The Goal

by Elle Kennedy

  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.

  8

  Tucker

  “We suck,” Hollis gripes.

  “We’re not great,” I acknowledge.

  Today’s practice was another disaster, which doesn’t bode well for tomorrow’s game against Yale. I was hoping the road trip to Boston would distract us from how badly we’re playing, but we’ve been sitting in this bar for almost an hour, and so far all we’ve talked about is hockey. The Bruins game flashing on multiple screens all around us isn’t helping matters—watching a good team play good hockey is just the icing on the shit cake.

  I peer at my empty beer bottle and then wave it in the air to signal the waitress. I’m going to need about five more of these if I want to snap out of this sour mood.

  Hollis is still grumbling beside me. “If we don’t start playing some defense, we can kiss our chances at another Frozen Four goodbye.”

  “It’s a long season. Let’s not throw in the towel yet,” Fitzy says from across the booth. He’s sipping on a Coke because he’s our DD tonight.

  “Are you guys going to talk hockey all night?” Hollis’ brother, Brody, complains. He’s twenty-five, but looks way younger with his clean-shaven face and backwards Red Sox cap.

  “What else are we gonna talk about? This place is a sausage fest.” Hollis tosses a napkin at his brother.

  He’s not wrong. There are only two women in this bar. They’re around our age, hot as fuck, and they also happen to be making out with each other in a corner booth. Ninety-five percent of the men here—myself included—have already snuck glances at the lip-locked chicks. The other five percent are busy lip-locking each other.

  “Fine, you losers.” Brody heaves out an exaggerated sigh. “You don’t like this place? Let’s go.”

  “Where?” his little brother asks.

  “Where there’s girls.”

  “Done and done.”

  Three minutes later, we’re climbing into Fitzy’s car and following Brody’s Audi across town.

  “Nice wheels,” I remark, gesturing to the shiny silver car ahead of us.

  “He leases it,” Hollis informs me. “He likes to act like a big shot, but he’s really not.”

  “Gee,” Fitzy drawls from the driver’s seat. “Sound like anyone you know?”

  That gets him a middle finger from our teammate. “Dude. I’m more of a big shot than your pansy ass. You didn’t even get laid on your birthday this week.”

  “I wasn’t looking to get laid. Trust me, if I was, you wouldn’t have seen me at all that night.”

  “We barely saw you, anyway! You went home early to play video games!”

  “To demo the game I designed,” the other guy corrects. “I don’t see you doing anything productive with your time.”

  “Actually using my dick is very productive, thank you very much.”

  I hide a grin. It always boggles my mind how these two could be such close friends. Hollis is a loud-mouthed bro with only one thing on the brain—chicks—while Fitzy is serious and intense with only one thing on his brain—gaming. Or maybe two things, seeing as the guy loves getting tattooed. Somehow they make the friendship work, though it seems like it’s mostly through bickering and flipping each other off.

  We pull into a gravel driveway and park in the spot next to Brody’s. His Audi doesn’t look out of place with the rest of the cars, but it doesn’t fit the bar, either. A neon sign over the nondescript building blazes with the words “Boots & Chutes,” which are positioned underneath a half-naked girl riding a bull.

  Hollis gapes at the sign. “Seriously? A western-theme titty bar in Boston? This is gonna suck.” He looks like he wants to punch his brother.

  “Aren’t you Miss Mary Sunshine.” Brody throws an arm around Hollis and waves for us to come forward. “You babies wanted pussy—well, here you are.”

  “Is this what happens after you get out of college? You have to pay for pussy?” Hollis hangs his head. “I’m never leaving Briar, bro. Ever.”

  I chuckle. “Hey, think of all the leftover hockey groupies you’ll have access to when Garrett or Logan start playing for the pros.”

  That immediately perks him up. “Good point. And look—” He points to the sign “—now you don’t have to leave Boston either. Who needs to move back to Texas when you’ve got cowgirls right here for you?”

  “Tempting,” I say dryly, “but I think I’m sticking to my original plan.”

  Unless my mom suddenly acquires a taste for the East Coast, I’m moving back to Patterson after I graduate. I’m not sure our small town is a good place to start a business, but I could always try to open something up in Dallas and come home on the weekends. Mom sacrificed a shitload to get me to where I’m at now, and I’m not leaving her alone.

  The strip club reeks of sweat, smoke, and desperation. At the front of our group, Hollis’ brother slaps something into the hands of the bouncer, and they have a short conversation.

  “No touching. Private dances start at five bills.” He waves a waitress over. “Front row, stage right,” he tells her.

  Everyone starts moving.

  Everyone but me.

  “Got a problem?”

  The bouncer’s sharp voice gets me moving. “Nope,” I say easily.

  But I kinda do. I have a big problem, in fact. A fucking huge problem.

  Because under the heavy eyeliner and the big hair, I recognize the waitress. Hell, I’ve had my hands and mouth all over that exposed skin.

  Sabrina’s startled gaze locks with mine. I see all the color drain from her face, which is saying a lot
because she didn’t go easy on the blush when she applied her makeup.

  “Right this way,” she mumbles. She spins around with a swish of dark hair, but not before I see the flash of warning in her eyes.

  Got it. She doesn’t want me telling the guys that we know each other. I don’t blame her. This is probably awkward as fuck for her.

  “What kinds of chicks work this joint?” Hollis says as he leers at Sabrina’s incredible backside, which is barely covered by the tiny shorts she’s wearing.

  “Hot ones,” Fitzy replies dryly.

  That’s an understatement. The girls here are more than hot. They’re goddamn spectacular. Source: my eyeballs.

  Tall ones, short ones, curvy ones. Light, dark, and everything in between. But my gaze keeps snapping back to Sabrina, as if it’s attached to an invisible string that’s controlled by her perfect ass.

  “I take back every rude thing I said about cowgirls in the parking lot. Any of these girls can ride me.”

  Heat curdles in my gut. I don’t like the idea of Hollis—or any of the dudes in this place—getting ridden by Sabrina. She’s mine.

  “You okay?” Fitzy asks. “You look pissed.”

  I take a breath. “Yeah, sorry. I was thinking about the team.”

  He buys that. “That’s enough to make anyone mad. Come on. Let’s get a drink and forget about hockey.”

  I nod absently, too mesmerized by the center of Sabrina’s back. It’s completely bare except for one measly string that looks like it would unravel if I blew against the bow. My gaze drops lower, taking in the elegant indentation of her spine, all the way down to the top of her black satin booty shorts.

  By the time we arrive at the stage, I’m sporting a semi, which is fucking embarrassing. Getting a hard-on at the mere sight of a girl’s ass isn’t something that’s happened to me since high school.

  I force my eyes upward in time to avoid a table full of frat boys. One of them reaches out to slap Sabrina’s ass as she sways by him.

  A jolt of rage shoots up my spine. I shove forward, but a bouncer sitting at the base of the stage reaches the punk before I do.

  “No touching, asshole.” He hauls the polo-shirted kid to his feet. “Let’s go.”