“Great! You can start anywhere, there are booths set up for the various specialties, and also some great clubs you might want to check out, and then at one—” She stopped mid-sentence and frowned at me. “Wait, you’re a first-year in graduate school, right?”
Shit, did she think I was a freshman? I knew I looked a bit young for my age, but not that young. “Of course.” If I were taller, she wouldn’t have asked me that.
“Just checking,” she said cheerfully, her high ponytail bouncing up and down as if nodding in agreement. “Anyway, at one, the dean of the business school will give the official welcome. After that, you can pick up your schedule and choose a cohort and everything.”
“Cohort?” I echoed, but Ms. Perky Ponytail was already greeting someone else, a man about my age. I bet she wouldn’t ask him if he was really in graduate school.
I wandered around for about a half-hour, checking things out and picking up brochures. One booth, which seemed to be promoting a social club for business majors, had a cardboard display that reminded me of the tri-boards I used to use for science fair projects as a kid.
As I squinted in the sunlight, I examined the action shots of the club's past activities, and I saw a familiar face. Parker was in three of them, and he was smiling in each one. It made me want to find the woman who broke his heart and punch her. Not that I knew the full story, but he sure as hell was miserable now.
I was half tempted to snatch one of the pictures off the board because I doubted I’d see him smile in person any time soon. If ever.
The welcome speech at one was pretty standard, but it was nice to sit in the grass and soak up the sun while I listened. I stretched my legs out and leaned back, my face angled upward. It was warm enough to take off my sweater, but I didn’t feel comfortable wearing just a tank top with so many strangers around. Most of them—most of the women, at least—had dressed a bit less casually than I had. There were still a lot of women in shorts—probably all of us were making the most of the warm weather while it was still here—but most looked a bit more put together than I did.
Maybe I should’ve asked Parker if he knew what to wear. He must’ve attended this last year. But he’d been his usual silent self at breakfast, and I hadn’t thought to ask—partly because I’d been too busy enjoying the food. Jude had been right about how good it was. For the millionth time, I was grateful to snag a bunk in the Henderson building. If the guys had made me get reassigned, I probably would’ve ended up in one of the older dorms that didn’t even have its own dining room. Trudging through snow three times a day during the winter just to eat didn’t sound like my idea of fun.
When the speeches were over, there was a mad rush to pick up schedules. I stood in the K-M line for ten minutes before it was my turn. It was ridiculous that they didn’t do this electronically. They had at my old university. I was beginning to think that the business school here was a bit old-fashioned. It had a good reputation, though.
I folded up my schedule without looking at it. I wanted to do that somewhere quiet. I’d already chosen my classes—not that there was a lot of choice during your first semester in the program—but there was some question of which sections and which times my classes would be.
Instead, I headed over to another crowded table, the one where we signed up for cohort groups. I’d looked it up on my phone during a boring part of the speech. The business school here assigned each new student to a more experienced student with a year or two under their belt. That student would serve as something of a mentor for our first semester. They’d answer our questions, hold a few meetings, and in general, impart their knowledge and experience on us.
Once most of the crowd had dissipated, I saw my mistake. There were sign-up papers taped to the table—again, why didn’t they do this electronically?—and nearly all the slots were filled. I supposed most people signed up before the welcome speeches.
Oops.
The first page listed the mentors alphabetically, and after each name, there were spaces for five first-years to sign up. Most of the slots were filled. On the second page, there were a few more openings. I scanned over the unfamiliar names, looking for a female one. It might be nice to have a female mentor. But then I came across a name I recognized. Parker Stanton. At least I thought that was him. How many Parkers could there be that were second- or third-year business students?