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The tour winds its way through the manicured paths of the campus, and I’m once again struck by how beautiful the scenery is. The groundskeepers must spend hours making sure every tree, shrub, and flower is picture-perfect. I’m almost afraid to step off the sidewalk for fear that a siren will sound and I’ll be expelled before I’ve even started here.

We walk down a slight hill and take in the track and field down below. We meander past a small pond where ducks quack and birds swoop down to catch some fish. We get a close-up look at the new state-of-the-art athletic complex, which all the jocks pop boners over.

The more we see, the more I can’t believe I’m not dreaming. I’m from one of Boston’s grittier neighborhoods. It’s the kind of place where the sidewalks are cracked and littered with broken glass, and graffiti tags compete for space on brick walls. The closest thing we have to a green space is the overgrown lot behind the old textile mill.

Don’t get me wrong; my hometown has its charm. It’s loud, it’s busy, it’s alive. But it’s also a struggle. Mom works two jobs just to keep us in our tiny apartment, and I’ve been hustling since I was fourteen—first at the corner bodega, then delivering pizzas, and now working at the barber shop as a receptionist. We make do, but there’s never been any extra.

My high school is a rundown relic from the 1950s. The linoleum floors are chipped and peeling, and the lockers are rusted and permanently dented from decades of abuse. Most of the windows are covered with metal grates, giving the place a prison-like aesthetic. We don’t have a pond with ducks or a state-of-the-art gym, and we’re lucky if the heat works in the winter.

Education-wise, it’s about as bottom-tier as you can get. Our textbooks are older than I am, and half of them are missing pages. The teachers do their best, but they’re overworked and underpaid. A lot of kids drop out before they even make it to junior year, and those who do graduate aren’t exactly heading off to Ivy Leagues.

Can I actually see myself here? That’s the question gnawing at me. It’s not just about fitting in—though that seems like an uphill battle—it’s about believing that I deserve something this nice.

I’ve always been different. From a young age, I knew that I wanted more than what my neighborhood had to offer. I buried myself in books and studied late into the night by the dim light of a desk lamp. I took AP classes, joined clubs, and did everything I could to stand out from my peers.

But even with all my hard work, I’ve always felt like an outsider. The teachers don’t quite know what to make of me. Theother students glare at me with envy and disdain. They think that I act as if I’m better than them.

And maybe I do. But can you blame me? When I look at the manicured lawns and gleaming buildings of BSU, I feel like all those years of my mom and me busting our asses might actually pay off.

The tour guide’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. We’re standing in front of the library. A magnificent five-story building that glows in the midmorning sun. Huge windows line each floor, and when a student walks out, I swear the wind blows the aroma of paper and ink right at me.

Teasing me.

Temptingme.

For the first time since I arrived, excitement flickers in my chest.

I may not fit in with the other students, but in that library, surrounded by the written word, I know I’ll find my home.

Our final stopon the campus tour is the administration building, where a giant statue of the school’s mascot—a stony, fearsome-looking Barracuda—stands guard in the center of the water fountain.

The tour guide holds up a stack of flyers and shouts, “Don’t forget to check out The Brew! It’s our on-campus coffee shop, and your first drink is free with this coupon.”

My feet are sore, and I contemplate heading straight to the bus station, but maybe one cup of coffee can’t hurt.

The Brew is located around the corner from the campus cafeteria. As soon as I walk through the door, the smell of freshly ground coffee overwhelms me, and…oh, God. It’sheaven.

The space itself reminds me of New York City with its industrial furnishings, concrete floors, and exposed brick walls.Mismatched armchairs and loveseats invite students to sink in and stay awhile. The tables are made of reclaimed wood and metal, and each one is outfitted with a small succulent plant.

I stand in line, and my eyes are drawn to the massive chalkboard menu behind the counter. It spans the entire length of the wall, and one of the baristas is up on a ladder, carefully writing out the day’s specials in swirling calligraphy.

There are clever names for each drink, like “The All-Nighter” and “Procaffeinating.”

I stifle a laugh. I’m definitely not in Kansas anymore. Back home, all we have is a dingy Dunkin’ Donuts.

As I inch closer to the front of the line, I scan the menu for something familiar, but it’s all foreign to me.

What the hell is a flat white? And why would anyone want a lavender oat milk latte?I feel like I need a translator to order a damn coffee. But then I remember the coupon. My first drink is free. I can afford to be adventurous.

Maybe I’ll try one of those fancy pour-over coffees. Or a cold brew with vanilla sweet cream. The possibilities are endless.

I’m so engrossed in my mental debate that I don’t realize it’s my turn to order until the barista clears her throat. “What can I get for you?”

I blink, startled. “Oh, um...” My mind goes blank. I glance up at the menu again, but the words blur together. “I’ll have a…medium coffee?”

It comes out like a question, but thankfully, the barista smiles kindly. “One medium drip coming right up. Room for cream?”

“No, thanks. Black is fine.” I hand over my coupon, and she rings me up.