She is so indulged in revelry that she almost does not realize when her boots dig into someone’s foot in the crowded room. She turns to sincerely apologize before she’s swept into them, narrowly tripping over herself; a split second of a forgettable interaction. Until a hand stabilizes her.
“Wow those boots are a bit much. Don’t know why you’re so proud your mascot is an ugly color”.
Her eyes whip around to stare down the boy standing above her, gripping her hand tight. He was stifling a smirk, staring at her with a judgemental face that she was already sick of as he pulls her up. Classic Yalie. She quickly glances down to her beautiful cherry red knee-high boots, which she bought just for The Game tomorrow and probably would wear once a year, at most. She had no interest in entertaining him, but it was too late for her to think, and tonight she was a bit too careless.
“Because an ugly dog is so much better?!” she impetuously quips, in shock of his bluntness. She personally did find bulldogs repulsive, and he was no different. She dropped his hand.
Yes, she would admit the boots were a touch obnoxious. But they weren’t nearly as obnoxious as his navy sweater emboldened with a white Yale logo—which there was literally no reason to be wearing at midnight on a Friday. There he stood in his preppy sweater that did, at least, complement his khaki pants and sleek blond hair. She decided he probably was obsessed with philosophy and played golf or some other pretentious hobby. She wanted to leave.
“The real shame is that you’re sporting the worse team.” He shoots back. His eyes soften just the slightest bit when he meets her gaze. She can’t resist responding to that. She’s the most competitive person you’ll ever meet. And so is he.
“We all know Harvard is going to win.”
“No shot. They lost last year.”
“I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you. I can’t be seen fraternizing with the enemy.” She’s half joking and half not as she pretends to turn her head away in disgust, but he grabs her wrist and pulls her back laughing to himself, revealing his genuine smile.
“Too late. I can’t wait to see you tomorrow—when you lose” he jokes. And so begins their night full of debates and arguments over which really was the better school. They fight over who has more p-sets and whose clubs are more impressive. She, with much satisfaction, has the higher grade in their shared CS50 class. He claims Cambridge is overrated, and she scoffs and claims Connecticut as a whole is irrelevant. They argue over who has better parties and prettier architecture until their fighting eventually turns to conversation of their ambitious dreams. And, putting aside the staggering difference in their quality of education, they were truly one of the same; they were both Econ majors after all.
They trickle outside at some point, too absorbed in themselves to say goodbye, and he walks her back in the brisk November night. They’re almost as tipsy as they are stubborn.
“I’d offer you my sweater, but I’m assuming you wouldn’t take it.” He points to the ‘Yale,’ faintly illuminated in the moonlight, as she shivers slightly in the breeze.
“God no. That would be treachery.” Her deadpanned face tries to hide her grin as she crosses her arms.
“As if navy isn’t the prettier color anyway.”
Somewhere they are being made fun of, and in a week she might be horrified by this night, but for now she brushes aside their rivalry. They inanely argue over the better color (crimson, obviously). Their hands dance around each other, pleading to intertwine. They inch towards each other, they wish tonight was endless. And for just one fleeting and ridiculously embarrassing moment, she can’t help but wonder how navy would look on her.
See you tomorrow. She falls asleep, holding onto the promise of his words, knowing she shouldn’t. He was a preppy Yale boy after all.
—
Football had never been more enjoyable to her—she watched passionately, eyes glued to every play, all in anticipation of the satisfaction of being able to rub it in his face when Harvard won. The game itself was a back and forth fight. No one would be the first to slip, biting back at each other for control. Across the field, he watched too, wondering where she was in the stands. He decided to slip out, too distracted when all at once, Harvard scored the winning touchdown with sixteen seconds left.
It was an uncontrollable frenzy as the crowd made its way down the stands. Euphoric chaos erupted to surround her, but it was the thrill of finding him that ran through her until she heard his unmistakable voice.
“I knew I recognized those boots”. This time she ignored his preppy outfit when she turned to look at him, a laugh escaping her grin before they could even lock eyes. He stood at the other end of the steps, calling up towards her.
“And I knew we would win.” She beams with the greatest accomplishment as if she had scored the winning touchdown herself.
“Oh please. We’ll crush you next year.” He’s decked out in even more Yale apparel, and she is drowning in crimson.
“You can dream.” She blows him a kiss, and then she’s swept away with the crowd, and he remains standstill, faintly blushing, and then they were both gone. Back to rivals and strangers.
Until next year.
Meena Behringer ’27 (meenabehringer@college.harvard.edu) 10/10 recommends finding yourself a Yale love story this weekend.