#*uni au

Over to Chrome where she furiously tapped in a url, then a name with a venomous jab of her thumbs. She glanced up as she stalked along the sidewalk, narrowly avoiding a puddle and coming to a stop on the corner as the streetlight switched red.

She ducked her head, focus turning back to her phone. A text preview dipped down from the top of the screen eliciting an arched eyebrow, but she swiped it away in favor of scrolling down the screen to a freeform text field. Without hesitating, her fingers flew, stopping only to resolve red underlines that felt particularly personal at present. 

Professor Ridel has no sense of personal boundaries and inserts himself in his students’ lives. He enjoys feeling intellectually superior and exacerbates minor mistakes in order to feed his ego. Positive reviews can only be from class favorites. I find it concerning that–

“Watch out!”

Distracted, Frances felt more than saw the rush of air from a bike zipping by, followed by cold, wet dawning horror as it splashed her with a torrent of water.  

She was left blinking through sodden fringe at the bicyclist’s retreating back, his earnest “Sorry!” ringing in her ears. 

__

Hell wasn’t fire and brimstone, it was cheap vinyl seating, motivational posters and increasingly inane Likert scale questions. 

8. Do you choose to read magazines or short articles rather than longer books and novels?

Frances glanced around the relatively empty waiting area and tugged her powder blue ball-cap lower over her brow before scratching a circle around strongly agree.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap—

9. Do you avoid work projects or courses that require extensive reading?

She reread the sentence once, twice, before circling strongly agree once more.

Tap-tap-tap-tap-tap—

10. Do you read slowly?

Tap-tap-tap—

“Christ, would you please.” Her gaze snapped to the left in a glare, leveled at full force behind the shades of oversized black sunglasses.

The jiggling knee of the man sat several seats away slowed to a tap…tap…tap before finally granting her blessed silence. He stared at her, or rather at her hat. “I didn’t realize people here even knew the Tar Heels existed.” 

Frances blinked, struggling to make sense of what had been said, let alone what the man was referring to. The slow molasses drawl of his voice blurred vowels and consonants. “What in God’s name are you even talking about? I’m wearing trainers.” 

The door to their right opened and a portly woman with owlish glasses stuck her head out. She brought her clipboard within an inch of her nose, then squinted at the few students that dotted the room. “Ms. Fitzroy? Fran—”

“Yes!” Frances jumped to her feet and strode over before the woman could read out her date of birth and address as well. Hell, she might as well shout one of Frances’s credit card numbers while she was at it. “Present, thank you.” 

“You can come on through,” the woman said with an overly familiar pat to France’s arm. “Did you finish your survey? Professor Ridel included a few notes with his referral but we do like to get a baseline first...”

__

Brooks’ was decidedly stickier when viewed through sober eyes. She would have to fix that. 

The pub was subdued; they were caught in that awkward time between lunch and dinner. There was some game on– the wrong kind of football –and the only person watching was a man with curling brown hair posted at the bar. Frances settled herself several chairs down and after a brief argument with the barman about what constituted “good” gin, felt prepared to pull out a printout of an email she had received earlier that day. 

The ink at the top of the page blurred slightly, dampened by the water ring behind by her gin and tonic, but it was still legible. Different blanks on the form had already been pre-filled, her name, her email, the name of the diagnostician. She frowned, looked away, then forced herself to look back. Out of the corner of her eye, she peered at one particular blank, just above Describe the accommodations you believe are needed:

Diagnosed disability: Dyslexia

Frances tossed back her drink and signaled for a second. 

“I know. This isn’t our season.” 

The interruption came from the man who had been watching the tv. He grimaced, eyeing her empty glass then nodding at the screen, where men in powder blue uniforms knocked their heads together at full force in pursuit of a ball. She identified with the feeling. 

She flipped the paper to keep him from peeking at it. “I don’t know you.” She was seventy– no, sixty-percent certain. The rounded sound of his voice tickled with familiarity. 

They settled on the couch, shoulder to shoulder and alternating scoops of gelato, Frances adding in sips of wine here and there. The comfortable silence that blanketed the flat could only be the consequence of obligation fulfilled. Pretense slowly fell away with each bite; Frances’s feet ended up on the coffee table, Archie’s bowtie came undone. 

Frances set her empty wine glass aside and picked up her phone instead, scrolling idly, nose wrinkling or eyebrows lifting from post to post. Photos from the White’s formal were slowly rolling in. Every now and then her phone would twitch over to like an image. 

She switched over to her own photo album, scrolling through snapshots of the night. Posed photos to send to Judith and her mother, less family friendly ones taken with the other girls in the bathroom, a few candids. Mid-swipe Frances stopped and went back several pictures. 

It was a candid taken during just before dinner. Archie was gesticulating, hair slightly disheveled and cheeks a touch pink from too much brandy before eating. She was watching him with a smile on her lips, chin lifted, clearly pleased at having provoked a response. 

All the, hrm, good girls are being taken.

She tilted the screen so Archie could see. Blue eyes smoked out at the edges studied him, gauging his response as she asked: “Should I post this one?”

She stuck her silver spoon in her mouth to free up both thumbs and refocused her attention on the screen after a beat, moving back over to instagram, selecting the photo and then running through various tags. Hair by Salon 64, dress Alex Perry Pagett Midi, lipstick Charlotte Tilbury Kiss & Tell, and so on until she had fully taken herself apart piece by piece. 

A quick caption, can neither confirm nor deny the occasion, and with a final tap the photo was catapulted out into the world. 

She watched notifications pop up one by one, waiting for a username that mattered.

@grscmb1 and 2 other people like your photo 

She pulled the screen down. The refresh wheel spun. 

@vfletch and 20 other people liked your photo

She sent a pointed string of emojis to a text from Margaret that had arrived earlier in the morning asking if she wanted to study, then opened the Uber Eats app, already navigating over to her order history through bleary eyes the moment the home screen loaded. The order from last Sunday was already at the top of the page, waiting for her to tap ‘reorder’. She obliged without double checking. It was always the same: a McMuffin each, two hash browns (one for Lucy and one for Frances that was really also for Lucy), a black coffee Frances would pretend to drink, the toffee latte they would actually share. 

Provisions acquired, she slipped from the bed, pausing once upright to give the room a chance to stop spinning. The path to the bathroom was impeded by abandoned heels, a black silk slip, a lacy dress, and a fallen canvas, still wet with gesso. 

After a brief staring contest with the toilet (she won), she moved to the sink, immediately cringing at her reflection. She was more Frannie than Frances at the moment, with knotty hair piled into a poor excuse for a bun, undereye circles made darker by flakes of day-old mascara and– 

She reached up, brow furrowed, and rubbed at a smear of red on her cheekbone. It looked distinctly like the shade Lucy had worn last night, Kiss & Tell. 

Her phone chimed, signaling her delivery was on its way. She hastily brushed her teeth and went out into hall to slip on a pair of slippers and large black sunglasses. The intercom buzzed. She stumbled toward the front door and was greeted by the sound of a camera shutter. The resulting ding! of her phone in her hand had her swiping at the accompanying Uber Eats notification instinctively. 

The delivery driver gave a wave she didn’t return before ducking back into his car. Frances was too busy staring at a photo of herself, framed in her doorway, hungover and bug-eyed in Prada whilst sporting an oversized Wimbledon tee, a hickey peeking out from the stretched out collar. Charming. 

She collected the McDonald’s bag and drink tray the heinous photo had confirmed were delivered and headed back to Lucy’s bedroom. She was awake and propped up in bed, the tinny sound of disparate audio clips suggesting she was scrolling through Instagram or TikTok. Frances was too distracted to discern which, fixated on the pink smudge of YSL 43 at the corner of Lucy’s mouth. 

Frances fished a napkin from the paper bag and approached the bed. “Clean yourself up, Needham, you drooled in your sleep.”

The lipstick was unwittingly wiped away and Frances exchanged Lucy’s crumpled napkin for a latte and hashbrown. There was an uneasiness in her stomach. 

“How much do you remember about last night?” 

Lucy gave a questioning hum, then a more satisfied one at the first sip of caffeine.

Relief, then an odd sense of disappointment. “I thought maybe–” Fitzroys were well-practiced in capitalizing on opportunity and Frances had the distinct sense that one was passing her by, but the pounding in her head made it difficult to figure out why. “Maybe you had thoughts on Janet’s generous interpretation of smart casual. I don’t know why Tony brought invited her, he could do better.”