He Drugged Me for Her Harvard Dream

My head throbbed, heavy as lead. It felt like someone was holding me under deep water, every breath echoing with a dull, muffled thud.

I struggled to open my eyes. Boston’s freezing November rain was lashing against my bedroom window.

The clock read 9:00 AM.

I had less than thirty minutes until my Harvard Early Action virtual interview.

I bolted upright, but an unnatural wave of dizziness crashed over my brain. The sensation was way too familiar—exactly like the heavy sedatives I had to take when I was sick.

But I’d been off those meds for six months.

I stumbled into the bathroom, desperate to splash some cold water on my face.

But the second my eyes hit the mirror, I froze. My blood ran cold, and the chill seeped straight into my bones.

The person staring back at me looked like a grotesque clown.

My waist-length hair—the hair I’d painstakingly grown out for three years and styled every single day to hide the rounder face I was so insecure about—was gone.

In its place was a jagged, botched mess. It looked like it had been chewed off by a dog. Tufts stuck up at weird angles; other spots were practically bald.

The sink was choked with chopped golden-brown locks, looking like a pile of dead weeds.

My hands were shaking violently. My gaze dropped to the edge of the vanity, landing on an empty glass of milk.

Last night, Henry had brought that very glass into my room.

"Sloane, don't stress about the interview tomorrow. Drink this, get a good night's sleep. We made a deal, remember? I'll see you on campus at Harvard."

His smile had been so gentle, just like every other promise we’d made over the last ten years.

I believed him.

I drank the milk.

Now, staring at my hideous reflection, feeling the lingering effects of the drugs in my veins, it all clicked.

I didn't have time to cry.

I grabbed a pair of scissors and frantically hacked away at the jagged ends until it was somewhat even around my ears.

Then, fighting through the dizzy spells, I dragged myself to my laptop and clicked the Zoom link for my Harvard interview.

I have no idea how I survived those forty-five minutes.

The interviewer’s expression morphed from expectant, to confused, and finally, to thinly veiled pity and impatience.

My brain felt like rusty gears grinding together. The hangover from the sleeping pills made me stumble over even the most basic logical statements. The personal pitch I had prepared for several months, the one I had revised countless times, came out as a fragmented, incoherent mess.

"Thank you for your time, Sloane. We'll be in touch."

The moment the screen went black, I knew. My Harvard dream was dead.

I didn't cry.

I quietly shut my laptop, threw on a coat, and walked out the door.

I had to find Henry. I needed an explanation. Even if it was a lie.

I didn't make a sound when I pushed open the door to our usual corner café. The high backs of the booths blocked my view, but I heard their voices.

It was Henry. And Madison.

"You actually cut her hair? Oh my god, Henry, you're insane!" Madison giggled, her voice dripping with undisguised smugness.

"Truth or dare, babe. I picked dare, had to follow through." Henry sounded so nonchalant, even slightly amused. "Besides, with how fat she’s gotten, what's the difference between long and short hair? It’s not like she’s pretty either way."

"But she had her Harvard interview today. And you spiked her milk with sleeping pills? Won't she bomb it?"

"So what if she bombs?" Henry stirred his coffee, totally unfazed. "Madison, haven't you been stressing about your resume not standing out? That you'd get rejected Early Action?”

“Look, Harvard only takes like one or two kids from our school. If Sloane's out of the picture, that spot is practically yours. She’s got the grades, she can just go to some state school. But you need Harvard."

My stomach violently dropped. Hearing the scrape of a chair and footsteps, panic seized me. Not ready to face them, I quickly slipped into the café's restroom and locked myself inside a stall.

Just as I pressed my trembling hands against the cold door, the main restroom door swung open. Two girls from our high school walked in, their voices echoing off the tiled walls.

"Hey, did you hear? Henry actually chopped off that fat pig Sloane's hair!"

"Holy shit! Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. He specifically bought those pills to spike her drink. He wanted her to bomb her interview to clear the path to Harvard for Madison."

"Damn... that's actually kind of messed up for Sloane."

"Messed up? Please," the first girl scoffed while turning on the faucet. "Who told that fat pig to be so delusional? She's obsessed with Henry and was standing in Madison's way for early admission. She totally deserved it."

"Right? Like a pig like her ever had a chance with Henry," the second girl chimed in, laughing. "Everyone knows Henry and Madison have been a thing for ages. He only tolerates that fatty because of their families' business ties."

"It's hilarious. Did she seriously think Henry would ever look twice at her? Has she even looked in a mirror lately?"

Their raw, undisguised mockery pierced my ears like a thousand needles.

So that was it.

Childhood sweethearts, our Harvard pact...

It was all a lie.

I didn't storm over and throw coffee in their faces. I didn't scream or demand answers.

I just took a quiet step back, turned around, and walked back out into the freezing Boston rain.

The rain beat down on my chopped hair. It was freezing.

But for the first time, it felt like the thick fog that had been blinding me finally vanished.

I pulled out my phone and dialed my mom's number.

"Mom," I heard my own voice say, as eerily calm as dead water.

"What's wrong, Sloane? How did the interview go?"

"Mom, I need you to go over to Henry's house and call off the engagement. Right now."

"What? But..."

"No buts. But I have one condition. Don't let him know just yet."