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She shakes her head. “It’s not that.” She glances from me to the pancakes, and lets go of my hand quickly to flip them, before she meets my eyes again. “Honey, Tanglewood is…” She purses her lips, as if searching for the right words. “It won’t be like Noland.”
Noland, my local public high school. Noland, which isn’t great, but isn’t terrible either. A middle of the road school, one that Mom carefully scoped out. She made sure to save up enough to move us into a suburb in the right school district, where she could scrape together enough for the property taxes and we’d have what she called a fighting chance. Some of my friends at Noland came from middle class families, and others were like our family. Blue-collar workers who just managed to squeak by. There were one or two kids from wealthy families, but they transferred out of public school by sophomore year, sent away to boarding schools or transferred to the wealthy private school nearby.
“It’s a private college, and an exclusive one at that,” Mom is saying. “It’s a lot more….” She pauses, searching for the right word.
“You mean everyone will be rich,” I reply.
“You haven’t been around people like that much.” Mom glances at me. Away again. Like she’s nervous to hold my gaze. “I want you to be careful.”
I laugh a little, not quite sure if she’s serious. “You mean you don’t want me to fall for some wealthy playboy?” I roll my eyes. “No worries there, Mom. You know I’m serious about school. I want my degree, nothing else.”
But she’s already shaking her head again. “It’s not that, Missy.” She sets down her spatula and rounds the counter to take my arm. I can smell the pancake starting to overheat, burn around the edges. But she ignores it and squeezes my wrist. “Be careful. People like that… they don’t take kindly to outsiders. I’m not sure it would be wise to trust the people there with details of your life, honey.”
I blink, taken aback. “But…” My mother has always coached me not to listen to peer pressure or give into the crowd. This seems like the opposite advice.
“I’m not saying lie.” She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just, omit things.” She releases my wrist and pats it once more for good measure. “Pretend you’re one of them, Missy. Before you know it, it’ll be the truth.” Then she rounds the counter again to flip the burning pancake, and I forget all about her warning.
For now, anyway.
2
“Can I take your bag?”
This dorm has an honest to God bellman. I stare at him for a minute, still in a state of dumb shock. The past couple weeks have been a whirlwind. Ever since my scholarship offer letter, I’ve been frantically packing and preparing for this moment, my arrival on Tanglewood’s campus. That and working every spare shift I could possibly pick up at the bar. It’s not nearly enough to last me the whole semester, but I manage to set aside enough to buy a half-decent wardrobe, and all the textbooks I require for my first semester of classes.
I’ll have to figure out something else now that I’m on campus. But my manager, despite being furious at me for quitting just as the fall rush of students into Boston began, understood my dilemma. He’ll give me a great recommendation letter. Which means I should be able to find a new bar gig somewhere near campus once I’m settled in.
All of these thoughts and preoccupations race through my mind while the boy in the Tanglewood University uniform stares at me, confused.
“Oh, sorry.” I glance from him to my luggage and back. I only packed one suitcase and a shoulder bag. It doesn’t seem like much for a whole semester—especially compared to the other kids I’ve passed on campus that are rolling up with moving trucks full of stuff—but it’s not like I could afford to really splurge on fancy dorm room stuff anyway. “Um, sure. Thank you,” I say as he picks up my big suitcase.
I lug the smaller one after him, taking the steps up to my third floor dorm room two at a time.
Tanglewood’s campus looks like something out of a Hollywood set. The picture-perfect college campus: gray stone buildings with dramatic archways everywhere you look, big square courtyards with sparkling fountains in the center, and oak trees all over campus, their leaves just beginning the shift to their fall colors. Bright yellows and oranges catch my eye from the windows I pass, all of which look like they’d belong in a medieval church rather than a freshman year dorm.
My room is equally jaw dropping. I have a whole single to myself, complete with a cute little arched alcove for my desk, and a walk-in closet for my—I am now realizing—embarrassingly small amount of clothes.
