1

SABRINA

October

“Crap. Crap. Crap. Craaaaap. Where are my keys?”
The clock in the narrow hallway tells me I have fifty-two
minutes to make a sixty-eight-minute drive if I want to get to the
party on time.
I check my purse again, but the keys aren’t there. I run through
the various locations. Dresser? No. Bathroom? Was just there.
Kitchen? Maybe —
I’m about to pivot when I hear a jingle of metal behind me.
“You looking for these?”
Contempt lodges in my throat as I turn around and step into a
living room so small that the five pieces of dated furniture—two
tables, one love seat, one sofa, and one chair—are squashed
together like sardines in a can. The lump of flesh on the couch
waves my keys in the air. At my sigh of irritation, he grins and
shoves them under his sweatpants-covered ass.
“Come and get ’em.”
I drag a frustrated hand down my flat-ironed hair before stalking
over to my stepfather. “Give me my keys,” I demand.
Ray leers in return. “Da-amn, you look hot tonight. You’ve turned
into a real babe, Rina. You and me should get it on.”
I ignore the meaty hand that’s falling to his crotch. I’ve never
known a man so desperate to touch his own junk. He makes Homer
Simpson look like a gentleman.
“You and I don’t exist to each other. So don’t look at me, and
don’t call me Rina.” Ray’s the only person who ever calls me that,
and I fucking hate it. “Now give me my keys.”
“I told you—come and get ’em.”
With gritted teeth, I shove my hand under his ass and root
around for my keys. Ray grunts and squirms like the disgusting piece
of shit he is until my hand connects with metal.
I drag the keys free and spin back to the doorway.
“What’s the big deal?” he mocks after me. “It’s not like we’re
related.”
I stop and use thirty seconds of my precious time to stare at him
in disbelief. “You’re my stepfather. You married my mother. And—” I
swallow a rush of bile, “—and you’re sleeping with Nana now. So,
no, it’s not about whether you and I are related. It’s because you’re
the grossest person on the planet and you belong in prison.”
His hazel eyes darken. “Watch your mouth, missy, or one of
these days you’ll come home and the doors will be locked.”
Whatever. “I pay for a third of the rent here,” I remind him.
“Well, maybe you’ll be in charge of more.”
He turns back to the television, and I spend another valuable
thirty seconds fantasizing about bashing his head in with my purse.
Worth it.
In the kitchen, Nana is sitting at the table, smoking a cigarette
and reading an issue of People. “Did you see this?” she exclaims.
“Kim K is nude again.”
“Goodie for her.” I grab my jacket off the back of the chair and
head for the kitchen door.
I’ve found that it’s safer to leave the house through the back.
There are usually street punks congregating on the stoops of the
narrow townhouses on our less-than-affluent street in this less-than
affluent part of Southie. Besides, our carport is behind the house.
“Heard Rachel Berkovich got knocked up,” Nana remarks. “She
should’ve aborted it, but I guess it’s against their religion.”
I clench my teeth again and turn to face my grandmother. As
usual, she’s wearing a ratty robe and fuzzy pink slippers, but her
dyed-blond hair is teased to perfection and her face is fully made up
even though she rarely goes out.
“She’s Jewish, Nana. I don’t think it’s against her religion, but
even if it is, that’s her choice.”
“Probably wants those extra food stamps,” Nana concludes,
blowing a long stream of smoke in my direction. Shit. I hope I don’t
smell like an ashtray by the time I get to Hastings.
“I’m guessing that isn’t the reason Rachel’s keeping the baby.”
One hand on the door, I shift restlessly, waiting for an opening to tell
Nana goodbye.
“Your mama thought about aborting you.”
And there it is. “Okay, that’s enough,” I mutter. “I’m going to
Hastings. I’ll be back tonight.”
Her head jerks up from the magazine and her eyes narrow as she
takes in my black knit skirt, black short-sleeved sweater with a scoop
neck, and three-inch heels. I can see the words forming in her mind
before they even leave her mouth.
“You’re looking uppity. Going off to that fancy college of yours?
You got classes on Saturday night?”
“It’s a cocktail party,” I answer grudgingly.
“Ooh, cocktail, schmocktail. Hope your lips don’t get chapped
kissing all the ass down there.”
“Yeah, thanks, Nana.” I wrench open the back door, forcing
myself to add, “Love you.”
“Love you too, baby girl.”
She does love me, but sometimes that love is so tainted, I don’t
know if it’s hurting me or helping me.
I don’t make the drive to the small town of Hastings in fifty-two
minutes or sixty-eight minutes. Instead, it takes me an entire hour
and a half because the roads are so damn bad. Another five minutes
pass before I can find a parking space, and by the time I reach
Professor Gibson’s house, I’m tenser than a piano wire—and feeling
about as fragile.
“Hi, Mr. Gibson. I’m so sorry I’m late,” I tell the bespectacled man
at the door.
Professor Gibson’s husband gives me a soft smile. “Don’t worry
about it, Sabrina. The weather is terrible. Let me take your coat.” He
holds out a hand and waits patiently while I struggle out of my wool
jacket.
Professor Gibson arrives as her husband is hanging my cheap
coat among all the expensive ones in the closet. It looks as out of
place as I do. I shove aside the feelings of inadequacy and summon
up a bright smile.
“Sabrina!” Professor Gibson calls out gaily. Her commanding
presence jerks me to attention. “I’m so glad you arrived in one
piece. Is it snowing yet?”
“No, just rain.”
She grimaces and takes my arm. “Even worse. I hope you don’t
plan on driving back to the city tonight. The roads will be one sheet
of ice.”
Since I have to work in the morning, I’ll be making that trek
regardless of the road conditions, but I don’t want Prof to worry, so I
smile reassuringly. “I’ll be fine. Is she still here?”
The professor squeezes my forearm. “She is, and she’s dying to
meet you.”
Awesome. I take my first full breath since I got here and allow
myself to be led across the room toward a short, gray-haired woman
dressed in a boxy pastel suitcoat over a pair of black pants. The
outfit is rather blah, but the diamonds sparkling in her ears are
larger than my thumb. Also? She seems too genial for a professor of
the law. I always envisioned them as dour, serious creatures. Like
me.
“Amelia, let me introduce you to Sabrina James. She’s the
student I’ve been telling you about. At the top of her class, holds
down two jobs, and managed a one seventy-seven on her LSATs.”
Professor Gibson turns to me. “Sabrina, Amelia Fromm,
constitutional scholar extraordinaire.”
“So nice to meet you,” I say, holding out my hand and praying to
God it feels dry and not damp. I practiced shaking my own hand for
an hour leading up to this.
Amelia grips me lightly before stepping back. “Italian mother,
Jewish grandfather, hence the odd combination of names. James is
Scottish—is that where your family is from?” Her bright eyes sweep
over me, and I resist the urge to fidget with my cheap Target
clothing
“I couldn’t say, ma’am.” My family comes from the gutter.
Scotland seems far too nice and regal to be our homeland.
She waves a hand. “It’s not important. I dabble in genealogy on
the side. So, you’ve applied to Harvard? That’s what Kelly has told
me.”
Kelly? Do I know a Kelly?
“She means me, dear,” Professor Gibson says with a gentle laugh.
I blush. “Yes, sorry. I think of you as Prof.”
“So formal, Kelly!” Professor Fromm accuses. “Sabrina, where
else have you applied?”
“Boston College, Suffolk, and Yale, but Harvard is my dream.”
Amelia raises an eyebrow at my list of tier two and three Boston
schools.
Professor Gibson jumps to my defense. “She wants to stay close
to home. And obviously she belongs at someplace better than Yale.”
The two professors share a contemptuous sniff. Prof was a
Harvard grad, and apparently once a Harvard grad, always an anti
Yale person.
“From all that Kelly has shared, it sounds like Harvard would be
honored to have you.”
“It would be my honor to be a Harvard student, ma’am.”
“Acceptance letters are being mailed out soon.” Her eyes twinkle
with mischief. “I’ll be sure to put in a good word.”
Amelia bestows another smile, and I nearly faint in happy relief. I
wasn’t just blowing smoke up her ass. Harvard really is my dream.
“Thank you,” I manage to croak out.
Professor Gibson points me toward the food. “Why don’t you get
something to eat? Amelia, I want to talk to you about that position
paper I heard was coming out of Brown. Did you have a chance to
look at it?”
The two turn away, diving deep into a discussion about
intersectionality of Black feminism and race theory, a topic that
Professor Gibson is an expert in.
I wander over to the refreshment table, which is draped in white
and loaded with cheese, crackers, and fruit. Two of my closest
friends—Hope Matthews and Carin Thompson—are already standing
there. They’re the two most beautiful, smartest angels in the world.
I rush over to them and nearly collapse in their arms.
“So? How’d it go?” Hope asks impatiently.
“Good, I think. She said that it sounded like Harvard would be
honored to have me and that the first wave of acceptance letters is
going out soon.”
I
grab a plate and start loading it up, wishing the pieces of
cheese were bigger. I’m so hungry I could eat an entire block. All
day I’d been sick with anticipation because of this meeting, and now
that it’s over, I want to fall face-first into the food table.
“Oh, you are so in,” declares Carin.
The three of us are advisees of Professor Gibson, who’s a big
believer in helping young women along. There are other networking
organizations on campus, but her influence is solely geared toward
the advancement of women, and I couldn’t be more grateful.
Tonight’s cocktail party is designed for her students to meet with
faculty members of the most competitive graduate programs in the
nation. Hope is angling for a place at Harvard Med while Carin is
headed for MIT.
Yep, it’s a sea of estrogen inside Professor Gibson’s house. Other
than her husband, only a couple of other men are present. I’m really
going to miss this place after I graduate. It’s been a home away
from home.
“Fingers crossed,” I say in response to Carin. “If I don’t get into
Harvard, then it’s BC or Suffolk.” Which would be fine, but Harvard
virtually guarantees me a shot at the job I want after graduation—a
position at one of the nation’s top law firms, or what everyone calls
BigLaw.
“You’ll get in,” Hope says confidently. “And hopefully once you get
that acceptance letter, you’ll stop killing yourself, because Lord, B,
you look tense.”
I roll my head around my neck stiffly. Yeah, I am tense. “I know.
My schedule is brutal these days. I went to bed at two this morning
because the girl who was supposed to close at Boots & Chutes
bugged out and left me to close, and then I was up at four to sort
mail. I got home around noon, crashed, and almost overslept.”
“You’re still working both jobs?” Carin flips her red hair out of her
face. “You said you were going to quit the waitressing gig.”
“I can’t yet. Professor Gibson said that they don’t want us
working our first year of law school. The only way I can swing that is
to have enough for food and rent saved up before September.”
Carin makes a sympathetic noise. “I hear you. My parents are
taking out a loan so big, I might be able to afford a small country
with it.”
“I wish you’d move in with us,” Hope says plaintively.
“Really? I had no idea,” I joke. “You’ve only said it twice a day
since the semester started.”
She wrinkles her cute nose at me. “You’d love this place my dad
rented for us. It’s got floor-to-ceiling windows and it’s right on the
subway line. Public transportation.” She waggles her eyebrows
enticingly.
“It’s too expensive, H.”
“You know I’d cover the difference—or my parents would,” she
corrects herself. The girl’s family has more money than an oil tycoon,
but you’d never know it from talking to her. Hope’s as down to earth
as they come.
“I know,” I say between gulping down bites of mini sausages.
“But I’d feel guilty and then guilt would turn into resentment and
then we wouldn’t be friends anymore and not being your friend
would suck.”
She shakes her head at me. “If, at some point, your stubborn
pride allows you to ask for help, I’m here.”
“We’re here,” Carin interjects