by Shenda Paul
I have had three relationships, though. The first and longest had been with Natalie Jones, my high school crush. No promises were made; each of the girls and I, without discussion, simply fell into an exclusive dating pattern. None of those relationships lasted longer than six months, mainly due to me, because the moment I sensed they wanted more, I ended it. I didn’t intend being a bastard; I simply didn’t want to prolong a misunderstanding. Matt calls me a serial monogamist, and I suppose the description fits because I don’t condone cheating. I just don’t get why people do that. Why enter into a relationship only to cheat?
I haven’t met someone I’ve felt I wanted to make a long-term commitment to, but the fact is, I’m not ready for one. It’s just too distracting, given my goals. Maintaining a relationship could have been possible while in college, I suppose, but, by all accounts, my studies over the next three years will all but consume my life. Making a commitment to anyone while in law school would be the height of stupidity in my view.
And so, here I am, on orientation day, my first official day at Harvard Law School, at the start of what I’ve been warned will be the most grueling year of my academic life. “It’s not like your freshman year in college,” Will, HLS graduate and now a colleague of Mr. Greene, our family lawyer, said when taking me on a tour of the school.
“Attendance isn’t optional, and you can’t get by with rewording a professor’s presentation. You’ll be expected to wade through mountains of reading material—I mean hours and hours until your eyes glaze over and your head spins.
“And then, even if you’re lucky enough to have remembered everything you’ve read, there’s no guarantee you’ll get a good grade. You can’t just regurgitate things; you’ll need to apply what you’ve learned to test cases, and grades are based entirely on the results of one exam at the end of the semester.
“And another thing—don’t depend on support from other students, because, despite what everyone tells you about camaraderie, this place is highly competitive. Almost everyone turns into an asshole!” he added for good measure.
His comments surprised me because, although, I expected and was prepared to be challenged academically, I didn’t think it would be that different to college. There, I’d coped with the workload, achieved the grades I set out to, and still had time to casually date and spend time with my friends.
But Will’s wasn’t the only warning I received. Everything I read on the subject seemed a repeat of his words. So, after talking it through with Mom and Dad, I decided to find a One L tutor to work with through the summer. One L, that’s what Harvard first-year law students are called, I discovered. With Dad’s help again, I found Jenna, a retired, lawyer. I liked her immediately; she has a no-nonsense attitude, calls a spade a spade, and doesn’t gloss over the truth.
“You’ll find out about the good bits soon enough. What I don’t want is for you to be ill-prepared for the things that will make a difference to you graduating or not,” she said at our first meeting.
Since then, Jenna’s helped me to better understand what I’m in. She’s schooled me on what she says are some the toughest legal concepts I’ll encounter in my first year. We discussed the differences in our adversarial legal system where the courts act as an impartial umpire in the contest between prosecution and defense versus the inquisitorial system, which many other countries adhere to. In that system, the courts play an active role in investigating the facts. We debated the merits and pitfalls of each, and we spent hours, days really, discussing and then testing each principle she introduced. They were, as she’d promised, challenging, some more than others, but I found myself fascinated by every aspect of the law and spent almost every free hour trying to absorb as much knowledge as I could.
I refused so many invitations to go out that Ian and Alan accused me of turning into a nerd. I ignored them, knowing they were only joking because we’re all pursuing our dreams. Matt’s always been fascinated by old buildings. “Everyone uses them, but hardly anyone thinks about who built them. Something of those people remains in those places even hundreds of years later. I can feel it, you know? I want to do that—leave something solid behind when I’m gone,” he said when, just before graduating high school, we talked about what we wanted to do. Matt now has a degree in construction engineering.
Ian studied hospitality management and works in a pub he intends buying from his uncle when he retires. Alan, car crazy as ever, is now a mechanical engineer. His dream is to own a luxury car and restoration business one day.
The difference between their current situation and mine is that they’ve either started or are about to embark on their careers; I still have three years of study ahead of me. So, over summer, while they were out enjoying themselves, I was hard at work with Jenna, preparing for this day. Of course, that wasn’t the only preparation. After earning my undergrad degree, I’d had to the tedious task of completing and then submitting applications for eight law schools, the top six, plus Boston College and Pen, which I included as backups. Overkill many, even my family, said, but I’d been hell-bent on taking no risks.
I received my acceptance from HLS in March, and, with it, my other applications became moot. Then, I had to arrange housing, parking, submit a locker request—the list seemed endless.
Mom’s delight that I’d be attending Harvard and staying in Boston was dashed by my announcement that I planned to live on campus. It sparked yet another round of lively discussion within my family. Dad supported me, saying it would be good for developing independence. I know he’d also been secretly pleased because he had, on more than one occasion, expressed concern about Ian and, particularly, Alan’s partying ways and the possible negative influence it may have on my studies. Mom, of course, was vehemently opposed to me leaving home. “You managed while in college,” she pointed out.
Cait, seeing the argument as a precedent for her future independence, tried to argue that living on campus was key to staying focused. “Stay out of this, Caitlin; I know what you’re up to,” Mom warned, having seen through her ploy.
In the end, and only after I’d repeatedly promised to come home each week, Mom relented and promptly assumed the task of researching accommodation. Then, having presented me with her findings, she ignored my protests that I’d be happy to share a bathroom. Mom insisted on a large, single room in North Hall because, there, every dorm has a bathroom. I said a standard room would be fine, but she ignored me again, waving the completed application under my nose to sign. She also suggested, and Dad, probably not wanting another debate, agreed that I should move to a studio apartment at Mass Avenue in my second year. Mass Avenue is one of three Victorian houses converted into student apartments. Only returning students are eligible to live there; otherwise, I have no doubt, Mom would have insisted I apply to move in immediately.
“Mom, I’ll be perfectly happy with the large room at North you’ve just sold me on,” I said.
“Adam, do you remember how much work it took to get into law school, how you kept telling Cait to turn her music down, to not stomp around—how much privacy you just recently argued you’d need to study?” Mom asked.
“Yes, of course,” I said.
“Well, you’re going to need much more to get through law school; so don’t argue,” she answered, and I shut up, knowing when I’m defeated.
Mom and Cait embarked on several shopping expeditions, for mattress covers—after discovering the dorm mattresses have a plastic cover—bedding, towels, and toiletries. They also bought cleaning products, a fan, a laundry basket, even a plant because, according to Cait, “The apartment needs a living thing; goodness knows, you’re hardly human these days.”
I thought most of the items were unnecessary, but, again, kept quiet, knowing they were as much for Mom’s peace of mind as they were for my comfort. I moved into my dorm room, yesterday, and my family arrived in force to help me settle in. Laden down with more things Mom thought would make me feel ‘more at home’, their bounty included basic food,
snacks, and enough homemade cookies, I swear, would last an entire semester.
When they left after wishing me luck, and after Mom had me promise, yet again, that I’d visit the following weekend, I wandered around the space that would be home for almost a year. I familiarized myself with where everything had been stored, and then reread the pamphlet I received in the mail some weeks ago. In it, One L’s are instructed to report to the designated administration building at ten o’clock for registration preceding the start of orientation and some preliminary instruction. During the familiarization program, which takes place over three days, we One L’s, will have the school to ourselves. Upper-year students will arrive over the weekend, in time for the start of classes on Monday
Satisfied that I understood what to do and where to go in the morning, I showered, silently thanking Mom that I didn’t have to wait in turn to use a bathroom. I settled down to watch T.V. and reminded myself that it would probably be one of the few, if not the last, occasion I’d be able to indulge in that pastime for a while.
I slept remarkably well and woke early, grateful for the coffee and supplies Mom and Cait had provided. After breakfast, I showered, got dressed and then read over the keynotes Jenna had helpfully given me. That was twenty minutes ago, too early, then, to leave. I passed the time by making my bed and cleaning the cramped space Mom called the kitchenette—Cait would be impressed.
It’s still early I realize as I shut my door, but what the hell, I’m too nervous to wait around. It’s obvious, though, when I arrive, that I’m not the only one eager to get the day started because the administration building’s bustling with students. I’m welcomed and handed a wad of forms on entering, and then another person, who asks my name, directs me to a classroom, where, I’m told, students in my section are gathering.
Each year, One L’s are divided into seven sections, each around eighty students, depending on intake numbers. So, I’ll be sharing all my classes with the seventy-nine people I’m about to meet. The only exception will be in the spring when we’re required to undertake a single, elective course.
Outside the room where section three—my group—are assembling, I join the disjointed line of students. “Abandon hope all who enter here,” the guy ahead of me comments wryly, and I can’t help smiling.
“Justin Wade,” he says, offering his hand.
“Adam Thorne,” I tell him, shaking it briefly.
Inside, the rest of my section, my colleagues, potential friends and, if Will is to be believed, my rivals, are settling in. Some have gathered in small groups to talk, but most are seated, sorting through the documentation in their orientation packs. I spot a guy, Doug, I know from my undergrad class, and I’m about to make my way over to him when someone else I know joins him.
Heather’s the best friend of Kelly, a girl I’d been seeing on and off about eighteen months ago. I wouldn’t call what Kelly and I did dating because I’d never actually asked her out. We met at a party and, well, one thing led to another. We ran into each other on several occasions after and enjoyed a repeat performance. I liked her, but after our third or fourth hook up, I suspected that she’d had a change of heart and wanted more. Kelly was upset when, the next time we met, and she invited me back to her room, I told her as diplomatically as I could that it wouldn’t be a good idea. She hasn’t spoken to me since, and, Heather, naturally, supported her friend and also stopped talking to me.
To avoid any awkwardness, I sit across from them out of her line of sight. Justin takes the seat beside me and, again, initiates conversation while we complete the seemingly endless registration forms. I learn that he earned his post-grad degree in philosophy from Harvard. “So did I; political science,” I say.
“I considered it; in fact, I was pushed to do it but refused. I endure enough politics at home, but more than anything, I wanted to piss my father off,” he says, smiling at what I can only imagine must be a memory of one or more such occasions. Realizing that he could be related to Senator Joshua Wade, I ask.
“My father,” he answers. “He has ambitions for me to follow in his footsteps; well, I share those goals. We just differ on how I should achieve them,” he adds with another knowing smile.
I learn that Justin and his friend, Tom, are also rooming in North and are planning a move to either Mellon Street or Mass Avenue in their second year. “That’s him,” he says as a guy enters. He looks around, spots Justin, and makes his way over. The seats on either side of us are taken, so he slips into the row behind us.
“Thomas Martin,” Justin performs introductions, “this is Adam Thorne.”
“Hey,” he says, “call me Tom,” and takes my extended hand. Justin tells him I’m also at North.
“Are you planning on staying there for the duration?” Tom asks, and I tell them I’ve applied to move to Mass Avenue the following year.
“Great,” Justin answers. “I sense we’re going to be good friends.”
Somehow, despite his apparent sincerity, and both his and Tom’s friendliness, I hold reservations. Justin’s a Wade and he and Tom, I’ve learned, have been friends since childhood. We don’t run in the same circles, and I’m not sure we have enough in common to become friends. Also, I can’t help recalling Will’s warning about almost everyone at law school turning out to be an asshole.
Chapter Eight
“I can’t wait to get out of here,” Tom announces, echoing my sentiment as we leave our contracts lecture, the last before Thanksgiving.
It’s been nearly three months to the day since orientation, and everything I’d been told about the exhaustive coursework, the endless hours of reading, the pressure, the ever-present awareness of the need to succeed has proven true. There were times when I’d been so tired, my brain so fried, that I fell asleep fully clothed only to wake, shower, and do it all over again. About a month in, wondering how I’d cope, I called Jenna, who repeated the advice she’d given me before. “As busy as you are, as impossible as it seems to spare the time, you have to take a break, Adam. Mingle with your classmates, also other students because you’ll need to escape the law vacuum to survive.
“How often have you seen your family?” she asked, and I sheepishly confessed that I’d skipped going home on occasion, choosing, instead, to stay on campus and work for fear of falling behind.
“Could you have read at home?” she asked.
“I could have, I suppose,” I admitted.
“There’s no supposition, Adam. You may not have gotten through as much, but you would probably have remembered more because of the mental relief interacting with your family provides. Those breaks, no matter how small or infrequent, are necessary. Doing things other than studying is vital to your capacity to cope. The trick is to recognize which activities have the potential to become distractions and which benefit you. You’re smart and disciplined; you’ll soon learn the differences.
“And, most importantly, remember it’s a marathon, not a sprint. Everything you do now is to prepare you for your final exam—that’s the one that counts,” she reminded me.
I followed Jenna’s advice and made a concerted effort to get to know members of my section other than Justin and Tom. I introduced myself to other residents in North Hall and occasionally wandered down to the communal living room for a break. I even ventured into the wider student community, where I met and befriended two students—Brooke, in the last year of her pre-med degree, and Max, who’s studying English Lit. We now meet for coffee for an hour each week. Sometimes, one or more of their friends joins us. I’ve even succumbed to Tom’s constant requests and attended a party with him and Justin.
I’ve been careful to keep my social activities to a minimum and despite the opportunities presented, I have, with the notable exception of that one party, refrained from acting on the opportunity to have sex. It’s a far cry from my undergrad years, but I keep telling myself I can abstain. “It’s not forever,” I remind myself each time Tom regales us with tales of his exploits. So, I’m back to
being well acquainted with my hand. It saves me from temptation; well, it’s a piss-poor substitute for sex, but it takes the edge off and allows me to stick to my study regimen because every day counts toward being prepared for that crucial, final exam.
“Are you doing anything special, Adam?” Justin interrupts my thoughts.
“Spending time with my family and friends,” I tell him. “What about you?”
“Well, unlike you, I can’t wait to get away from my family, so on Friday Tom and I are joining a friend, who has the use of their parents’ Hamptons home. You’re welcome to come,” he offers.
“There’ll be a houseful of hot, eager women—just what I need to end my sexual drought,” Tom adds gleefully.
“You managed to fit in plenty of sex over the last months, despite your constant complaints about our workload,” Justin laughs.
“Not nearly enough, but sure as hell more than you two,” he goads. “Justin, at least, has gotten himself some, although, in my view, he’s still not capitalizing on the opportunities. But you—I don’t know how you can refuse so many offers. What the fuck’s wrong with you?” he asks me.
“I like sex as much as the next guy, but I’m not about to jeopardize my studies,” I tell him, not for the first time.
Justin, Tom, and I spend a lot of time together; we get along well, and we have become friends, just as Justin predicted on that first day. I was also right in my assessment that we don’t have a lot in common. The fact that we live in the same building, are members of the same section, attend the same lectures—our overall shared experiences at law school—are the things that drive the friendship.