Chapter Three: The Food Chain

If Brookhaven was a comfortable, predictable kiddie pool, the Ashcroft University dining hall was the actual Mariana Trench.

​We walked through the heavy, arched oak doors of the Commons at precisely nine the next morning, and my brain immediately began cataloging data points like a supercomputer on overdrive. The space was staggering—less of a cafeteria and more of a gothic cathedral dedicated entirely to the worship of caffeine and carbs. The vaulted ceilings stretched thirty feet high, crisscrossed with dark timber beams, and the morning sun poured through massive, stained-glass windows, casting geometric splashes of amber and violet across rows of long, polished mahogany tables.

​The air was a thick, overwhelming sensory overload: the rich, bitter aroma of dark roast espresso blending with the buttery scent of fresh croissants, the clatter of silverware against porcelain, and a low, deafening roar of a thousand different conversations competing for dominance.

​Note Number One: College students do not travel alone on day one. They move in packs, like beautifully dressed wildebeests trying to avoid social predation.

​And speaking of beautifully dressed—if you think Talia and I were about to roll into the Commons looking like we just crawled out from under a duvet, you clearly don't know us.

​"Kelsey, look at the girl at the two o'clock table," Talia muttered out of the side of her mouth, her hand subtly adjusting the strap of her shoulder bag. "She's wearing a matching neon workout set with platform slides. On day one? That is a cry for help. Her aura is completely fractured."

​I choked back a laugh, adjusting my own fit. Since it was a crisp, clear morning, I had gone for an effortless, casual-chic vibe: high-waisted, cream-colored ribbed lounge pants paired with a cropped, fine-knit sage green cardigan that let a hint of my collarbone peek out. My hazel eyes were framed by a light touch of mascara, and my curls—which had miraculously cooperative bounce today—were mostly piled high with a few thick coils framing my jawline.

​Talia, on the other hand, looked like she was ready for an impromptu photoshoot or a casting call. She was wearing a tiny, pleated white tennis skirt that highlighted her legs, a cropped baby-blue polo knit that hugged every curve of her five-foot-four frame, and chunky white designer sneakers. Her sleek, light brown hair was slicked back into a high, glossy ponytail, and she wore gold hoops so large they practically touched her shoulders. She looked breathtaking, expensive, and unmistakably dangerous.

​Talia loved boys, she loved drama, and above all else, she loved being the absolute center of gravity in any room she walked into. She was a nice girl—mostly—but she possessed the kind of devastating, mean-girl aesthetic that made people check their outfit choices the second she walked past.

​"Let's grab food before you start diagnosing the entire freshman class," I said, nudging her toward the buffet line.

​The food situation at Ashcroft was elite. This wasn't mystery meat and lukewarm gravy. We moved past stations of artisanal avocado toast sprinkled with microgreens, steel-cut oatmeal bars with bowls of fresh blackberries and shaved coconut, and a live-station chef flipping golden, fluffy brioche French toast. I loaded a plate with scrambled eggs, turkey bacon, and a massive chocolate croissant, while Talia practically flirted the barista into giving her an extra shot of espresso in her iced vanilla oat milk latte.

​"Oh, look," Talia purred, her wide, pale brown eyes locked onto a table of varsity-jacket-wearing upperclassmen near the window. One of them, a guy with broad shoulders and a messy mop of blond hair, had already stopped tracking his phone to stare directly at her. Talia didn't look away. She gave him a slow, devastatingly confident smirk, took a sip of her latte through the straw without breaking eye contact, and then casually spun around. "He's cute. Six out of ten. I give it three days before he finds my room number."

​"Talia, please, we haven't even had orientation yet," I laughed, my dramatic, bubbly energy bubbling up. "Can we at least learn where the library is before you break a student-athlete's heart?"

​"The library is for people who don't have personality, Kels. I'm an acting major. My theater is the world." She led the way toward the only empty spot left in the room—a long booth against the wood-paneled wall.

​But as we slid our trays onto the table, we realized we weren't alone.

​Sitting at the far end of the booth, completely buried under a fortress of color-coded highlighters, an iPad Pro, and a massive, oversized mug that read DO NOT SPEAK TO ME, was a girl.

​She looked up as we sat down, and for a split second, I forgot how to use my words. She was, without exaggeration, gorgeous in a way that felt entirely intimidating. Her skin was a striking, flawless deep brown that caught the sunlight from the stained glass perfectly, and she had these sharp, piercing almond-shaped eyes that looked like they could read your search history just by glancing at you. Her hair was a work of art—gorgeous, intricate feed-in braids parted perfectly down the middle, neat and laid flawlessly. She was wearing a structured, oversized black blazer over a simple white tee, looking incredibly put-together and effortlessly corporate-chic at nine in the morning.

​"Hi!" I blurted out, my natural, sweet-girl reflex snapping into place. I flashed her my brightest, most infectious Brookhaven smile. "I'm Kelsey, and this is Talia. Sorry to invade your workspace, the whole place is a zoo."

​The girl looked at my smile, looked at Talia's neon-pink nails, and then let out a slow, surprisingly soft breath. The icy demeanor melted instantly, replaced by a look of sheer, exhausted relief.

​"Please, invade," she said, her voice smooth and grounded. "If I have to look at this digital syllabus for one more minute, I'm going to throw myself into the campus fountain. I'm Bianca."

​"Bianca," Talia repeated, her internal radar instantly approving of the girl's blazer. "Fabulous name. Where's your room?"

​"Vance Hall, third floor. Room 308," Bianca said, rubbing her temples.

​"Shut up!" I gasped, my dramatic energy spiking as I clapped my hands together. "We're in 304! We're literally three doors down from you! See, T? I told you the universe was vibing with us today."

​Bianca smiled, a genuine, warm expression that completely softened her sharp features. "Thank God. Everyone I've met so far acts like they're competing for a Nobel Prize or trying to sell me cryptocurrency. It's exhausting."

​"Well, you're safe with us," Talia said, already pulling her schedule up on her phone. "Unless you're a theater major, in which case, I am your direct competition and we are legally enemies."

​"Not even close," Bianca laughed, shifting her iPad toward us. "Pre-law track. I'm technically a psychology major for undergrad because I want to understand how criminals think before I lock them away."

​My jaw practically hit the mahogany table. I snatched my own phone out of my cardigan pocket, pulling up my registration portal. "Wait. Are you taking Intro to Cognitive Psych with Dr. Harrison at ten-thirty?"

​Bianca squinted at my screen, her eyes widening. "Yes! Section B?"

​"Section B!" I shrieked, a little too loudly, causing a group of nearby freshmen to glance over. I didn't care. The bubbly, easy excitement was completely taking over. "Oh, we are absolutely sitting together. I was terrified I'd have to walk into that massive lecture hall alone and look like a loser."

​"You two are disgusting," Talia sighed dramatically, though she was smiling as she bit into a piece of fruit. "While you guys are analyzing brains and writing briefs, I'll be in the movement studio pretending to be a tree or screaming at a wall for artistic expression. Our schedules don't align at all."

​"That's fine, T, you can just be our hot, dramatic roommate who brings the entertainment," I teased, leaning across the table to look at Bianca's syllabus.

​As the three of us sat there, swapping horror stories about move-in day and complaining about the sheer volume of textbook reading we already had assigned, I felt that familiar, comfortable warmth settling back into my chest.

​Revised Diagnosis: Maybe Ashcroft wasn't the Mariana Trench after all. Maybe it was just a bigger pond. I had my fiercely loyal best friend, a gorgeous new neighbor who shared my exact major, and a flawless outfit.

​I leaned back in the booth, watching Talia casually wave at the blond athlete who was still staring from across the room, while Bianca explained her hyper-organized color-coding system.

​Everything was falling perfectly into place. I was still the happy girl. I was still the lucky one.

​I reached into my bag, pulled out a fresh fine-tip sharpie, and looked at Talia. "Hey. Remember that empty OUR PEOPLE corkboard back in the room?"

​Talia stopped flirting with the window table, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across her lips as she looked from me to Bianca. "I think we just found our first pin."