Noted

Chapter 1

For a surprisingly sunny morning in early November, it was without a doubt much colder than I had anticipated. Not thinking about all the blocks I'd have to walk to get to campus, I had only thrown on a red trench coat along with my favourite oversized blue plaid scarf before leaving that day. It felt like winter had defiantly arrived and I was freezing from my head, down to my leather Chelsea boots.

I decided to walk up 4th Street, passing through the usual morning rushed crowd. I had only a few more tiptoes left to take before entering through the large and familiar doors of The New York University.

"Y'a don't even need to tell me, Miss Moore." Daniel,  my favourite food-truck guy, said with a toothy smile. His spot was directly on my way to school and he knew exactly how I liked my coffee, I found that to be very convenient.

"Thanks, Danny!" I said, as I took the large warm cup into my ice cold hands.

I walked up to the large doors and swung them open. They seemed to have become a lot heavier every time I went to open them. I took a step into the school and almost stopped for a moment. I had been there about a million times since the beginning of the semester, but this time it felt completely different. I continued to stroll along in admiration. I swore I could smell success... and brainiacs. I felt at home. I don't know why I was having a sudden revelation, maybe the weather, or I was in a good mood for the first time in weeks. Normally, I'd just power walk through the crowds and never look up so I'd avoid eye-contact with everyone I'd cross, but today I'm smiling at unknown faces.

I almost felt like I was seven again, when my parents would bring me here and I wouldn't stop begging for something from the school's merchandise shop. Life was much more simple when all I wanted was a NYU hoodie.

This school used to be the only thing I ever wanted, but times have changed. At the end of last year, my family had experienced some difficult times, and I missed the deadline for application week. Although it was the most important thing I had to do all year, I somehow didn't notice that the it had passed until days later, after going back to school where I was asked if I had already been accepted. People would ask, "Ready for NYU?" or say, "See you in September!" That's when it hit me that I had screwed up everything. My father, his father and his grandfather, all went to NYU. It wasn't an Ivy League university, like Columbia which is where all of my friends had got accepted, but it was my family's legacy. I had to mourn the idea of being in a secret society club with my elite friends and going to overly exclusive parties, ...so many parties. NYU was always a conversation at family gatherings. My relatives wouldn't ask me about my interests or friends or my part as Tinker Bell in my elementary school play, but about what was going to get me into that university. My dad, and all of my family, expected me to follow in the family's well-known footsteps. It was tradition.

It took all summer, ten parties and many distractions later to help me get over the thought that I wasn't going after all. I didn't want to face the reality of my parents finding out so, I had spent the summer of 2017 with my best friend, Rebecca Copeland, in the Hamptons. We did what every teen with their parent's credit card would do. We drank, we partied and we met a lot of boys. For Rebecca's big 18th birthday party, (she called it Big 18th because for her, every year was big and needed to be celebrated as such), I remembered being surrounded by all my friends and seeing the sunrise, I had never felt more carefree in my entire life. It was her party but it felt more like a giant goodbye to senior year and all my friends from High school. I never wanted to leave that beach. I had so much fun from those two months with Rebecca and her family, that walking back into my prison of responsibility I called home was quite depressing.

Yes, my family was one of the lucky ones. We were the perfect "all-American family" you always heard about. My father, Philip Moore, was a former contributor for The New Yorker and became a well-known television anchor. He was as influential as he was rich, so when he sent a letter of recommendation to the dean of administrations about how his daughter absolutely needed to attend that semester's classes, it surpassed all of the heartfelt letters from my high school teachers, along with their point of views were nothing compared to a personal hand-written letter from "the" Philip Moore. He was disappointed in me but he didn't say much. He just told me that he was going to fix my mess.

I didn't ask him how he was going to manage to get me a spot for the semester, but I had a feeling he was going to solve it the only way he knew how solve most of our family issues; with connections, with manipulations, and with money. I hated the thought of him buying and manipulating my way into university, especially one for which I had so much respect. I always hoped it would be my writing skills that would win me a spot over the rest of the applicants, but this time the thing that tipped the scales in my favour would have to be my father's  wallet.

Someone shoved me out of the way, snapping me out of my thoughts.

"Rude!" I called out to them but they were already far enough to not hear or care. Then, I realized I had no clue where I was going.

"Need help?" someone asked as they tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to be faced with a relatively attractive and young looking professor. At least, I assumed he was a professor since he was holding what seemed like graded essays all marked in red, and he was dressed –in my opinion– too formally to be a student. "Are you lost, Miss...?" he added, as he analyzed me for a second.

"Quinn Moore." I answered for him. "I'm not lost, I'm a student here. My mind was just somewhere else." I said, I looked away from his gaze. He wouldn't stop looking into my eyes with every syllable I said, I didn't like being observed by strangers.

"Right, Miss...Moore." he said, he seemed uneasy.  He switched standing position and scratched the back his head. "What class are you on your way to?" he asked, trying to take a peek at my schedule that was folded between my books. I tipped my belongings towards my chest, I mean, it was private.

"Auditorium 3B. For, Journalism 101." I said, which was a joke, there was no such thing as a class called Journalism 101. I simply didn't want him to know, and it wasn't any of his business. Yet, he didn't even question it. "Anyways, I should really get going." I said, pushing past the young professor.

"Good Luck!" he called out to me, but I didn't respond.

How long was I in the grand hall? The time had passed by way too quickly. I had to run to class, while holding way too many books and a coffee the size of my head. It was definitely a challenge.