Written by: Jenna Ulizio
Winner of the 2026 Aetna Prize for Creative Writing for Children & Young Adults
The Oil Burns at Both Ends
PROLOGUE:
The party was classy, expensive, and the best networking of the year, and Carson already wanted to tear her skin off. They hadn’t even done the official remarks, yet.
Carson had found herself a nice wall in a respectably crowded room. Trustee Manor was all dark wood panels, ornate late fixtures, and carefully concealed innovations to maintain the illusion of a bygone century. The parts of the old house used as administrative offices got (tactfully) closed off, and the guests of the Honors Convocation filled the foyer and connected lounges. Administrators, donors, and a smattering of students and professors mingled in the study around her. Carson was perched between an end table and a window overlooking the Great Lawn. She’d sneaked out of enough windows in her life to be tempted to slip out of this one, but there were too many witnesses. The logical option would be to drift closer to a conversation and sneak her way in, not quite welcome but tolerated. It would pass the time, but the thought of talking to any more people right now had her skin squirming.
She rubbed the cheap lanyard cord between two fingers. Occasionally, a knuckle brushed against the plastic placard, the one she’d considering editing with a marker. All of the scholarship honorees were wearing one. In theory, it would help donors find the students they were supporting, but as Carson had learned last year, most of them did not come to the reception. It was more relief than anything else; she’d been plagued by visions of meeting the name behind her scholarship. In this fantasy, the donor, a middle-aged man in an expensive suit and a hairline that refused to recede, swept a gaze over her once. Then without a word, like a king in a castle, he had her removed, and the hypothetical gate to Hypatian University closed behind her. Dramatic, but she could not shake it, as if that gaze was already raking over her.
A quick glance at her weathered wristwatch confirmed what her squirming skin already knew: she’d been lurking in this particular perch for too long. She breathed out hard, running it through her cropped hair. When picking this spot, she’d miscalculated. There was only one exit, back out into the main reception hall. Carson was certain that Professor Martin was going to be here, she could ask her about her book. That would actually be an enjoyable subject, rather than rehashing her own work from last year.
Shadows flickered as she drifted out of the lounge, the dull clamor of voices rising. Despite the fire hazard, Honors Convocation still used real candles for decoration. The normal incoming student convocation held earlier that weekend only used plastic, battery powered candles. Apparently only honors students were trusted with flames.
Trustee Manor was not intended for such big events, and even with tables draped with table clothes and covered in silverware and a sleek podium, the evidence was obvious. Voices bounced around the room, immediately grating. Carson had never mastered event small talk, and suddenly there was no way to understand what someone next to her said, much less for them to hear her. She steered herself closer to the charcuterie spread table. More cheese was necessary to make it through this evening.
Last year, she’d managed to convince the student caterers to send her home with the leftovers. She was parsing together a plan for a repeat offense when a voice stopped her, turning her hunger to nausea like a light switch.
“Miss Carson. I was hoping to speak with you for a moment.”
Carson startled, like she’d snuck in past curfew, made it to the final step of her creaking staircase, and then a door opened down the hall. She masked it quickly as she turned.
“Director Cartwright. Of course.” The 14 year old Catholic school girl still scampering around unchecked in her felt the inane urge to genuflect. Director Cartwright was a tall woman, and she still insisted on heels. Ramrod straight blond hair fell past shoulders that never sagged. Even her smile felt ironed and pressed, all the warmth starched out. And of course, the almost anachronistic slate gray gloves, her signature. The director of Hypatian University’s esteemed honors program– the home of every student that hungered for something even more than an elite degree– ruled with an iron fist. That wasn’t Carson’s choice of words; people saw the gloves, learned the director’s reputation, and went with the phrase.
Director Cartwright had studied psychology, and from what Carson could tell, she’d studied it within an inch of its life.
It was her miles-long list of academic credentials and a library of research papers that worried Carson now. Director Cartwright could have Carson thrown out no problem, iron fist or no. She’d only met with the director a handful of times, all of them routine for the honors program or scholarship proceedings. The same feeling from those meetings crept up on her now. Like she was wrestling with some creature with no manners or house training, and if she didn’t keep it throttled, she’d explode. Or something. It was never clear what would actually happen, but she knew it would be messy and revealing.
The director just leaned a little closer due to the noise. “Could you accompany me to my office?” Carson felt her heart rise to her throat, choking her. Her white dress shirt was old, a little small, but even the collar hadn’t choked her like this. The room became smaller with each pump of her heart. The dread was staggering, but the only reason she kept her feet was the strange twin surge of relief. Well, they’d finally figured it out. It had been nice while it lasted, but at least she didn’t have to worry about her act, now.
She refused to let the panic show on her face. “Of course.” And now she was repeating herself. Thankfully, the director just nodded and turned, cutting a clean line through the crowd. Carson followed in her wake, mind reeling.
What had done it? If anyone looked at her academics and resume, she’d never be suspected of anything. It had to be parking services. How they had finally figured her out, she had no idea. Had they totalled up all of the parking tickets she was supposed to have and used the scholarship to pay them off? Shit, no, that was stupid.
Director Cartwright was taking them around the edge of the room, where the candles strained to cast any light. That would have been fine, to be led into the shadows and have her future slaughtered– if it wasn’t going to take them right around the honorees table. The freshman cohort hadn’t moved, keeping to themselves, not hiding their awe at the proceedings. The upperclassman table had, like Carson, scattered for the most part. She quickly surveyed those still sitting there, looking for–
Loose black curls, swaying as the woman they were attached to laughed. Of all the ways this night could get worse. Carson did not look away fast enough to avoid eye contact.
Carson had to admit Shannon Ramos was smart. She was probably brilliant, given the circumstances. They had the same scholarship, after all. She was most certainly infuriating, unserious, and nosey enough to see Carson trailing the director of their program and just raise an eyebrow.
Carson could lie and say that getting thrown out of Hypatian University would be okay. However, the indignity of Shannon Ramos watching it happen?
She should have slipped out that window, after all.
Still, she felt a little satisfaction to watch that (perfectly plucked) eyebrow drop as Shannon frowned.
The immediate drop in volume as they crossed into admin offices was a balm to her jangling nerves. She was thinking a little clearer now, enough to come to terms with the fact that parking services was probably not going to be her demise. Dread, maybe, had been too strong an initial reaction. She had no evidence this was going to be bad. The certainty still twined around her stomach, squeezing. There was little evidence to the contrary, either. Carson was nothing but an often correct pessimist.
The hallways were dim as they walked passed closed door after closed door. The fine wood and dark decor had ended a hallway back, coming into ugly beige carpeting and dull walls. Every office’s lights were off. Carson’s heart thudded out of time, trapped between her heavy steps and the tight clacks of the director’s heels. She pulled hard on her lanyard, feeling the cheap material dig into her neck. Her dress shoes pinched at her toes. Carson tried to focus on the way the heel of her shoe rubbed her skin raw, right through the hole in her sock. That only made her feel worse, so she retreated back to her thoughts.
“Usually when I do that I get all sorts of confessions.”
It took conscious effort for Carson to remember to keep walking. From the corner of her eye, she saw that the director was grinning. It was like they were sharing a secret.
Carson blinked. “A trick.” The phrasing, her sudden appearance. Of course.
“Just a little game. You’re not in trouble, I promise.” The director stopped at a door, pulling out a key. Carson swallowed back the first response she thought of, about how you have to agree to play a game, first, but, well. Price of admission, and all that.
The door swung open, and Carson once again followed the director. “Your reaction did not disappoint. It was exactly how I thought you might react.”
“I didn’t think I had a reputation.” The director’s office was filled with files, but unlike most offices Carson had been in, they were contained to shelves and filing cabinets. Every surface was meticulous, absolutely nothing extra. One could say it was devoid of personality, but Carson was sure this was the personality. Besides from the gleaming desktop, a mug for pencils, and an ergonomic keyboard, the dean’s desk was completely clean. On the wall next to the small window, hovering over the director’s shoulder, were several framed diplomas. Yale, Harvard, and of course, Hypatian. Carson could recognize those names from a room away. Who needed a painting on their wall or kitschy decoration when they had something like those?
As Director Cartwright sat, she leveled Carson with a dry look. “Everyone I’ve talked to raves about you.”
Carson took her cue to sit. She realized this was the prelude to a compliment with the same dawning dread she’d felt earlier.
“A fearless student. Ambitious. Tackling matters head on and refusing to stop. It’s a joy to have a student as assured as you. The scholarship board was convinced you don’t sleep.”
A beat passed as Carson processed the words. The fact that the director of the honors program was complimenting her work, even knew her work, it was breaking her brain. She was not good enough for that. And yet, here she was. Every sleepless and hungry night had gotten her here.
The words never sank in. They were absorbed and then upset her stomach further. She made sure to smile a little wider and stop it from becoming a grimace.
“Thank you, Director Cartwright.”
The dean waved a hand, as if at some invisible pest. Carson realized that her words were the invisible pest. “No need for formalities. I’m merely congratulating you.” Carson focused on keeping her hands firmly clasped in her lap. It took conscious effort not to spin her watch around her wrist, relishing in the drag of the worn leather. The director would notice.
“I’m just grateful for the continued support.” The response was as knee-jerk as I’m fine to a How are you or a Piss off to a frat boy cat call.
“Where would Hypatian be without scholars like you?” Carson was not sure if she was meant to answer it. The director swiftly plunged ahead. “I’ll release you back to the festivities soon. I always like to pick one or two students for a chat.”
Carson was in a sink or swim moment. To keep floating, she had to let go of something. Divesting herself of a pleasant persona freed her up to keep kicking. “And what about me is so intriguing? You could say what you just said to any of the other students in there.”
The director laughed. “Because you surprise us. I do not think I have to explain why.” Carson didn’t respond. That was the story she’d written for them. Price of admission.
With Carson’s silent support for that thesis statement, Director Cartwright continued, “I want to see what more you can accomplish in your time left.”
“I wrote about the Washington internship.” Carson typically did her best not to think about all the parts of her she’d served on fine china in service of application essays.
“It seems,” the director gave her another smile, as if they were friends, as if that wasn’t the most destabilizing thing in the world, “that you have your whole life planned.”
Carson shrugged. “I like to drive, my car radio broke in high school, and suddenly I had loads of time to think.” The director laughed as if Carson had just shared a charming anecdote.
“How are you feeling going in to your second year? Many think it will be easier than the first.”
“I can survive just about anything.” It wasn’t even a boast. Carson’s lip twitched at the inside joke. Her mirth evaporated, a flash storm in a desert, a puddle drying under the blazing, unmoving expression of the director.
“You should know– I’ll be watching your progress closely this semester, Lucy.” Carson winced, just a little, feeling childish. It was her name; she couldn’t pitch a fit every time someone actually used it. “You’re on the path to great things.”
Carson really wished she could settle for a platter of smuggled cheese and the reception ending early as great things. Instead, she thought, Why else do you think I’d doing this to myself?
“I’m looking forward to it.” Carson curled her hands on the armrests to rise.
The director raised a gloved finger. Maybe her mannerisms came from a very specific job training video. “Ah, one more question.” Her expression seemed rueful, but her eyes sparked with interest.
Carson knew, with cold, clammy clarity, that the director had been waiting for this moment.
“Your arm.” Another gesture. Carson resisted looking down. Her hand curled around her wrist, fingers pressing into the metal of her watch. The office was quiet enough that if she focused, she could hear it’s soft ticking like a second pulse. She’d gotten enough questions about the thing, since it was so clearly for a man. The story she’d fabricated was on the tip of her tongue. But that’s not the question the director asked.
“I didn’t take you as someone interested in tattoos.”
Sweat broke out on her body so immediately it almost hurt. Her lungs sucked in air like she’d been struck. This time, she couldn’t stop herself from looking down. Her already too-short sleeve had ridden up.
Carson looked back up at the director. What reaction was she giving her, this time?
“It’s personal.” Carson bit back the involuntary, titter of manic laughter at her excuse. “I didn’t think something like that mattered to the program.”
Cartwright finally smiled after a long moment. Satisfied as a cat with a mouse in its claws. “I was merely curious. I won’t pry.” Carson’s stomach sank as if she’d just reread an assignment and realized she’d missed a step. She knew when she’d failed a test.
“I’ll let you go. Enjoy the rest of the evening with your peers. I’m sure you have a great deal of work to do.”
Carson forced herself to laugh. “Too true. Thank you for your time. I’ll make sure to keep things interesting for you.”
“I have no doubt.”
Carson’s last glimpse of the director, while closing the door: perfect posture, smiling warmly, a single finger tap, tap, tapping against that empty desk. The sound was barely dulled by glove.
The hallway passed her in a daze. She only stopped once she’d turned a corner. In an instant, she’d ripped her sleeve up her arm, not even bothering with the button. The long black mark, soaked into her skin like an ink splotch, sat where it had for the past week.
Personal, yes. A personal problem. Carson had no idea where it had come from. She did know that, when she’d left for the reception, it hadn’t been long enough to peak out from her sleeve like that.
She stood there, staring at her arm. Then she looked down the hall, where the light of the reception hall glowed.What had the director said? That she refused to stop? Carefully, Carson tugged her sleeve back down, smoothing the wrinkles. She would handle it eventually. For now, she had a great deal of work to do.