Page 70 of All These Beautiful Strangers

“Sounds great,” I lied.

I followed her over to the corner of the room, where a group of students sat around an old coffee table, and took the only spot left on the patched-up couch. Harper sat in an armchair facing the couch, a notebook in hand.

“This is Charlie,” Harper said to the group. Looking around, I realized I didn’t know a single person there, which probably meant they were all underclassmen, mostly freshmen. They looked so doe-eyed and young. “Charlie’s a junior,” Harper said. “She’s new to the paper so you guys will have to show her the ropes.”

I almost cringed under the weight of her condescension but managed a little wave and smile to the group.

“Finn, you’re up next, I believe,” Harper said, glancing down at her notebook.

“Well,” Finn said, sitting up straighter in the seat next to me. “Picture this. Title: ‘School Uniforms.’ Subtitle: ‘The Great Equalizer or the Great Divider’?” He gesticulated widely, as if writing the invisible title in the air in front of him with his short, stubby fingers. “The title needs some bedazzling, some sparkle, for sure, but the meat of the piece is a quasi-fashion, quasi-political story on these hideous uniforms we’re forced to wear.”

It was then that I noticed the perfect creases down the legs of his pants, the way his blazer was neatly pressed. He had added a bright pink silk handkerchief that was folded in his breast pocket. It took all that was in me to refrain from rolling my eyes. Not another clothing-obsessed prep up in arms because he had to wear a polyester blazer to class. Please, kill me now. I’d known coming here was a mistake.

“Sounds fascinating,” Harper said, nodding and jotting something down in her notebook. “There seems to be a lot to chew on there, so I’m going to pair you with Charlie.”

“Me, Charlie?” I asked, both hoping and knowing it was useless to hope that there was another Charlie in the group.

“Yes, you, Charlie,” Harper said. “The two of you can share a byline.”

I had to share my first byline with a freshman? And I had to put my name next to some stupid article on stripes versus polka dots that the whole school would see? And UPenn was supposed to be impressed by this?

Uh, hell no.

“Actually,” I said, “I have a really great idea for a story.”

“I’m sure you do,” Harper said, “and we’d all love to hear it—at the next pitch meeting. But, as of now, our pages are full.”

Harper closed her notebook with a snap and smiled at the group.

“Great job this week, everyone,” Harper said. “I’m really looking forward to reading your work. Don’t forget to get me your drafts by the end of the day on Friday.”

As everyone shuffled away their notebooks and pens and laptops, Finn shifted in the seat next to me. “Do you want to go grab some coffee?” he asked. “Maybe we can sketch out an outline together for the article?”

“I can’t right now,” I said. “I have somewhere I need to be.”

As in, anywhere but here.

“Okay,” he said. “Well, we should exchange numbers or emails so we can plan to meet up later.”

Harper was headed toward the door. I had to talk to her before she left, sweet-talk her into letting me have my own article.

“Sure,” I said. I ripped the corner off a loose piece of paper in my bag, scribbled down my school email address, and handed it to him as I stood. “Here, just email me yours.”

I was across the room and out the door before he could respond or protest.

“Harper,” I called out. Harper stopped halfway down the hallway and turned.

“Hey, Charlie,” Harper said. “I’m so excited you decided to join the Chronicle. I had no idea you were interested in journalism.”

Oh, I’m not, I wanted to say. I just wanted an excuse to spend more time with you. Maybe later we could paint our nails together and braid each other’s hair?

But I bit my tongue. I had to play nice.

“Yeah,” I said. “I was just thinking, maybe I could sit this round out and come back next week for the pitch meeting?”

“Could you tell me exactly what your concerns are about doing this story with Finn?” Harper asked, shifting the strap of her bag from one shoulder to the other. She creased her brow as if she truly cared about my answer.

“Come on, Harper,” I said. “School uniforms? It’s a stupid fluff piece. I couldn’t think of anything less interesting to write about if I tried.”