of trees that are still holding on to the very last of their leaves, and the acres of grass—some of which is still green in places. It’s Briar on steroids. Even the students look smarter, richer, more important.
Most of them are wearing what I like to call the rich girl uniform: Sperry topsiders, Rag & Bone jeans, and a Joie sweatshirt—the kind that looks like it came from the bottom of a trash can but actually costs a couple hundred bucks. I know this only because of Hope’s closet.
But just because my black skirt and white top came from a discount store doesn’t mean I don’t belong. I might not have as much money as anyone here, but I’d stack my brain up against any of these students.
I pull open the doors to Everett, the building where Professor Fromm’s office is. At the receptionist’s desk, I introduce myself. She has me write my name in an entry book and then gestures for me to take a seat.
I’m not there for more than a minute when a young man wearing a blue-and-white checked shirt and a dark blue tie strolls out from a side hall that I didn’t notice when I first arrived.
“Hello. I’m Kale Delacroix.” He offers his hand.
I shake it automatically, unsure of why he’s here while at the same time wondering why anyone would ever name their kid Kale. “I’m Sabrina James.”
“Great. Welcome to Harvard Legal Aid. Here’s our intake form. If you need any help, give me a holler.”
He shoves a clipboard toward me. I scan the document, not quite understanding why I need to fill out a form to see Professor Fromm. I tug the pen out from under the clip and start to print my name. Then I stop. While I’m not a fan of looking stupid, I figure it’s better to ask what the hell is going on. “Is this Legal Aid? Because I’m not—”
He cuts me off. “Don’t worry about it. That’s what legal aid is for. For the indigent.” The last word drips with condescension.
My neck hairs bristle. “I know what—”
“Do you not read English? Hablo espa?ol?” He jerks the clipboard out of my hands, flips the paper over, and then shoves it back toward me. The form is now in Spanish.
“I speak English,” I growl between clenched teeth.
“Oh, okay. I can fill out your form if you can’t read or write. There are many people with your kind of problem here. Is it a domestic issue? Landlord/tenant? We don’t handle torts here.” Again, he gives me a patronizing smile.
“I’m a student,” I tell him. “I mean, I will be a student.”