Begin Again

You know how when you hear the premise of Footloose for the first time and you’re like, “Wow, a bunch of adults seriously banned kids from dancing? That’s ridiculous.” But that’s also kind of like Blue Ridge State in the nineties, because apparently they flat-out banned new student organizations from forming. They said there simply weren’t enough professors to act as supervisors, but according to my mom, a loudmouth journalism major with an uncanny knack for uncovering secrets, it was because the current school president was misusing alumni funds that were meant to go toward student-driven programming. And apparently she said so—right on the air of the school’s radio show that she was hosting at the time.

Somewhat unsurprisingly, she was fired from her role ten minutes later. But instead of backing down, she banded together with some friends, figured out how to get back on the air using an underground channel, and started The Knights’ Watch—a radio show reporting on what students needed to know, but the school didn’t necessarily want them to know.

Over the years it’s evolved into what it is today—less of a rebellion and more of an alternative news source on campus. It’s not part of our broadcast major, so it’s not necessarily school-sanctioned, but school-tolerated. Each of the Knights is known for being outspoken and often critical of goings-on on campus. The current Knight goes on rants about the cost of tuition and the lack of decent work-study opportunities so often that I can’t say I’m not nervous about trying to find one. But different Knights have all had their own things—one was a budding comedian, another was super into discovering local bands.

My mom’s “thing” as the Knight was the first-ever Knights’ Tour. The school had banned new organizations, but not events. So when a group of students came up with the idea to go behind the school’s back and start new organizations on campus, and wanted to throw the administration off with scavenger hunts to access information about them, my mom gave them a platform. She would announce the day of where people were supposed to meet off campus. Then she’d go and participate in the ribbon hunts herself.

That’s why the ribbons always had a certain lore. My mom laid hers out on her dresser right alongside all the family photos. She had enough to qualify for any of the societies, but every time I asked her which society she ended up in, she’d tap me on the nose and say it was a secret. That I’d find out when I was older.

Turns out, as a nod to the secrecy of the organizations when they first started up, it’s tradition for members not to reveal themselves unless you qualify first. It’s part of the reason why I was so determined to get in right now instead of waiting the year out—second semester freshman year is the only chance to participate. After all these years, I might finally get to know which society she was in, and what it meant to her. What it could mean to me.

That is, only if I collect enough ribbons for all three.

Shay and I are interrupted by the pinging of my phone. It’s Connor, responding to a text saying I’d be at the kickoff event and then class, but would call him later.

Shit, his text reads. I’m gonna miss the whole ribbon hunt, huh?

My stomach drops.

“Yikes,” says Shay. “What’s that face about?”

Oh, nothing. Just the pit of my guilt opening up into an endless abyss. “My boyfriend—he wanted to collect ribbons, too,” I explain.

“Ah,” says Shay. She knows as well as I do that you can only participate in the spring of your first year here. “That sucks for him.”

I perk up so fast that Shay looks around us in alarm, like I’ve spotted a predator. “I could collect ribbons for both of us,” I realize. “Right?”

Shay scrunches her nose. “I guess. I don’t think they check how you got them.”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

I nod more to myself than to her, saying it out loud like I can speak it into existence: “I’ll just go to as many events as I can. Get enough ribbons for me and for him. Then he’ll come back next semester and everything will be back on track, just like we planned.”

We reach the fringes of the crowd in the middle of the quad and Shay veers slightly to the left, in the direction of the main street in town. I clutch my bag harder to myself, uneasy with leaving it this way. As far as first impressions go, this is probably not exactly painting me in the most flattering light.

But Shay just sighs. “Look, I’d warn you not to pin your life plans on someone you’re dating, but maybe that’s just a lesson you have to learn for yourself.” Shay shudders. “Like me switching into AP Gov for my ex-girlfriend senior year. God, I hope that textbook is burning in hell.”

“I’m not pinning my plans on him,” I say quickly, grateful for a chance to clarify. I stand up a little taller, which is to say, as tall as a five-foot-one person can. “I already have an entire life plan mapped out. I also just know that he’s part of it.”

Shay looks amused. “Okay, I’ll bite. What’s your life plan?”

I suck in a perilously deep breath, and commence the elevator pitch for the next two decades of my life. “I’m going to be a therapist. I’ll get my degree in psychology, my master’s in clinical psych, then for the first seven to ten years it’ll be strictly patients and me building up a presence as my advice-giving alter ego on social media through my syndicated advice column, and then I’ll evolve to writing my memoir from there.”

I actually have a lot of air left over, but I breathe it out. There used to be more to that dream. I was going to be like my mom—have a whole public persona, one I could use for good. It was maybe precocious for an eleven-year-old, but I had a mom in the business, so back then my plan was set: I’d book some podcasts and local spots, get an agent, and work on my brand as a relatable expert in the field until I could be a personality. I’d leverage it into getting interviews on morning talk shows, posting on social media under my own name, becoming a full-known force of nature. Maybe even start a talk show of my own.

But I moved on from those parts of the dream a long, long time ago.

“Wow,” says Shay when I’m done. “Imagine having even half that much figured out. Couldn’t be me.”

I only gave her the SparkNotes version, but there’s a line between mildly alarming and fully alarming someone, and Shay and I don’t know each other well enough yet to risk crossing it.

Her face settles into an uneasy expression as she looks out at the quad. “I mean, I can’t even decide on a major.”

“Well, we’ve got time, right?”

Shay gives a quick shake of her head. “We have to apply for one by the end of the semester if we want to keep our work-study benefits.”

Right. I forgot about that. I was so stressed out trying to secure myself a spot in the work-study program before the semester started that I skimmed the rule about deciding on a major—I’ve never had to wonder what mine would be.

I square my shoulders and beam at her like I can use it to will the crease between her brows away. “In that case, we’ll just have to start workshopping ideas for your major tonight.”

Shay cracks a smile. “Oh, will we?”

“Yes,” I say chipperly. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s problem-solving. And Shay can be my first crack at doing it with an actual person here. “After dinner. I’ll have an idea board ready.”

“An idea board, huh?” says Shay in amusement, like she’s trying to decide if I’m exaggerating. We’re interrupted by the bells starting to ring in the tiny little church on campus, warning us that ten o’clock is fast approaching. “Gotta jet. Good luck with Hutchison.”

The fact that she knows my stats professor by name despite never taking one of her courses does not exactly bode well for my academic future. I feel a flutter of fear in my rib cage and bleat out a “Thanks.”