Dancing in the Dark

T he letter is laying by my side as I surf through the internet fruitlessly, encountering dead end after dead end in the search engines. Discordia University isn’t listed in any college directory I’ve found, nor can I find a whiff on any blogs or social media sites. It’s like they truly don’t exist—except I can feel the truth in my bones. This place is real and perhaps locating the information is part of my trials for acceptance.

That stuff only happens in books, Kat.

Flopping back on my pillows, I throw my arm over my eyes. I’m no hacker, so it’s not like I can pull some crazy dark web stunt like the smart girl would do on a TV show. Being a loner means I don’t have any friends—digital or otherwise—I can make a deal with to help me. As always, all I have is myself and my brains to help me survive. But I’m doubting that it will be enough.

Dottie drops from the ceiling fan, picking up the letter and waving it around. My eyes widen; I can’t lose that to an animal tantrum. It’s the only thing I have proving I’m not crazy! “Dottie, give me that.”

The kinkajou makes the odd sound, continuing to dance around the bed with it. She clearly thinks she’s playing, but my nerves are frayed and the fear of losing my one piece of proof makes me edgy. I dive for her, but she jumps to the other side of the pillow, waving it again. Eyeing her carefully, I dart forward with a frustrated growl, grabbing the paper from her tiny grasp. The side cuts my finger and I hiss as the paper cut bleeds on it, leaving a print on the snow white surface.

“No!” I wail mournfully as I suck my fingertip and look at the soiled sheet. “Dottie, what did you do?”

Hooting and hollering, the wide-eyed animal pounces on me, wrapping her arms around my neck to hold on. I can’t stay angry; she’s trembling with fear at my shouts. My head drops, shame filling me as I realize my desperation almost made me unintentionally hurt this creature—all in service of some stupid future that means nothing. I lay my cheek against her small head gently, being careful not to rest too much weight on her.

No college is worth losing a piece of my soul by acting like a monster.

Something in my head clicks, and I pause, feeling an odd change within me. Accepting that my vision of the future might not come to fruition without being bitter and resentful about why settles me in a way I haven’t felt in years. It sounds ‘new age nonsense’ when I think about it, but it’s like I finally admitted my path may not be completely under my control. Destiny plays as much of a role in our lives as chaos and butterfly wings; I have to allow myself to be open to possibilities I have never considered before.

“But what the hell does that even mean?” I whisper to myself. “If I’m not in control of my future, does that mean I’m also not responsible for my mistakes? That can’t be right.”

My brows furrow as I ponder the weighty subject and I sit down on the bed again, holding the paper absently. After a few confusing minutes of trying to figure out what the words in my head mean, I look down only to see the bloody print on the paper catch on fire. “Oh, shit, oh, shit!”

Leaping to my feet, I fan the paper like a maniac, terrified that I’ll burn the entire house down and end up in jail. That is not the new future I’m making room for. The fire goes out quickly, leaving a blackened, embossed fingerprint just to the left of the Dean’s supposed signature. I frown, unsure why none of it singed or burned; that seems impossible.

I study the paper as my little friend clings to me, settling back into my seat in front of the computer. Pulling the laptop closer, I put my fingers on the keys and wait. As if by magic, my hands move and the sound of typing fills the silent room. The air in my room thickens, smelling of sulfur and embers, making me swallow hard as I stare at the black screen. Suddenly, a blip on it opens and closes, then a large pewter logo fills the space, spinning madly in the middle.

It’s the same logo on the fucking letter. I did it!

Nervously, I reach for the mouse, licking my lips as I move the cursor towards the wild icon. I have no idea how I made this work or why I suddenly felt the urge to play philosopher, but I know to the marrow of my bones that I have to click this link. Drawing in a shaky breath, I push the mouse button and my eyes slam shut, afraid to find out what I’ve done. Dottie bats her hand on my nose until I open my eyes again and when I do, I see the elegant website for Discordia University laid out for me like a pirate’s treasure.

“No pictures of anything but buildings,” I murmur as I slide the mouse around, letting menus drop. “A place to accept your invitation, I see.”

I choose the section called ‘About Us’ but it doesn’t provide much more information than the letter. A disclaimer at the bottom states that, for security reasons, Discordia’s website is monitored and accessible only from the place you first opened it. I frown, realizing that means I won’t be able to show that dipshit in Guidance what I found; it must be locked to the IP address somehow.

Grumbling under my breath, I continue surfing, hoping to find something, anything , out that would give me a better idea of what accepting their offer would mean, but I can’t. “It’s not like this is the fucking Pentagon; why all the security? And who the hell do they pay to keep it hidden?”

That thought reinforces my belief that it must be some sort of enclave for the rich and famous I’ve accidentally been given access to. If so, I’d be a fool not to accept the more than generous offer made in the letter. None of the Ivies have responded at all and I could get the hell out of this town and this house within weeks if I say ‘yes’ to their scholarship.

How big could the drawbacks possibly be?

I tossed and turned all night, lying awake as I tried to convince myself to sign the paper and then alternately, not to. My cut mishap may have soiled the pristine document, but I doubt it invalidated it. And I’d gotten into their website where I could confirm everything, so it seemed like the answer to my sucky existence here was presenting itself handily, even if it was meant for someone they think is named Kit.

That makes me sit up in bed. The damn thing said elite boys’ school and if I show up as Kat with boobs rather than Kit without, I might lose the sweet deal they offered. Single-sex universities seem archaic for 2024, but rich people are fucking weird. They love doing things in the stupidest way possible as long as it looks good in a press release.

I mean, imagine being a billionaire who claims they own seven sets of the same clothes because they hate decisions rather than saying ‘I’m neurospicy, fuck off.’

Like I said, the wealthy are bizarre and an all boys university with a hidden campus and website is not a stretch at all.

If I’m going to do this, I’m going to need the right accessories to play a role. And since I’ve pretended to be a quiet, compliant foster kid for most of my life to survive, I’m sure I can live through four years of being Kit. As long as I look at it as a short-term annoyance for long-term gain, it will be fine.

Right?

But where the hell do I find what I need? The letter said all the uniforms and shit will be provided, but I’ll need more than that to pass as a dude. I’m smaller than them, which can’t be helped, but I also don’t have facial hair, a dick, or the ability to run around naked in front of other guys. I’m going to need a variety of male shit, plus a very plausible reason to keep myself out of the bare ass zones.

Looking up at the ceiling, I let my mind drift as I make a list of everything from underwear to binders that I’ll need to pull this off. There’s a lot and it will eat up a decent amount of my secret savings. But if I don’t have other expenses, it should be fine. I can do this.

I toss a bit more and finally reach over the snoozing kinkajou to pull out my phone. A few searches give me affordable ideas for some of the stickiest parts of my plan and I hit add to cart without hesitation when I find one of the more expensive items on sale. When the order confirmation for the chest binder comes through, it hits me—I’m really doing this.

I’m going to pretend to be a guy and accept this scholarship, even though it might be an awful plan.

The enormity of the risk floods my veins, and I swallow hard. I have no idea what might happen if I’m caught or what kind of education I’m agreeing to receive for this generous gift. All I know is that I’ll be out of here soon and I won’t have to worry about the twins making good on their threats or ending up working for a year before I can start my future.

Discordia University will be my escape and my salvation—that much I know for certain.

Now all I have to do is keep Dottie hidden until everything arrives Sunday, and I can click the right buttons that will tell them I’ve accepted. It’s only two days and if I get up early, I should be able to sneak out to the library before any of them are awake. The twins attend parties after games and so do my foster parents—everyone should be hungover tomorrow. That will make it much easier to slip out and leave a note.

Flipping back on my pillow, I think about how Blake and Bryce behave. Obviously, I won't pass for a jock, and they’re obnoxious as hell. But their mannerisms are very male and maybe I need to do some serious research into this role when I go to the library. I won’t just have to fool the administrators who admit me; I’ll have to fool all the fucking dudes who go to school there.

Shit. Maybe I can’t do this.

No, I can do it. I don’t have to be the manliest guy on the campus; all I have to do is to be a smaller, nerdy guy who keeps his head down and stays out of trouble. The research will help, but I’m thinking of archaic tropes and that’s not how people operate today. Movies from the 90s and before showed girls pretending to be guys in a way that reinforced stereotypes; we don’t have to do that shit anymore. Guys can be all types and flavors, so thinking I can’t play this role because of my size or lack of care for sports is ridiculous and outdated.

Don’t be an idiot, Kat. You know better than this.

A smile creeps over my face. I won’t have to be in sweaty locker rooms or worry about getting pantsed in the showers. This will be easy as pie—we’ve evolved past that shit even if my Neanderthal foster brothers haven't. Besides, college is a completely different maturity level than high school. I won’t have to worry about all the crap the high and mighty football players do to smart kids or ‘freaks’. This is a place people go to expand their horizons and focus on their future.

My little internal pep talk comforts me and I close my eyes, satisfied that by Sunday, I’ll be ready for my new life.