“A bun wouldn’t look more dignified?” I ask. “Maybe a bun with a pencil through it, like, oh, I was so busy studying I didn’t see you there, that’s how studious I am.”
I’ve got on a black sheath dress that falls to the knee, black pumps, a royal blue cardigan, and right now I can’t tell if my outfit says smart, focused, and serious about scholarship or dowdy librarian.
I suspect I’m overthinking it.
“Thalia, you look extremely studious,” Victoria assures me again, adjusting the scarf in her hair. “As if you could quote me the whole DSM-IV.”
“It’s the DSM-V now,” I correct her.
“See?” she says. “Earrings or necklace?”
We’re in the bathroom of our apartment, both crowded in front of the only full-length mirror in the place. I study Victoria’s reflection in the mirror for a moment: she’s wearing a red dress with an asymmetrical neckline, her natural hair pulled back and wrapped with a patterned headscarf, along with her usual ten million bangles and bright red lipstick.
She’s an art major, so making things visually appealing is kind of her thing, but she still looks effortlessly amazing.
“Earrings,” I say. “The neckline is very dramatic all on its own, you don’t need a necklace.”
“I think you’re right,” she says. “God, I envy men. If they manage to show up wearing a suit jacket that’s not utterly ludicrous they get a pass. And if they’ve put a tie on without strangling themselves?”
“Right?” I sigh. “Has any man ever thought they’ll take me more seriously if I wear lipstick?”
“It’s not my impression that men worry about being taken seriously,” she says, half-turning, the backs of her thighs against the toilet tank as she checks out the back of her dress. “They just assume that they will be, and they’re usually right.”
There’s a knock on the bathroom door, and a moment later, it opens and Harper’s head pops through.
“Come on, we gotta go,” she says, giving us a quick once-over. “You both look very smart and or artistic and or accomplished and or sexy. Also, Margaret is going to have kittens if we make her wait much longer.”
“I’m not going to have kittens, I just don’t want to be late,” I hear Margaret say. “Is that so wrong, not wanting to be late?”
Harper gives us a look, then disappears. I give my hair one last finger-comb, then shake it out, open the door, and follow her, Victoria right behind me.
Tonight is the annual Madison Scholars banquet. Even though it’s my fourth time going, since I’m a senior, I haven’t been this anxious about it since I was an itty bitty freshman who was brand new to college and, quite frankly, thought I was in over my head.
Every year, VSU offers twenty-five Madison Scholarships to incoming freshmen. It’s a long, intense application process on top of the already-exhausting process of applying to college, but a Madison Scholarship is worth it.
Not only do you get a full ride plus a very small stipend for school-related expenses, you get access to special Honors classes. There are networking events with professors in your field, special mentorship opportunities, work-study programs, and on and on.
The banquet is one of those events — and three hours ago, I found out that one Dr. Stephen Rossi is going to be not only in attendance, but sitting at my table.
He is, of course, the leading researcher on the use of virtual reality in treating post-traumatic stress disorder, and he heads up the Virtual Lab at the Virginia Institute of Technology.
Naturally, he’ll be one of the people considering my graduate school application there in a few months. My advisor, Dr. Castellano, arranged for him to come to the banquet tonight almost entirely so I can meet and impress him.
For the first time in two weeks, I’ve stopped wondering whether Caleb will be at the banquet in favor of praying that I don’t spill soup on myself or accidentally mix up the frontal and parietal lobes in conversation.
However, in that two weeks of thinking about whether Caleb will be there or not, I’ve come to some conclusions and made some guidelines for myself.
1. He probably won’t be there. VSU has a billion faculty members. Most don’t go to this banquet; why would he?
2. If he is there, it doesn’t matter. Who cares? We’re not together. We’re not anything. There’s nothing between us and nothing to hide.
3. And if he’s there — which he probably won’t be — I’m not going to talk to him. I have no reason to talk to him. Why would I talk to him?
4. If I find myself in a social situation in which I must talk to him because to do otherwise would be impolite, I will talk casually about: the weather. The loveliness of the ballroom in which this event is held every year. The deliciousness of the cheese platter. What kind of salad dressing he likes.