I’m dragging by the time I arrive home from Briar.
I can’t decide what I hate more—the weekends, when I’m at the club until two or three in the morning and then have to sort mail and packages from four until eleven. Or the weekdays, when I either have classes in the morning and the post office afterward¸ or an ungodly early post office shift followed by classes. Today was the latter, so I’m dead-ass tired as I drop my backpack on the hall floor.
Even if I wanted to be with Tucker again (and most of my body parts are in favor of a reunion) I’m too exhausted to do anything but lie on my back.
Although…that wouldn’t be half bad, either. He could rub me down¸ fuck me slow, and I could just lie back and enjoy it.
I give myself a mental head slap. Tucker and his big wang is the last thing that should be on my mind.
In the kitchen, Nana is stirring a pot at the stove, dressed in tight jeans, a lycra top that’s losing its elasticity, and her ever-present fluffy pink slippers.
“That smells great,” I tell her.
The simmering red sauce is filling the kitchen with the most heavenly scent. My stomach gurgles and reminds me I haven’t had anything to eat since the bagel I grabbed for breakfast before work.
“Girl, you look like you’re about to fall over. Go and sit down. Dinner will be ready in a sec.”
I don’t need to be told twice, but when I see the empty table, I make a detour to grab plates and silverware. Through the doorway, I spot the top of Ray’s head as he stares at the television. He’s probably fondling himself. I shudder as I pull the plates out of the cabinet.
“You want milk or water?” I ask as I begin to set the table.
“Water, babe. I’m feeling bloated. Did you know that Anne Hathaway is lactose intolerant? She doesn’t eat any dairy. Maybe you should think about cutting dairy out of your diet.”
“Nana, that means no cheese or ice cream. Unless a doctor tells me that dairy is going to kill me, I’m all in on the cow.”
“All I’m saying is, dairy could be why you’re tired all the time.” She shakes her spoon at me.
“No, I’m pretty sure it’s because I’m working two jobs and taking a full course load,” I answer dryly.
“If she stops eating dairy, will she be less of a baby bitch?” Ray asks as he strolls into the kitchen. He’s wearing the same sweatpants that he always does. The fabric is so worn around his crotch, I swear I can see a faint hint of pink skin.
I nearly gag, turning away before he ruins my appetite.
“Ray, don’t you start,” Nana complains. “Babe, will you get the strainer for me?”
My stepfather nudges me as I walk by. “She’s talking to you.”
“No shit. Because she knows talking to you is like talking to her couch. She gets the same results.”
I set the glass of water next to Nana’s plate and then hurry over to the sink to get the strainer out. Nana dumps the sauce into a bowl while I take care of the noodles.
Ray, meanwhile, leans against the refrigerator like a lazy toad, watching us bustle around the kitchen.
I hate this man with all my heart. From the first moment my mom brought him home to meet me when I was eight, I knew he was trouble. I told Mom as much, but listening to her daughter was never something she was very good at. Neither is sticking around, apparently. Mom ran off with some other slimebag when I was sixteen, and we haven’t seen her since. She calls a few times a year to “check in,” but as far as I can tell, she has no plans to ever come back to Boston.
I don’t even know where she’s living these days. What I do know is that there’s no reason for Ray to be living here. He’s not my father—that title is reserved for the piece of shit who abandoned Mom after knocking her up—and he’s definitely not part of the family. I think the only reason Nana keeps him around is because his work comp checks pay a third of our rent. I assume she fucks him for about the same reason. Because he’s convenient.
But, God, he’s so worthless I think even worms would turn up their noses at him. If worms had noses, that is.
Only when the table is completely set and the steaming pasta is ready for serving does Ray take a seat.
“Where’s the bread?” he demands.
Nana flies up from her chair. “Oh damn. It’s in the oven.”
“I’ve got it,” I tell her. “You sit still.” As much as Nana’s offhand comments might hurt, the woman still raised me, clothed me, and fed me while Ray sat on his fat ass, smoked weed and masturbated to sporting events.
I cast a glare at his back and notice, for the first time, a white envelope stuck down his pants. It’s probably a bill. The last time he hid a bill from us (because he’d watched a dozen pay-per-view pornos) we had a three-month late fee to pay. Our budget works only if we don’t have unexpected surprises like that.
I grab the rolls from the oven, dump them into a basket and carry it over the table. As I bend over, I pluck the envelope out from the back of Ray’s sweatpants. “What’s this?” I demand, waving it in the air. “Some bill?”
“It’s not those dirty shows again, is it, Ray?” The sides of Nana’s thin lips pull down.
He flushes. “Course not. Told you I don’t watch that shit anymore.” He shifts in his chair to give me a smarmy smile. “It’s for you.” He snatches the envelope out of my grip and drags it under his nose. “Smells like uptight bitch to me.”
A flash of crimson at the edge makes my heart beat faster. I lunge toward the envelope, but Ray holds his arm out high and away from me, making me press against him. God, I hate him.
“Give her the letter,” Nana chastises. “The food is getting cold.”
“I was just funnin’,” he says, dropping the envelope by my plate.
My eyes lock on the crimson shield in the upper left corner.
“Open it,” Nana urges.
There’s a hint of eagerness in her tone. She may taunt me about my worthless education and ridiculous dreams, but I think that deep down she’s damn excited. At least she’ll have this to lord over the other ladies at the hair salon whose granddaughters are having babies instead of getting into Harvard.
Except…the envelope is wafer thin. All of my college acceptance letters were in giant envelopes stuffed full of pretty brochures and catalogs.
“She’s scared. She probably didn’t get in.” Ray’s words are both lined with disdain and ringing with glee.
I snatch the letter and rip it open with Ray’s knife. A single piece of paper falls out. It’s got several paragraphs, none of which I fully read as I scan for the important words.
Congratulations on your admission to Harvard Law School! I hope you will join us in Cambridge as part of the class of—
“Well?” Nana prompts.
The biggest smile known to mankind spreads across my face. My hunger, my exhaustion, my irritation with Ray, is all wiped away.
“I…got in.” The words come out on a squeak of breath. I repeat myself, and this time I’m screaming. “I got in! Oh my God! I got in!”
I wave the letter in the air as I dance wildly around the kitchen. I don’t usually allow myself to drop my guard in front of Ray, but the bastard doesn’t even exist to me right now. Excitement pulses in my blood, along with a sense of relief so weighty that I can’t stay upright for much longer. I fall on Nana’s shoulders and give her a huge hug.
“I suppose you’re going to be extra uppity now,” she gripes, and I don’t even care.
“Naah, this doesn’t make her special or anything,” Ray drawls. “She’s got two holes like any other bitch. Three if you count her mouth.”
I wait for Nana to defend me, but apparently jealousy is winning out over pride right now. She laughs at his disgusting comment, and just like that, I’m done celebrating with these people. I cannot wait to get out of this house.
Still, I refuse to let anything affect my happiness right now. I spin on my heel and waltz down the hallway to call my girls.
“What about dinner?” Nana yells after me.
I ignore her and keep walking. In my bedroom, I throw myself on the bed and text my friends.
I got in.
Hope beats Carin by a millisecond.
OMG! Congrats!!!!!!!!
Carin replies, PIC! PIC! PIC!
I snap a picture of the acceptance letter and send it off. While I’m waiting for their responses, I run down the hall, fill my plate with pasta, stuff a roll in my mouth, and run back to my bedroom. Nana and Ray say something, but none of it processes. Only sheer joy fills my ears.
There are a dozen responses when I get back.
Hope: <3
Carin: LOVE! LOVE! LOVE! UR so awesome!
Hope: I’m so proud of u. UR going to make the best lawyer EVER. Please say you’ll represent me if I get sued for malpractice.
Carin: THIS IS THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING!
Hope: When do we get to take u out? And no, never, not happening R unacceptable responses.
I chew on my roll as I text them back.
Me: A) U both get free legal services 4 life.
B) Let’s celebrate tomorrow. I promise to order enough to make your credit card weep.
Hope: Not possible! I’m making reservations for Santino’s.
Carin: That place needs reservations?!
Hope: I dunno! Figure of speech. But we could go to Malone’s again if u want celebratory sex.
Me: I still have the number from the guy from last Saturday. What about u? Your lady garden get a private tour last night?
The two of them had gone out without me to a party at Beau Maxwell’s house. I wonder if Tucker was there. And if so, I wonder who he took to his truck this time. The thought of him running his big, callused hands over some other girl’s breasts makes me grit my teeth in envy, but I don’t have the right to be jealous. I blocked his number, after all. I told him in no uncertain terms that I wasn’t interested in going out with him.
So why did you unblock him, hmmm?
The taunting voice in my head has me biting my lip. Fine, so I unblocked his number. But that wasn’t because I want to go out with him or anything. I just figured it might be handy to have in case of…an emergency.
God, I’m so pathetic.
My phone dings, pulling me out of my thoughts.
Carin: No. I was an angel.
Hope: Liar! OMG, what a liar. She came downstairs with sex hair bigger than Cher. Text her a picture of ur chest. Right now or I’ll do it.
Carin: Fine. I hate u.
Sometimes I do wish I lived with them. I gobble up more pasta as I wait for the picture from Carin. When the image comes through, I nearly choke on a noodle.
Me: Did u make out with teen wolf last night?
Carin: No. Brad Allen.
I search my memory banks and come up with a six-foot, four-inch guy with a round, sweet face.
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 español?” 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.”
We stare at each other for a moment as I wait for my words to register. I see the moment that they do, because the pale white guy grows even whiter. “You are? Christ, I thought…”
I know what he thought. He took one look at my frayed coat and pegged me as a poor person in need of free legal services. And the most humiliating part of this is that he isn’t wrong. If I needed a lawyer, I wouldn’t be able to pay for one.
“Is there a problem here?” a new voice interrupts. A giraffe of a woman appears behind Kale, her hands clasped behind her back.
“No, there’s no problem, Professor Stein.” Kale gives me a tight smile, but his eyes flash a warning, as if to say to not fuck this up for him.
The smile I give him in return is full of teeth. “Dale here thought I was a client, but I’m actually here to see Professor Fromm.”
The professor studies me, quickly assessing the situation. As she relieves me of the clipboard, she tilts her head toward the stairs. “Second floor, first door on the left.” She hands the clipboard back to the Kale.
“It’s Kale,” he hisses as he stiffly marches away.
The professor shakes her head. “New students,” she says in a flimsy apology before walking off in the opposite direction.
As Kale disappears down the hall, I hear a high-pitched voice greet him. “Oh my God, that was too funny. Did you actually mistake that girl for a Spanish-speaking immigrant?”
I should move on, but my feet are rooted to the spot. The receptionist gives me a pained look.
“Did you see what she was wearing?” Kale protests from the corridor. “Looked like a reject from the domestic violence clothing drive we have each year.”
A new voice chimes in. “What are you guys laughing about?”
“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.
