My chest tightens as I join the line. It's my first day of orientation. Most everyone around me is clean-cut, suits and polos. My hair hangs to my shoulderblades, and I'm wearing ripped jeans and a t-shirt with Sisyphus pushing a boulder.
The woman in front of me turns around. She says she worked in consulting. She's sponsored. I ask what that means. She tells me her firm pays for the degree if she goes back. Most don't want to, yet most go back anyway. She asks what I did. I tell her I was a journalist once.
"Huh, that's different. What are you majoring in?"
"Not sure. I plan to take whatever looks interesting."
"Oh," she says, and turns back around. I wipe my sweaty palms against my jeans and pick up my name tent. It's misspelled. The man at the desk prints me another.
Did I make a terrible mistake? I'm about to put my career on hold and spend a down payment on a degree. The last thing I need is anxiety about fitting in.
I'm at my work desk: three monitors on a cherrywood table. It's still COVID.
"You all know how the market's faring," I say into a mic. "I'm sorry, but at the end of today half of you won't be here anymore."
The call erupts into goodbyes, swapping stories and compliments. Many talk about how much they loved working here — how much they liked working for me. I turn off my camera because my face is damp.
After the call, I walk down to the stoop and stick a cigarette between my teeth. I let it burn to the stub. Then I light another.
The next few months are an onslaught. Class trips, recruiting, socials, conferences, academics.
I sat in the front row because I liked to learn. Got a house in the suburbs instead of living with everybody else. Recruited for consulting, loathed it. Didn't bother with banking after learning about the work culture. I was an oddball.
Yet I found Wharton was full of people from different companies and countries, all here for the same reason. And most were willing to offer their help.
I didn't have a master plan. Instead, I learned how to play rugby and became one of the captains. TAed more classes than I should have. Campaigned for class president and lost.
Now in my final semester. I've learned from experts in their fields, I've made friends I trust.
But I don't know any of that. That's a year and a half from now. Right now it's still my first day. I check my watch: 3:20 AM. I'm on a classmate's balcony sipping coffee, still sticky from clubbing. To my left is a broad-shouldered man, a former Army pilot; to my right is an Indian woman, about half my size, a former financier.
"Spent ten years moving around and listening to orders," he says. "Now I'd like to do what's right for me."
The two of us nod.
"So why are you here?" she asks.
"I'm not really sure yet," I say, looking into my coffee. "That's why I'm here."
She laughs. "You'll figure it out."
I smile at her. "Yeah, I usually do."
We go back to looking at the city lights, elbow to elbow.