Chapter Eight: The Brand Re-Evaluation

"We are officially striking his name from the record," I told the bathroom mirror on Sunday afternoon, aggressively blending my under-eye concealer with a damp pink sponge. "He is no longer Malik Thompson. He is simply The Variable. And we do not adjust our equation for an unpredictable variable."

​I leaned in closer to the glass, examining my face. My curls were impeccably defined today, cascading over a cream-colored, cropped cable-knit sweater that perfectly complemented my high-waisted, pleated houndstooth mini skirt. I looked like an Ivy League editorial—polished, intellectual, and completely unbothered by the digital negligence of a sophomore athlete.

​Internal pep talk execution: You are Kelsey Vance. You do not spiral over a hollow pink Snapchat arrow. If an NBA-bound boy wants to act like a ghost, we treat him like a house decoration. We move on. We pivot to the brand.

Before leaving Room 304, I set my phone up on my desk, setting the timer for three seconds. I posed near the window light, letting the pastel pink accents of my bedframe hit the edge of the lens, snapping a rapid-fire series of full-body outfit checks. I stitched them together into a high-vibe, fast-paced transition video for my I*******m story, typing Sunday Seminar Series 📚✨ across the screen in a clean, white font.

​The venue for the university's annual Leadership and Civic Progress seminar was the historic Alumni Hall. It was an architectural masterpiece—all soaring vaulted stone arches, dark mahogany paneling, and massive stained-glass windows that threw prisms of colored light across the tiered leather seats.

​The second Bianca and I walked through the heavy double doors, my phone was in my hand. I snapped a 0.5x wide-angle photo of the dramatic ceiling, another close-up shot of the gold-embossed program booklet against my houndstooth skirt, and a final, perfectly lit video of the gourmet catering spread in the lobby—artisan fruit platters, mini avocado toasts, and iced cold-brew towers. I compiled them into a draft for a future campus life photo dump. My social circle back in Brookhaven needed to see that university life was a visual masterpiece.

​The guest speaker was Dr. Evelyn Vance, a renowned international human rights attorney who had spent two decades negotiating policy at the United Nations. As she stood at the podium in a tailored, sharp grey pantsuit, her voice echoing clearly through the hall, I found myself completely locked in. She didn't talk about basic theories; she talked about real, boots-on-the-ground change, about building networks of women to challenge systemic structures, and how her university years were the exact launchpad for her global career.

​By the time the audience erupted into applause, the lingering, dramatic sting of my Saturday morning embarrassment had completely evaporated.

​During the reception hour in the courtyard—where everyone was drifting around with ceramic plates of miniature pastries and glasses of sparkling cider—I turned to Bianca, a genuine rush of inspiration hitting my chest.

​"Bianca, seriously, thank you so much for forcing me out of bed for this," I said, taking a sip of an iced oat milk latte we'd grabbed from the lobby. "I learned so much. Listening to Dr. Vance made me realize I want to actually do something here. I want to join an organization, a student action group, something that actually helps people on the ground."

​Bianca let out a soft, supportive smile, setting her plate down on a high-top metal table. "Honestly, I was thinking the exact same thing. I've been researching campus chapters, and I wanted to join the official Student Feminist Alliance. They handle the major advocacy campaigns and women's rights programming on campus." She suddenly stopped, her dark eyes shifting toward the central terrace path where the university department heads were setting up informational tables. "Wait. Speak of the devil. The head of the department is over there handing out the official membership flyers."

​My face lit up. "Perfect! Let's go get one."

​As we walked closer to the table draped in a dark green university banner, the student volunteer standing behind the stack of pamphlets turned around to hand a flyer to a passing freshman.

​My steps instantly faltered.

​Standing behind the desk, wearing a fitted green blazer over a white turtleneck, her bleached-blonde hair slicked back into a neat bun, was Phiona.

​Bianca's entire posture went completely rigid next to me, her voice dropping into a dangerous, icy register. "You have got to be kidding me. That bitch from 303 runs the table? She wouldn't let us into a movie theater, let alone an alliance."

​"No, no, Bianca, wait," I whispered, my standard Brookhaven peace-keeper radar immediately kicking in as I caught her arm. "We don't know her well enough to say that. That was just first-week housing friction. This is an academic organization. Let's just be mature and ask politely, okay? Optimism is a strategy."

​We stepped up to the table. The moment Phiona's eyes slid away from her clipboard and locked onto my houndstooth skirt and Bianca's tailored trousers, her jaw tightened into an aggressive, defensive scowl.

​"You have got to be shitting me," Phiona scoffed loudly, tossing her pen down onto the wooden table.

​I kept my lips locked into a bright, perfectly symmetrical, polite smile. "Hi, Phiona! Happy Sunday." I gave a warm nod to the sharp-nosed girl sitting on the cooler next to her. "Bianca and I were just listening to Dr. Vance's speech, and we were wondering if we could get the entry details to join the alliance. In case you haven't noticed from our programs, we're actually really passionate feminists."

​Phiona froze for a fraction of a second, and then she let out a loud, mocking laugh that cut straight through the quiet murmur of the courtyard. The girl beside her instantly joined in, the two of them chuckling right in our faces like we'd just delivered a stand-up comedy routine.

​Bianca's hands instantly balled into fists inside her pockets, her Connecticut mall-heiress energy turning sub-zero. "This bitch—"

​"Why are we laughing?" I interrupted, my voice remaining completely calm, though a sharp, burning spark of offense suddenly flared deep in my chest. I looked directly into Phiona's eyes, keeping my chin up. "I'm being entirely serious."

Phiona stopped laughing, leaning her forearms heavily on the desk as she looked us up and down with pure, unadulterated contempt. "Listen to me, Kelsey. Girls like you and your little roommate circle aren't feminists. You're literally the reason feminism has to exist. You're just a couple of wannabe, hyper-visual Barbies who spend three hours on your hair just to go to a lecture, and you'd do absolutely anything to get a varsity athlete into your pants. This group is for women who actually do the work, not girls who want an I*******m photo-op. Move along."

​The words hit me like a physical slap. My breath caught in my throat. It wasn't just a petty comment about my room volume anymore—she was looking at my entire identity, the way I dressed, my love for aesthetics, and deciding it meant my mind was completely vacant. A deep, agonizing worry flashed through my internal monologue: Is that really what people see when they look at me? Just a superficial doll with a lip gloss addiction?

​Bianca stepped forward, her dark eyes flashing with a lethal, defensive fury as she drew her breath in to completely annihilate Phiona and her friend with a textbook verbal execution.

​"Bianca, don't," I said firmly, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back before she could utter a single word. I looked Phiona dead in the eyes, my voice quiet, steady, and entirely devoid of my usual bubbly warmth. "It's completely fine. Thank you for your time."

​I dragged Bianca away from the table, our slides clicking sharply against the stone tiles as we stormed out toward the exit gates of the courtyard.

​"Kelsey, why did you stop me?" Bianca hissed, her chest rising and falling in pure frustration as we hit the open campus lawn. "I was about to dismantle her entire existence in front of the department chair!"

​"Because she wants the reaction, Bianca," I said, stopping under the shade of a massive oak tree, my hands smoothing down my pleated skirt as my confidence suddenly locked back into place with a fierce, dramatic snap. "She wants us to act like the crazy, entitled girls she thinks we are. We are not giving her that satisfaction. If she thinks the Student Feminist Alliance is her personal kingdom, fine. We'll just start our own school group. We'll build our own coalition from scratch and completely clear the board."

​Bianca stared at me for a second, and then a slow, devastatingly sharp smirk began to spread across her face. She smoothed back her high ponytail. "Yes. Absolutely. Let's do it. Because we definitely do not look this good just for men to eye-gaze anyway. Let's show her how the math actually works."

​TALIA'S POV

​The silence in Room 304 was beautiful. With Kelsey and Bianca trapped at some voluntary Sunday seminar across campus, I had the entire sanctuary to myself.

​By three o'clock, my stomach was aggressively demanding real nutrients to offset the lingering tragedy of the Friday night tequila. I threw on my favorite vintage, oversized graphic tee—the one with the faded Nirvana Bleach album cover print from a thrift store in downtown Atlanta—paired with simple black biker shorts, and let my voluminous blowout tumble freely over my shoulders. I didn't bother with makeup; my skin was glowing, and I carried myself with the kind of unbothered comfort that didn't require an audience.

​I walked down the two flights of stairs to the Vance Hall basement lobby to grab the premium turkey sub I'd ordered on DoorDash.

​As I pulled the brown paper bag from the delivery table near the glass entry doors, a voice sounded from the lounge couch behind me.

​"Oh my god, is that an original sub-pop printing on that Nirvana shirt?"

​I turned around slowly, my unbothered gaze tracking over the girl sitting cross-legged on the leather sofa. She was a white girl, effortlessly fashionable in a way that screamed "spoilt brat with a platinum card," wearing a cropped pastel green designer zip-up, low-rise cream trousers, and chunky retro sneakers. Her blonde hair was cut into a sharp, expensive jaw-length bob, and she had a pair of designer headphones resting around her neck.

​"Yeah, it is," I said, a slight smile touching my lips as I recognized the genuine appreciation in her tone. "Found it in a vintage vault back home. Most people just think it's a Target reprint."

​"Absolutely not, the distressing on the collar line is way too authentic," she said, sliding her phone into her pocket and standing up. She carried herself with a confident, high-society ease that I immediately respected. "I'm Jenni, by the way. I stay in Room 204."

​"Talia. Room 304," I replied, leaning my hip against the edge of the mail table.

​"Nice to meet you, Talia," Jenni said, giving my outfit one last approving nod as she grabbed her bag. "We should definitely hit the local thrift lanes off-campus sometime next week. I'll see you around the hall."

​"For sure," I said.

​I watched her walk toward the elevators, her expensive perfume lingering slightly in the sterile lobby air. I smirked, grabbing my turkey sub and heading back toward the stairs. High school might have been about fighting for territory, but Ashcroft was turning out to be a completely different map—and my circle was already expanding.