The annoyingly cheerful chime of my alarm wakes me up.
I reach out and hit the Snooze button, feeling like I fell asleep five minutes ago. That might be accurate, actually.
My eyes are dry and gritty as I blink up at the white plaster ceiling of my new bedroom. I only managed a few hours of sleep, up late tossing and turning, worried about what today will be like.
I sit up, untangling the sheets from around my legs before I slide out from under the warm comforter.
The sting of cold floorboards against my bare feet makes me wince as I rush over toward the dresser that contains all my neatly folded, clean clothes. Reminding me to thank my mom—again—for unpacking my entire wardrobe.
First day at a new school.
The thought makes my skin prickle with panic.
I hate starting over. I attended elementary, middle, and high school in Somerville with the same set of people.
Fresh starts aren’t second nature to me. And I only know one other Holt student. A girl from my graduating class chose to attend Holt, but I haven’t reached out to her since I was accepted as a transfer.
I was adamant—excited—about leaving Washington for college, and my eighteen-year-old self made that obvious. Ending up back here feels like a failure, even though Holt is considered an excellent school and isn’t necessarily an academic downgrade.
I focus on even breathing—deep inhales and long exhales—as I walk into the hallway and head toward the bathroom.
Dakota’s bedroom door is still shut, so I don’t have to worry about waiting my turn. I run through my usual morning routine and then return to my room to get dressed.
I decide to wear a wool-blend miniskirt I bought in London and a cozy sweater. My shoulder-length, dark brown hair is a knotted tangle from my sleepless night. It takes me ten minutes to coax the strands into cooperating, then another twenty to apply a full face of makeup. More than I would normally bother with, but today it feels like armor. Like the more flawless my complexion appears, the more smoothly today will go. I pull on tights, boots, and a jacket, loop a scarf around my neck, and then grab my backpack.
Aside from the occasional creak that’s just a characteristic of old houses, there’s no sound as I walk toward the front door.
I’m not a morning person. I don’t understand why anyone would choose to get up when the other option is to stay under warm sheets. But I had last pick of classes because I was abroad last semester and got stuck with a nine a.m. lecture.
Despite my annoyance with the early hour, the walk isn’t terrible. There’s something peaceful about being outside with little commotion around you. Makes it easier to think and to relax. The sun is peeking out today, making the walk toward campus a little more enjoyable. The rhythmic thump of my backpack against my spine is almost relaxing, as steady as a heartbeat.
This neighborhood is mostly other Holt students, so there’s not much activity yet. No adults rushing to work or kids standing outside waiting for the school bus.
The tree branches overhead are all bare, but the grass is still more green than brown.
There haven’t been any snowfalls since I’ve been back in Washington, my only recent glimpse the drifts in Colorado over winter break. Snow in a major city wasn’t the same, more of an inconvenience that led to public transit running even less reliably than usual.
I’m hoping Somerville is due for a small blizzard soon. Nothing is more scenic than seeing the boughs of the pines scattered along the Sound’s shore weighted down with glinting white. I’ve always loved taking photos of snow.
My skin warms despite the slight breeze, thinking of my favorite photo I took in Colorado.
Five minutes later, I’m passing the main entrance of the university, marked with a giant stone sign that’s new since I last visited.
Holt’s campus is beautiful.
I’ve seen it before, obviously.
My dad has worked here for most of my life, and Somerville is not a huge town. Local swim lessons were held at the pool here, and I learned to skate on the same ice rink my dad coaches on. The middle school theater production I reluctantly took part in was held in the university’s auditorium.
But everything looks different now, passing buildings for the first time as a student. There’s a warmth in my chest, a comforting familiarity and an allegiance that never appeared anywhere else I’ve attended college.
Returning home to realize it has changed, and so have I, is not the terrible feeling I was expecting. And it feels a lot less disjointed than any of my other first days on a college campus.
I still have twenty-five minutes before my first class, so I head toward the coffee shop located next to the student center and bookstore first. Nerves have stolen most of my appetite, but I could really use some caffeine after my sleepless night.
Warm air hits me first when I walk inside the coffee shop, the smell of brewing coffee appearing a few seconds later.
There are a couple of girls chatting with the blonde managing the register, giving me time to scan the chalkboard menu. They’re all standard offerings, nothing all that exciting or original. We’re past pumpkin and peppermint season, I guess, and a long ways from summer.
I’m supposed to be focusing on positives today, so I take note of the banana nut muffin in the pastry case. My favorite flavor, and showing up to my first class with an empty stomach is probably a bad idea. Math classes are rarely that rambunctious, and I don’t want to be the new girl with the growling stomach audible over the professor’s lecture.
Once the girls in front of me finish up their conversation, I order a coffee and my muffin. The blonde working the register is cheerful and pleasant, which helps.
So far, everyone I’ve met at Holt has been incredibly nice. Chloe marked the locations of all my classes on a campus map for me last night. She’s by far the most outgoing of my new roommates, but Malia and Dakota are both sweet too.
I pay, take the bag with my muffin, and then head toward the end of the counter.
I’m standing and scrolling on my phone, waiting for my coffee to appear, when there’s a sudden burst of activity.
The entire coffee shop seems to perk up, especially the blonde at the register and the brunette working the espresso machine. The barista knocks over an entire stack of paper cups as the sound of loud male voices fills the smallish space.
I glance over at the group of new arrivals, then do a double take.
Not because they’re attractive guys—although they are—but because three of the four are wearing Holt Hockey jackets.
This is as strange for me as being on Holt’s campus as a student.
The last time I attended a Holt hockey game was back in middle school. I was eleven, maybe twelve at the time. After that, I was too preoccupied by my own interests to go to any games. It just became my dad’s job to me, something separate from my own life. My mom still goes occasionally, just to support him, but hockey has always been my dad’s thing. Neither my mom nor I are that invested in sports.
All I recall from that game years ago is it was long and boring. I didn’t pay attention to much, certainly not the college-aged guys on the ice who seemed awfully old at the time.
It’s bizarre, realizing these players aren’t just peers, they’re guys my dad spends a lot of time around.
In the past few years, they’ve seen him more often than I have.
I look down at my phone screen before any of them catch me staring in their direction. Let my hair fall forward to shield most of my face, like I have my last name stamped across my forehead and there’s some way they’ll be able to tell exactly who I am at first glance.
My drink arrives a few minutes later.
I thank the barista and head for the door, passing the group of hockey players. Most of them are busy relaying orders to the blonde, but one glances my way and grins. I smile back automatically but continue walking quickly, not wanting to engage in conversation.
Post-Walker, I’m focusing on myself, not guys. Not that I’m against having some fun, because I’m not, but the bar for that was recently set pretty high. My standards have been reset. And I want simple and uncomplicated. One of my dad’s players is not that.
I take my time walking across the path that cuts through the campus green, enjoying the sunshine warming my face as I alternate between sips of coffee and bites of muffin. By the time I reach the brick building that houses the mathematics department—and therefore most of my classes—the bag with my muffin is mostly crumbs and my cup is half-empty. I toss the bag in the trash and climb the steps toward the carved wooden door. Tug at the handle.
Nothing happens.
I tug again.
Nothing.
Check the time on my watch. It’s five to nine, and there were some eight-thirty classes on the schedule. None I had to take, thankfully, but there’s no reason this building should be locked.
“Try pushing.”
I startle at the sound of the unfamiliar voice behind me, glancing over one shoulder at the guy who’s appeared. His dark hair is cut short, and he’s wearing a pair of tortoiseshell glasses.
Unlike the hockey guys, who were all wearing sweats, he’s dressed in a pair of dark jeans and a green sweater over a button-down. More how I’m used to students looking from being abroad. I feel overdressed—all the other girls I’ve seen on campus so far have been wearing leggings.
I press the handle again, this time pushing instead of pulling. It opens easily, so I step inside, holding the door open for the guy behind me.
“Thanks,” I tell him.
“No problem. This is the oldest building on campus, and that door has some old-fashioned lock mechanism. You’re not the first person to have trouble with it. The architect who designed the campus was pissed because they changed the design of the other academic buildings so they didn’t have to deal with the door again.”
I stare at him, not sure what to say.
He grimaces. “Sorry. I work in the Admissions Office showing prospective students around. I know tons of useless facts about Holt’s campus.” He pauses, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Are you new?”
“Yeah. That obvious I just transferred here, huh?”
He smiles. “Aside from struggling with the door, no.”
His gaze dips down, checking me out. He’s cute and seems nice.
I shouldn’t stereotype, but I doubt he plays hockey—or is on any sports team. He reminds me a little of Walker, unfortunately, with the same slightly nerdy, put together demeanor. Earnest reliability I thought was a good idea. That seemed like a safe bet.
“You’re a math major?” he asks.
“How’d you know?”
“Because the only class meeting at nine is Abstract Algebra, and I’ve never met anyone taking it for fun.” He grins. “I’m Theo, by the way. 110 is at the end of the hall.”
I follow him.
“I’m Rylan,” I say, glancing at the posters on the walls as we pass them.
All senior thesis presentations, I’m assuming. Something I won’t have to worry about until the fall.
“That’s a cool name,” Theo says.
“Thanks.”
“So, where did you transfer from?” he asks.
“BU, technically. But I spent the fall abroad at Oxford, so this is my first semester on campus.”
Theo whistles. “Oxford. Fancy.”
He’s definitely getting the wrong impression about me.
Oxford was fancy. I’m not. I was there on a full scholarship that covered tuition and housing. What it didn’t cover was eating at the expensive restaurants and buying the designer clothes most of the other girls had the resources for. I found amazing bargains at thrift stores and begged off from most meals, saying I needed to study. Honestly, it was exhausting.
“Rainy,” I tell him. “Weather was worse than Somerville.”
Theo laughs. “Someone already broke it to you about the weather, huh?”
“A long time ago. I grew up here.”
He looks surprised. “Really?”
I nod. “Really. Where are you from?”
“Des Moines.” He pauses. “Iowa.”
I smile. “I know where Des Moines is.”
“You’re in the minority of people I’ve met, then.”
My grin grows. The more I talk to Theo, the less he reminds me of my ex.
Theo pauses outside of the door numbered 110, gesturing for me to walk in first. I thank him. A rare gentleman.
The lecture hall is smaller than I’m used to. Only three rows of stadium-style seating, ascending from low to high. There are no individual desks, just one long stretch of wood with chairs spaced every few feet.
A middle-aged man with graying hair is sorting through a large stack of papers. About ten students are already seated, several of them greeting Theo and smiling at me. I head toward an open section at the end of the middle row, dropping my backpack on the ground and then leaning down to pull out a notebook and pen.
I’m relieved when Theo takes a seat next to me. I’ll have someone to ask questions of if I need to.
A few more students hurry in right as the giant clock above the whiteboard hits nine exactly.
Like it’s a cue he was waiting for, the professor looks up, carries a stack of papers toward the front row, and drops them down in front of a girl with curly black hair. “Pass those around, please,” he says, before returning to the front of the room.
“Good morning, everyone. Welcome to Abstract Algebra. I’ve had most of you before. But for those who are new faces—”
I’m pretty sure he’s referring to mine, since everyone else seems to know each other.
“I am Professor Nelson. In addition to teaching several classes in the Mathematics department, I am also its chair. Should you have any questions about major requirements or senior theses, I am an excellent person to ask. I hope you all had wonderful winter breaks.” He pauses, meaningfully. “And I hope you’re all refreshed and ready to focus. The syllabus is going around. We’ll start by reviewing that, then reminders on set theory.”
I glance at Theo. He smiles.
And just like that, I’m a student at the school I once considered my last choice.
