“Running a little seven-on-seven today. If you feel up to coming out, we’d love to have you. Tryouts and practice don’t officially start until next week.” My chest tightens at first, and I hesitate, not sure I’m quite ready for camaraderie today, but James interrupts my doubt.
“I’ll pick you first. We’ll make history.” I glance at him in time to catch his smirk, and that tightness morphs into a dose of adrenalin.
“Screw that, I’ll make him captain if he comes out today,” Coach interjects. James’ mouth hangs open in pretend shock and I let out a genuine laugh.
“Well, now I’ve gotta come out, don’t I? Can’t let my fellow history-maker down. I got you.” I reach across the table, and we slap hands twice as if it’s something we’ve always done. There’s immediate comfort there. A brotherhood.
It will never replace Anika.
Chapter3
Lily
Ibarely slept. I spent most of the night looking at the other girls’ corkboards and beds and desktops. They’re cluttered with photos and postcards and torn ticket stubs—memories. I don’t think Morgan changed her pinboard from last year. She just took it down and rehung it above her new bed. My walls are bare. Even my comforter and pillow are bland and without character. It’s as though I purposely work to leave zero footprint of my existence. I’m aware of it more than I used to be. I’m trying not to dishonor Anika’s lack of existence by being too present in my own.
I’m not sure how the other girls are doing it, how they’re . . .coping.
Anika is in so many of their photos. I only have a few with her. We weren’t friends as long. And the more time that passes I wonder if we reallywerefriends. It all happened so fast. Our talks morphed into morning coffees and then lunches and study groups. Eventually, I found myself invited to things with the three of them. Was that simply pity, though? Was I Anika’s project?
I’m an outsider here.
My hair still wrapped in a towel from my morning shower, I sit on my prison-like bed clutching my shower caddy as Morgan and Brooklyn get ready for our internship interviews. This is the reason people come to Welles. It’s a guaranteed path into whatever career you might want. Ivy Leagues? Yeah, no problem. Politics? For sure.
Until last spring, I wanted to work forThe Affiliate, Boston’s premiere sports magazine. They take one intern from Welles every year. The student from five years ago was just hired as one of the youngest editors on staff right out of college. I’m still going to show up and try, but that fire isn’t in me like it was. I guess I feel like I don’t deserve this chance.
Anika doesn’t get one.
“You’re going to be late, Lily. You don’t even have your outfit picked out yet.” Brooklyn glances my way before walking toward my section of the closet. She begins to shift my hangers in search of suitable interview clothes.
“No. No. No. Lily! Didn’t you bring anything professional with you?” Her hand on her hip, the straight edges of her suit jacket jut out like knives.
“I have dresses.” My brow pulls in at the realization that my dresses look more like Sunday church wear than power meeting executive attire.
“Come here,” she huffs.
I set my shower caddy to the side and stand, letting my towel unravel. When I reach Brooklyn she eyes me sideways and audibly sighs.
“What?” I’m starting to feel like going back to bed is the best option.
“You’re going to have to dry that!” She points to my head, and I look up, practically under my eyelids.
“I was thinking of twisting it into a bun or a braid.”To be honest, I was thinking about bombing my interview and just coasting my way out of this place.
“Here, put this on. Then sit at your desk. You are not giving up. Not this early.” Brooklyn has a dominant tone that makes me obey. I slip on the silky gray blouse and catch the black pants she tosses against my chest.
“I don’t have shoes for these,” I warn, slipping out of my sleep shorts and into the slim-fitting pants. They’re definitely tighter on me than they are on her, and I’m instantly self-conscious about how things look from behind.
“These will be a little big, but you can stuff tissue in the toes.” She drops a pair of closed-toed black Manolo Blahniks on the bed next to me and I gulp. I’m pretty sure my food plan costs less than these shoes. She drops a tissue box at my side next then takes a seat behind me, sitting up on her knees. I’m about to protest all of this when I’m cut off by the sound of a hair dryer and the sharp thwack of a detangler against my scalp.
“Start stuffing,” she orders, pointing over my shoulder at the tissues and shoes.
I do my best to make the shoes fit, and after an aggressive blowout of my hair, I feel a little more willing to follow through with the interview process.
“Here, you should wear it for luck,” Morgan says, finally getting involved with Brooklyn’s project—me.She hands me the thin silver bracelet with a clover leaf pendant that Anika gave me last year. I’m sure it’s ridiculously expensive, just like the shoes, but this piece of jewelry means more to me than any value could ever capture. Anika gave it to me about a week before we went to that party. She knew I liked it.
Standing and spinning slowly with my hands out at my sides, I expect my dorm mates to tell me I look like a kid playing dress up, but instead, Morgan lets out a slow whistle. By the time I turn to face her, she’s nodding with folded arms and eyeing me approvingly.
“Really?” I quirk a brow.