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Worst of all: there is no denying that she’s me.
7
SARAH
I’ve never missed a day of school in my life, even with a bad cold, or cramps that made me want to do nothing but curl up and cry. That said, I consider skipping on Monday.
I linger in my comfortable bed, staring at the ceiling for several minutes, asking myself whether getting up is worth it.
It doesn’t hurt that the room is larger, more luxurious, and cozier than anywhere I’ve ever lived. It’s nice and quiet. No one ever bothers me here in my little world.
This dorm feels more like home than anywhere I’ve ever stayed. When I think of what will come after college, dread coils in my belly because I don’t really want to leave this place. Not when the real world has been so harsh, and awful, and cold, and terrifying for so long.
I’ve worked as hard as I could for years to materialize a world where I’m safe, no longer at the mercy of others and comfortable. Mere months ago, I believed that future was distant—a fantasy more than a reality I could actually achieve. But Rothfords already gave me a taste of that. I’m a charity case here, so I wouldn’t call myself independent, but I have the rest. Safety. Comfort.
At least, I did until the previous day.
Hiding in bed isn’t me. I much prefer to hide at the back of a classroom. So I make myself get up, shower quickly to make up for the time I wasted, dressed, and drag my feet all the way to the Silver Hall for math.
The familiarity of the bustling corridors should be soothing—I’ve always felt at ease at school. Today, it isn’t. In the sea of strangers who never bother to glance at me twice, I see them. Those people from the woods. Yesterday, they were sucking, licking, spanking, fucking each other unabashedly. Today, they look like any other sparkly, wealthy students in this private university.
I keep my eyes down as much as possible. Somehow, my pulse beats too fast, like I’m the prey hiding from a monster. Everything’s too loud, the sound of footsteps, laughter, hands clapping.
“Yo, Sora!”
My heart leaps, my head snapping to my left.
A tall black guy lifts his hand to get a high five from a short Japanese girl who’s in my music class—Sora Jones.
Sora, not Sarah.
Shit, I’m a mess.
I rush to math.
The campus isn’t hard to navigate, though it’s certainly vast enough for anyone to get lost a time or two.
First, there’s Rose Hall, which serves as a faculty admin building on the ground floor, and still houses some classes upstairs—mainly literature, history, philosophy, econ; the type of things that don’t truly need equipment.
Back in the day, it was mostly home to a bunch of second and third sons, born too late to be of use, but too rich to actually want to get their hands dirty. So they sat in elegant rooms on plush sofas, reading and discussing the fate of the universe.
The building was burned down by some Thorn Falls locals unsatisfied with the scraps the well-to-do left them with, and it was rebuilt thirty years ago.
Whoever was in charge must have needed a tax break, because instead of just rebuilding the original, they added an imposing, enormous edifice they called Silver Hall. Clearly made to resemble Oxford, it’s gorgeous and outfitted with every modern amenity, its research department rivaling MIT’s.
Rothford then opened its doors—only to the crème de la crème, mind—rather than solely accepting legacy members.
The old church built in the courtyard between both buildings serves as a library, with a cafeteria on the ground level.
Behind, there’s the latest addition, the Dome. For years, Rothford prioritized academia over brawn, or even the arts, but they now have state-of-the-art facilities for almost all disciplines.
There are only fifteen hundred lucky students here every year; thirteen hundred undergrad, two hundred postgrads. The acceptance rate is disgraceful.Even though I’m a nerd of the first degree without much of a life outside of studying, my transcript would never have allowed me through these gilded gates if my application hadn’t been spearheaded and submitted by someone whose previous married name wasRothford.
It’s still wild to me that I get to study here. I have the grades, but I don’t have the right name or bank balance. I know Melissa Rothford-Cornwell—and by extension, her daughter, as well as the better part of the Raventhorn Society—took pity on me, but I couldn’t let my pride get in the way of this life-changing opportunity. So what if I don’t really deserve my place? The universe owed me a break.
Rothford U is the kind of name that opens doors; after I graduate, employers will see it and take a second look, then a third. I’ve never had a chance like that. Not once. So I said yes.
And today, I attend all my classes, like one of the elites ruling this place hadn’t just ejaculated all over my face less than twenty-four hours ago.
