Lauren Miller - Free to Fall

I tilted my head back, taking it all in, as we made our way down the far left aisle to the second row, which was blocked off with orange tape and a sign that said RESERVED FOR STUDENT COUNCIL MEMBERS . Liam lifted the tape and gestured for us to sit.

“You’re sure it’s okay for us to sit here?” I asked.

“A perk of being class president,” he said, crumpling the sign in his hands.

The row in front of us was occupied by faculty. When we sat down, the woman on the end turned her head. She had flawless black skin and one of those stylish Afros that only the excessively attractive can pull off. She was striking, with sharp cheekbones and deep-set green eyes that locked on mine and didn’t budge. I smiled. She didn’t smile back.

“Just in time,” I heard Liam say. I looked up and saw Dean Atwater approaching the podium. He didn’t wait for the room to get quiet before he began to speak.

“You are here because you have two things your peers back home do not,” he declared, his words reverberating off the pipe-lined walls. “Qualities known by Ancient Greeks as ethos and egkrateia .” He overenunciated the Greek for emphasis. “Character and strength of will. Here you will put those qualities to work in the pursuit of something more noble. Sophia. Wisdom.” He gripped the podium now, leaning forward a little. “But wisdom is not for the faint of heart. Not all of you will complete our program. Not all of you are meant to.”

I looked at my hands, the anxiety I’d felt on the plane rushing back. My mother didn’t have what it took. Maybe I didn’t either. I was the daughter of a high school dropout and a general contractor. What made me think I could even keep up?

“I know what you’re thinking,” Dean Atwater said then, as if he’d read my mind. But he was gazing past me, into the center of the crowd. “You’re second-guessing your fitness for this program. You’re questioning our decision to let you in. Could the admissions committee have made a mistake?” The crowd twittered with nervous laughter. Dean Atwater smiled, his face kind. “Let me assure you, students”—he looked directly at me—“your presence here is no accident.”

It was meant to be comforting, but I squirmed in my seat.

The dean’s gaze shifted again. “Now, for some housekeeping matters. Each of you has been assigned to one of twelve small sections. Section members share a faculty advisor and will meet together daily for a reasoning skills intensive, which you’ll learn more about tomorrow. Your section assignments will appear along with your course schedule under the ‘academics’ tab in the Theden app.” There was much rustling as people pulled their handhelds from purses and pockets. “I said will appear,” Dean Atwater added with a knowing smile. “When you’re dismissed for dinner. We’ve got one more announcement first. Please welcome your student-body president, Liam Stone.”

The room erupted in whistles and applause as Liam joined Dean Atwater at the podium. “On behalf of the student council,” Liam’s voice boomed into the mic. “I’m happy to announce that a date has been chosen for this year’s Masquerade Ball. Mark your calendars for September 7.” The room erupted into loud cheers. “For you first-years—the Masquerade Ball is a black-tie fundraiser for all alumni and current students. As is tradition, a shop in town will provide the tuxes and dresses, and we’ll all be given masks to wear. Though, as we second-years can attest, the word mask is a bit of a misnomer. They’re more like gigantic papier-mâché heads, most of them more than three hundred years old and worth more than your parents can afford.” He grinned. “In other words, make it an idiocy-free evening, guys.”

Dean Atwater chuckled as he took back the mic. He looked over at Liam. “Anything else, Liam?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, then,” Dean Atwater said, clapping his hands together. “Let’s eat!”

Sleep came easily that night, partly from physical exhaustion, and partly because I’d eaten so much lobster and steak that all the blood in my body had rushed from my head to my stomach, draining me of whatever mental energy I had left. I drifted off with the silver pendant between my thumb and index finger, wondering if they’d served surf ’n’ turf at the welcome dinner nineteen years ago and whether my mom had felt as out of place then as I had tonight, but I awoke later with a start, my hand still pressed to my collarbone. My chest was heaving a little beneath it. I’d been having a nightmare—running somewhere, or from someone—but the details slipped away from me as soon as my eyes adjusted to the dark. I listened for Hershey’s breathing, worried that I’d cried out and woken her. But the room was quiet. I slid my hand under my pillow, feeling for my Gemini, and blinked as my screen lit up: 3:03 A.M. Still rattled from the dream I couldn’t remember, I tiptoed to the bathroom for some water, using my handheld as a flashlight. As I passed my roommate’s bed, I realized that the tiptoeing was unnecessary. Hershey wasn’t in it.

I quickly sent her a text: where r u??

Half a second later, her handheld lit up in the dark. She’d left it on her nightstand. I picked up her Gemini and erased my text.

I lay awake for a while after that, wondering where Hershey had gone. It was stupid, but I felt a pang of disappointment that she hadn’t invited me to go with her. Not that I would’ve gone, but still. When an hour passed and she still wasn’t back, I started to worry. You’re not your roommate’s keeper, I told myself, forcing myself to go back to sleep.

It wasn’t even light yet when I woke up again, jolted awake by the screaming chorus of a This Is August Jones song. Hershey’s alarm. She fumbled for her Gemini, knocking it off the nightstand in the process. “Sorry,” she mumbled, then pulled her pillow over her head and promptly fell back asleep. Her alarm was still going off. Any relief I felt about the fact that she wasn’t dead in the woods somewhere was overshadowed by the immense irritation of having my eardrums accosted by excruciatingly crappy pop music at 5:45 in the morning.

“Hershey!” I barked.

“Fine,” she grumbled. She slid her hand along the floor, feeling for her Gemini. It took her another thirty seconds to actually turn it off. By the time she did, we were both wide-awake. I rolled onto my side. I’d seen Hershey wash her face before we went to bed, but she had mascara smudges around her eyes now.

“Five forty-five? Seriously?”

Hershey rubbed her eyes. “I may have forgotten that my phone readjusted itself for the time difference.”

I burst out laughing.

“I was tired when I set it,” she said irritably. I expected her to elaborate, to boast about her late-night escapades or at least hint that she’d snuck out, but she turned away from me, toward the opposite wall.

“How’d you sleep?” I asked, giving her another opportunity. She didn’t take it.

“Great,” she replied. Her Gemini lit up again as she launched Forum.

I watched her back for a moment, wondering what other secrets my roommate was keeping, and why.

A SMALL CROWD WAS GATHERED at the doorway to my first class. There was a sign next to it that read ELECTRONIC DEVICES MUST BE LEFT OUTSIDE. NO EXCEPTIONS, with a cubby station beneath it. I figured no one wanted to abandon their phones until they absolutely had to, but when I got closer, I noticed that none of my classmates were looking at their screens. They were all staring into our classroom, which was still out of my view. I moved toward the door and peered inside.

The room was the most hi-tech I’d ever seen. Every wall was a screen, and instead of desks, there were twelve egg-shaped units that reminded me of those sleeping compartments they had on luxury airlines, except that those are made of gray plastic and these were made of something shimmery and translucent and almost wet-looking. “Even without a bell, you all can still be late,” our teacher said, then stepped into view. It was the woman I’d seen at the assembly yesterday. When I saw Dr. E. Tarsus on my schedule, I’d pictured a man, an older white one, with gray hair and thick glasses. This woman was the total inverse of that. Standing still, she had the countenance of an eagle, her shoulders broad and her posture perfect. But when she moved—as she did now, toward the front wall, with purpose—she reminded me of a jungle cat, the sharp, angular edges of her shoulders and hips visible beneath her clothes.