If there's one thing I've learned about moving day, it's that no matter how much money your family has, everyone ends up looking like a stressed-out contestant on a reality show called "Who Packed This Box and Why Does It Weigh 200 Pounds?"
Case in point, my dad is currently sweating through his golf polo, trying to angle my marble jewelry box, yes, marble—don't ask, through the apartment door while muttering something about how "the moving guys should've handled this, not me."
My mom, meanwhile, is standing in the middle of the living room, surveying the apartment like it's a chessboard she intends to dominate.
"This place is... fine," she says, drawing out the word like it has three syllables. "Are you sure it's safe? And close enough to campus?"
"Mom, it's literally five minutes away from the Yale gates. And it has a security system. And, oh yeah, it's not a dorm. Which means I won't have to share a bathroom with twelve girls and a rogue hairball named Greg." More like 5 minutes drive really, but I'd rather have a personal space than share.
She raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. "Greg?"
"Don't ask. You don't want to know."
My dad grunts as the jewelry box finally thuds into place near my bedroom door. "Next time," he says, straightening up, "you're getting a normal plastic one like other people."
"Other people don't have my standards," I shoot back, flipping my hair.
Behind me, Marie snorts. "Correction, other people don't have your ego."
I turn to face her, narrowing my eyes. Marie Blackwood—my cousin, my chaos twin, my sometimes co-conspirator, sometimes mortal enemy and one of my bestfriends—is perched on the arm of the couch, sipping a Diet Coke like she hasn't lifted a single finger today. Which, of course, she hasn't.
"Ego keeps me alive," I say. "Without it, I'd just be another random girl dragging her Target bedding into a Yale apartment, crying because she forgot her shower caddy."
Ash laughs from the kitchen, where she's unloading dishes into cabinets. "For the record, I brought my shower caddy. And Target bedding. And I didn't cry. Yet."
"Give it a week," Marie says. "She'll cry when she realizes how much reading Yale professors assign on the first day."
Ash throws a sponge at her.
Welcome to our Ivy League adventure I guess? three girls, one apartment, two parents who don't trust me not to burn the place down, and a lease so expensive I'm pretty sure my dad negotiated it just so he could feel like he was closing another deal. Which made me think, isn't buying a house better?
Once the last of my boxes are stacked in my room and my dad has stopped threatening to invest in a moving company just for "next time", my mom finally turns her attention to me. She smooths her blazer—cream again, because apparently, that's her moving-day color—and fixes me with the look.
You know the one. The "I'm about to deliver a life lecture, so stop rolling your eyes" look.
"Selene," she says, in the same tone she uses when explaining rook strategy to her students, "college is a test. Not just academically, but strategically. Every decision you make here will determine your trajectory. Who you befriend, how you spend your time, the opportunities you seize—"
"—and the ones I allegedly 'squander,' yes, I've heard this speech before." I lean back against the counter and pop a grape into my mouth. "Relax, Mom. It's not like I'm going to throw my life away to join a circus."
Her eyebrow arches higher. "The chess club is not a circus, Selene."
"Tell that to the kids who wear matching knight hats."
My dad steps in, closing his phone. Miracle. "Your mother's right about one thing, though. Yale is an investment. You're here to build your future, make connections, set yourself up for what's next. So keep your focus. Don't get... distracted."
Translation: don't fall in love, don't party, don't do anything fun unless it's somehow tax-deductible.
I hold up a hand. "Got it. Study hard. Network harder. Don't make out with anyone whose last name doesn't come with a trust fund. Message received."
Marie chokes on her Diet Coke, coughing and laughing. "Oh my God, please do make out with someone broke. I need the entertainment."
My mom shoots her a look sharp enough to cut glass. Marie just shrugs.
Finally, after one last round of "are you sure the locks work?" and "call us if you need anything," my parents leave, chauffeured away in the black SUV they arrived in.
The apartment is suddenly quiet. Peaceful.
I flop onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. "Is it weird that I feel like I can breathe again?"
"Nope," Marie says, plopping down beside me. "It's called freedom. Savor it before midterms strangle you to death."
Ash appears from the hallway, holding a box labeled 'Selene – Desk Stuff.' "So, how does it feel? First day of Yale. No more Riverside. No more parents watching your every move. Just... us. And, you know, thousands of strangers who are probably smarter than us."
I smirk. "Correction, smarter than you. I'm untouchable."
Marie tosses a throw pillow at my head. "Untouchable and insufferable."
"Same thing."
The rest of the afternoon is a blur of unpacking, rearranging, and debating whether or not we actually need a rug for the living room, which we don't, but Ash insists it "ties the space together". By six, we're sitting cross-legged on the floor with takeout containers, staring at the mountain of flattened boxes like they're the enemy.
"This is it," Ash says, raising her chopsticks like a toast. "The start of a new era. Yale, here we come."
Marie clinks her Diet Coke against Ash's chopsticks. "May we survive without flunking, bankrupting ourselves, or accidentally setting the apartment on fire."
They both look at me.
I feign offense. "That toaster thing was one time. And the kitchen survived!"
"Barely," Ash says, laughing.
I glance around the apartment—our apartment. It's not huge, okay it kinda is, but it's modern and bright, with tall windows overlooking the street and just enough space for three girls to not kill each other. For the first time all summer, I feel... excited. Like maybe this isn't just some step in the Blackwood Master Plan. Maybe it's mine.
And yeah, maybe it's cliché, but something about this city, this school, this moment feels like the kind of thing that changes you.
Which is equal parts thrilling and terrifying.
I lean back against the couch, smirking at the ceiling. "So... first impressions of Yale?"
Marie shrugs. "Hot guys, overpriced coffee, and professors who probably hate us already."
Ash nods. "Accurate."
I grin. "Perfect. Let's conquer it."
Because if there's one thing I'm good at—besides chess openings, packing too many shoes, and turning any room into my stage—it's figuring out how to win.
And Yale?
Yale doesn't know what's coming.