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SHAE

“Shae, answer thedamnquestion! Yes or no?”

Yennifer’s voice bursts through the phone speaker, making my face vibrate as she shouts in that too-quick, loud cadence she’s known for. There’s no way to save my hearing with the phone wedged between my ear and my shoulder, and both of my hands are full of the textbooks I’d snagged at the campus bookstore.

The entirely too expensive campus bookstore.

“Listen, it’s the first day of class,andI have work this afternoon. You’ll just have to go out without me. Or take Ezra!” I say, referring to our other best friend and roommate. “He’ll love going to a movie premiere.”

Yenn gets to live the life of the rich and famous because sheisrich and famous. Well, maybe not super famous, but she most certainly is rich. Still, brands love to give her things—like the latest iPhone or tickets to the hottest movie premiere—hoping she’ll post them on her Instagram. Being the daughter of the so-called Black Bill Gates and having 1.3 million followers has its perks.

The economics building comes into sight as I sprint around the architecture lecture hall and cut across the quad. Thankfully, I’m not lost like the dozens of freshmen milling around and checking their printed campus maps.

Four years at Asheford University and I feel like I’ve finally got the hang of things.

Well. Mostly.

My messenger bag slaps against my thigh, tangling in my long flounce skirt, and I try not to trip over myself when she speaks again.

“Ugh,fine,” she says, “but youaregoing out with me. You need to live sometime, bestie!”

She’s right, of course. I’ve spent every waking hour not mentoring the women at mPOWER holed up in the library or hunched over my small desk in our shared three-bedroom apartment—the apartment her father owns and doesn’t charge us rent for in the way too expensive neighborhood.

In the end, my sacrifice was for good reason…and way less than what my parents gave up to get me to this point.

You’re already twice as good as any of these fools. Don’t let them tell you how far you can go.

My father’s voice ping-pongs around in my head, reminding me of my singular mission: Get the hell out of Chicago, go to an Ivy League economics program, and make a shit-ton of money so I can make a name for myself.

My MBA application to Harvard Business School sits in processing, and I’m not sure what I’ll do if I don’t get in.

Or if Idoget in.

“Don’t you have classes, too?” I ask, pausing to re-adjust my bag as it slips off my shoulder.

“Yeah,” Zara says, “But I’m not worried about that right now. I’m worried about you and your anti-social tendencies. Didn’tyou ever hear about the experiments on monkeys who lived in solitary confinement?”

My brows furrow as I pick up speed again.

“Girl,what? Listen, never mind. This weekend,” I huff once I reach the glass doors. “I’ll carve out my Saturday. We can do brunch and mimosas on the Loop.”

A drop of sweat rolls down my spine beneath my tank top, settling at the waist beads locked at the top of my skirt, as I try to heft the three massive textbooks into one arm and pull on the too-heavy door with my other.

RIP to my blowout. At least I had the wherewithal to pull my hair up in a bun on top of my head, securing my naturally curly bangs back with a patterned scarf.

“Gotta go, Yennifer,” I say, panting. Why won’t this damn door open?

“Later, boo. Kick ass today,” she says, and I pull the phone from my face and blindly press buttons to end the call while shoving it into my bag on the opposite side of my body.

My phone drops to the ground with aclick-clack, and a frustrated groan escapes me when I bend over to pick it up from where it lands in front of the door….

…which knocks me in the head in the process.

Books scatter everywhere, and my foot slides from beneath me as I slip on my receipt from the bookstore.

Ass, meet ground.