Saturday night; raucous laughter and the clipped, rapid sound of footsteps, accompanied by a flash of headlights as the PVTA B43 passes by my first-floor window. It’s 9:30 p.m. and I am holed inside my room, blue light radiating from my computer screen and burning the words from my Gender, Law and Policy reading onto the backs of my retinas.
How cruel it is to be stuck inside on a night such as this in Western Massachusetts. How lamentable. But, this is my role, isn’t it? Dutiful college student doing my homework on a Saturday instead of donning a small crop top, light wash jeans and shuffling my way over to the bus stop on Elm Street along with the other starry-eyed frat apologists. I despise them.
How dare they attend the same prestigious institution as I do and wash their valuable weekends down the drain. And for what? Some lanky, un-deodorized ZooMass tail? Who are they to think that their frivolous libido-driven escapades are more important than the work of the hundreds of suffragettes that came before us in order to deliver us the gift of education?
Shame on them.
My eyes lift to the 24 x 36 poster of Gloria Steinem adhered to my wall by means of ResLife-approved Command Strips (™). It is my only piece of decor, aside from a record player atop my dresser that only plays “Creep” by Radiohead on a loop.
“They don’t understand,” I whisper to Gloria. “They don’t understand us.”
I snap out of my reverie to the sound of my phone abruptly buzzing. Don’t I have Do Not Disturb on? I wonder. I pick it up; it is a Grubhub notification: my slice of pizza is ready at the Campus Center Cafe.
I sigh. My studious spell has been broken, so now is as good a time as any to go retrieve sustenance. Then I will get right back to it — I must not waste my night.
I stand from my desk, the legs of my chair squeaking against my polished and meticulously vacuumed floor. I take off my glasses, let my hair fall from its messy bun and stretch my arms above my head. Another raunchy giggle pitches past my window. Can’t these people be quiet?
Readying myself for the chilly 10-minute trek to the CC, I open my closet to grab a sweater. As I reach for my favorite cable-knit, my fingertips graze the slim silk dress that my mother forced me to pack “in case of emergencies.” I hesitate on the fabric, frozen where I stand.
Should I…
Could I…?
No. I shan’t.
“Careful, young one,” a voice behind me says. “Remember who you are … Remember where you came from.”
I gasp and spin on my heel. Could it be–?!
“Gloria,” I breathe, falling to my knees and gazing up at her portrait. “Is it really you?”
But the poster is stagnant on my wall, her eyes peering down at me with what I swear is a glint of judgment. Maybe I imagined it.
I shake it off, quickly pulling my sweater over my head and slipping out into the hall. I walk briskly towards the exit, firmly ignoring the occasional sounds of music or reality TV filtering through my housemates’ thin wooden doors. Slackers, I bemoan silently. Do they really think Hillary Clinton was sitting watching “Love Island” in her dorm room at Wellesley instead of studying? Nancy Pelosi? Madeleine Alrbight? Tammy Baldwin?
Shame. On. Them.
The night is clear and starry when I step outside. I cross my arms and duck my head as I start down the path towards the CC. I must be quick if I want to get back to studying.
Then — suddenly — a collision.
“Oh my god, sorry!”
The girl stumbles back, a shocked and apologetic look on her face. My heart drops. Her blonde hair is shimmering in the moonlight, and I drag my eyes down, over her light pink crop top, her light wash jeans and down to her white Air Force Ones. One of them.
“Sorry,” I reply quietly, hating the way my voice wavers. She flashes a small, quick smile at me, and then she’s off, rejoining the group of her 8 friends (clones) making their way to that very bus stop.
I stand there for a moment — halfway between the CC and the B43. I have a choice to make.
It is in that very moment, under the glittering stars with my heart beating in my throat, that I realize:
It is not hatred that plagues me. It is envy.
I turn around, a sudden rush of adrenaline pumping through my veins. My feet start moving, faster and faster, my scuffed Converse pounding against the pavement as I beeline towards the bus stop.
“Wait!” I cry out. “Wait for me!”
I am running faster than I have ever run before, the wind howling in my ears. But the doors have closed, and the bus is already pulling away from the curb.
I am too late.
My feet slow to a stop, my breath coming out in short, white puffs of air as I watch the B43 bumble away, packed to the brim. There wouldn’t have been room for me anyways.
I do not cry, but part of me feels like it. There are two kinds of people at this school:
Those who spend their Saturday nights on the PVTA, and those like me. Another Saturday night off the PVTA.
