Chapter Text
The train screeches as Agatha stumbles into another student, her backpack throwing her off-balance as the train slows. Agatha stays upright, thanks to the press of bodies in the train. The T is packed, all seats taken and people stuffed inside like one of those Tokyo commuter videos with conductors shoving new occupants inside an already overcrowded train. Agatha curses her blazer and slacks. Who decided that law school orientation should require business professional dress? Fuck that guy, Agatha decides.
Agatha tumbles out of the train when she reaches her stop. She fluffs out her hair, which sticks to the back of her neck, courtesy of the late-August heat. After checking the maps app on her phone, Agatha crosses the train tracks to a concrete paved quad surrounded by buildings. Maps pointed her here, so which one is the law school? The one that looks like a cathedral? Agatha notices a wave of try-hard looking 20 somethings crossing the quad to a brutalist monstrosity of a building. Yep, those are law students, Agatha huffs as she matches pace with the crowd.
Once inside, Agatha breaks away from the flood of students. God forbid she be made to engage in small talk before the impending ice breaker nonsense begins. Agatha strides down the hallway, goes up a flight of stairs, and scans the room numbers as she passes classroom after classroom.
At Room 223-B, she stops and checks the itinerary the law school admin sent to her email. The welcome reception will take place in Room 223-A, according to the itinerary. Agatha doesn’t see a room with that label, but hell, maybe the reception is in one of those huge auditoriums that gets split by portable wall panels into two smaller classrooms.
Figuring it can’t do any harm, Agatha steps into the room. As she suspected, it’s clearly half of a larger auditorium, the seats arranged in a quarter-circle angled toward the front of the room. A few people sit scattered, listening to a nasal-voiced woman who speaks from a podium in front of a blackboard. Agatha slides into a seat. She’s early by at least 30 minutes, so nobody should be presenting yet. Lawyers do love to hear themselves talk, she smirks to herself.
Agatha scans the room, not bothering to listen to the woman speaking. Her gaze catches on a woman sitting in the back corner of the room. Instead of the traditional suit, the woman wears black slacks and a matching suit vest with nothing underneath. Agatha can see stilettos peaking from beneath the woman’s desk. A moment too late, Agatha averts her eyes and runs her hand through her hair. The woman already noticed Agatha ogling. She raises an eyebrow, smirks, and pokes her tongue in the side of her cheek. Agatha’s breath hitches and feels a flush spreading up her neck. Well, she thinks, law school is gonna be a lot more interesting than I hoped.
Agatha jumps as a soft touch lands on her shoulder. Whipping around, she sees a middle-aged woman, likely a professor, crouching next to her.
“Good morning sweetheart, I think you might be lost. This is the teachers’ prep meeting, before we address the incoming class. Can I show you to the right room?”
Agatha allows herself to be led out of the classroom, around a horseshoe-shaped hallway, to a doorway identical to the one she’d just left. This doorway is surrounded by welcome banners and balloons. The hallway is crowded by a long table filled with name tags for each student in attendance and school swag. Agatha’s guide whirls away, trotting back to the prep meeting. Her shawls drift behind her, bangles rattling with each step.
Seeing as she’s now barely on time, Agatha snatches her nametag from the few left on the table. She skips the swag, figuring pens and notepads can’t be that important. Agatha opens the classroom door as quietly as she can - this is unnecessary, she realizes, as a buzz of conversation fills the classroom. Of course future lawyers would waste no time and get straight to networking.
Desperate to find an aisle seat, fewer people means less smalltalk, right? Agatha slips into a seat near the back of the classroom. She immediately regrets this decision. A reedy boy with curly dark hair whips around to face her, eyes bright. He has already exhausted their other neighbors - two well-to-do Ivy League graduates (obvious by their school branded athletic backpacks) pointedly turn from the boy and pretend to be engrossed in a private conversation.
“Hi! I’m Billy! I mean, I’m kinda trying to go by William now because my dad says I need a serious name to be taken seriously as a lawyer, but everybody calls me Billy already so why fight it, right? Maybe I could make the switch to Will or Bill but I dunno, they give straight vibes so I’m not so thrilled to go by those. Anyway, aren’t you so excited?! I hear the dean will be presenting, and there’s gonna be a practical lecture from one of our 1L professors, who’s apparently a total shark. I tried so hard to read all the opinions from the case we were assigned, but I couldn’t make heads or tails of the reasoning. Why in the world would SCOTUS decide to randomly aggregate the impact of one farmer’s crop to allow the federal government to regulate interstate commerce? If you can even call that interstate commerce…”
Agatha’s eyes glaze over by the time Billy says his second, third, or fourth potential name. Her face is slumped against her left hand, which is propped up on her desk. By the time she comes back to herself, she jolts upright, realizing she probably has a bright red mark imprinted on her cheek from the heel of her palm. Billy stares at Agatha expectantly.
“Sorry, what? I missed whatever you just said.”
“I asked what your name is! And are you from around here? And where did you go to undergrad?”
“Oh. Ah. My name’s Agatha. That’s… all you need to know.”
“Sure, totally valid, it’s nice to meet you Agatha. You’re so right, there’s no way we’re gonna know everyone here on the first day, I mean who even knows if we’ll be in the same section? What section are you in, anyway?”
Agatha pulls out her phone and opens her email. “Uh, section two, I think?”
Billy’s exclamation goes ignored as a very pretty redhead turns in her seat to face Agatha.
“Oh my god! Section two you said? Same here! I’m Wanda. Wanda Maximoff. It’s so nice to meet you! I’m sure we’ll be fast friends.”
Agatha frowns. Wanda pays no attention to Billy and zeroes in on Agatha. When Billy pipes in complementing Wanda’s Princeton University Athletics backpack, Wanda fakes a smile and rolls her eyes at him. Wanda’s already trying to pull a Mean Girls, Agatha realizes. A swell of annoyance rises in Agatha’s chest as she suddenly feels protective of the boy.
Billy’s overzealous commentary is finally interrupted when the auditorium lights dim and a man in a suit approaches the podium. That man is apparently the director of admissions, welcoming them all to Boston University Law School. Agatha zones out. If anything important happens, she’s sure Billy will poke her out of her stupor.
The director of admissions drones on about his pride that their class year is one of the most diverse in school history, pointing up at a PowerPoint slideshow complete with a word cloud showing each U.S. state or foreign country that the students are from. Notably, by far the largest (and therefore most common) words are Massachusetts and New York. Perhaps this class isn’t as diverse as the school wants to think. Agatha rolls her eyes, head propped on her left hand again. She’ll definitely have a mark on her cheek by the end of the day.
The law school dean then makes an appearance, briefly congratulating the incoming class and wishing them well as they begin their 1L year. The students then get a short break. Billy insists on getting himself and Agatha coffee from the refreshments station outside the auditorium, so Agatha pretends to be busy on her phone to avoid talking to Wanda.
By the time Billy settles back into his seat, four professors are seated at a table at the front of the auditorium, panel-style. On the far left, a gorgeous Black woman sits with perfect posture in a light pink pencil skirt and blazer. Beside her sits a balding middle-aged man who looks like he would rather be anywhere else. Next is the hippie-looking woman who escorted Agatha to the correct auditorium. The final chair is occupied by a mousey woman whose eyes sparkle as she waves to various students in the audience.
Agatha leans forward in her seat, propping her chin on her intertwined fingers. She prepares to zone out again, will the school be providing lunch? until she sees the person moderating the panel. It’s the same woman from the teachers’ prep meeting. Agatha’s eyes widen as she hears the woman call the room to order with a low, authoritative voice.
Agatha pays almost zero attention to the rest of the panel, unless the moderator is speaking. She hadn’t bothered to listen when the moderator was introduced, and Agatha mentally kicks herself for not learning the professor’s name. The moderator introduces each member of the panel, and Agatha learns that their names are Professor Jennifer Kale, Professor Clint Barton, Professor Lilia Calderu, and Professor Sharon Davis.
Agatha’s mind wanders again as Professor Sharon Davis monologues in a squeaky voice about the importance of teamwork. Agatha’s gaze falls on a girl on the opposite side of the auditorium. The girl is wearing a button-down and slacks, but it’s paired with a black leather jacket instead of a blazer. She further stands out because her black hair has been bleached and dyed red in a streak framing her face. The girl seems similarly disinterested to Agatha; her posture looks rapt, she sits on the edge of her seat and leans toward the panel, but her eyes look glazed over and her mouth hangs open. Agatha tracks her gaze and thinks the girl must be staring at Professor Kale. Agatha smirks and bites the meat of her hand to stifle a snort. At least she’s not the only one who’s hot for teacher.
The panel ends sooner than Agatha would have liked. It certainly was the highlight of orientation so far. Agatha dazedly watches the moderator turn from the audience to speak with the other professors. Damn, she has an ass. Agatha startles as students around her rise to their feet. Bewildered, she looks at Billy.
“Did you not hear? They told us to break for lunch. We’re supposed to go to the esplanade for buffet fare.”
Nodding as if she totally knows what’s going on, Agatha rises and follows the wave of students outside. The esplanade turns out to be a swathe of green space sandwiched between Boston University campus and the Charles River. Adirondack chairs are scattered around the grass, and sunbathers lay on beach towels to tan. The law school has set up buffet stations surrounding a concrete courtyard which leads onto the esplanade itself.
Agatha mindlessly follows Billy, dishing up various pasta dishes and salad. She and Billy station themselves in some adirondack chairs away from the crowd of students. Billy, it seems, is very food motivated and is content to leave Agatha to her thoughts while he devours two platefuls of fettuccine alfredo. Agatha picks at her food. She accidentally served herself eggplant parmesan instead of chicken parmesan. Rookie mistake, who wants to eat eggplant parmesan when given a choice?
As Agatha cranes her neck to see the buffet tables and decide if she should brave the crowd to get a less mushy pasta option, she spies a nervous figure approaching. Why did she pick this spot? WHY did there have to be three available chairs? The person draws closer and Agatha sees that she’s a pretty girl with dark hair and a cleft in her chin. The girl stops five paces away from Agatha and Billy, hesitating before she introduces herself.
“Stop hovering. It’s annoying,” Agatha bites out.
“Sorry, so sorry, I just didn’t know if I should intrude. You two are students, right? Like, for law school orientation? I’m Kate Bishop. Is it okay if I sit with you?”
Billy looks up from his (now empty) plates and grins at Kate Bishop. He has parsley stuck between his front teeth.
“Yeah! Of course you can join! Right, Agatha? I mean the best part of orientation is making new friends, after all.”
Agatha huffs and shrugs. Billy enthusiastically engages Kate in conversation. Kate, to Agatha’s relief, is in section one, so there’s no point in Agatha pretending to care who Kate is as a person. Agatha stares across the water of the Charles, completely tuning out from Billy and Kate’s conversation. Across the river, Agatha can see steeples of chapels and the brick buildings that make up the majority of Cambridge’s skyline. With her companions entertaining each other, Agatha manages to decompress for the first time that day.
Agatha pushes her way through the incoming class as they march back to the auditorium. These people NEED to learn to walk faster. Agatha is first to enter the classroom and take her seat. She jumps when Billy throws his book bag onto their shared desk. She had forgotten about Billy. Will. Willy. Whatever.
Billy doesn’t get the chance to continue his never-ending commentary, which Agatha tuned out for their entire walk back to the auditorium. The lights dim, leaving the front of the auditorium brighter to draw the students’ attention to the professor standing at the podium.
“Good afternoon everyone. Welcome to your practical lecture, a time-honored tradition where you learn firsthand the sweet circle of hell that is the Socratic Method. My name is Professor Maria Hill, I teach Constitutional Law. This year, I’m the Con Law teacher for section one.”
Great, so Agatha can zone out again. She doesn’t care enough to impress a teacher whose class she won’t ever take.
“In the email you received prior to orientation, you were notified that the school would provide printed copies of Wickard v. Filburn, the Supreme Court case we will examine today. I hope each of you took advantage of your lunch break to read the majority opinion.”
Shit. Agatha vaguely remembers something about going over a case, but she never picked up a copy of the case. She had been too flustered in her rush to grab her name tag, which she now realizes she never attached to her blazer. She digs the nametag out of her blazer pocket and safety-pins it over her left breast.
Well, she’s fucked. There’s no time to read the case now, and she’s not even sure where she could get one of the paper copies. Agatha looks to her right to see Billy fidgeting with the corners of his printed copy of Wickard v. Filburn. Agatha smacks his shoulder. Billy gasps and rubs his shoulder in mock agony.
“Why didn’t you tell me? We were supposed to go over this during lunch! What the hell!”
“I told you, I already read all the opinions! I’m sure everyone has. If they didn’t want us to prepare, they really shouldn’t have told us which case we’d be examining.”
Agatha huffs and runs her hands over her face. Well, desperate times call for desperate measures. She grasps the bottom corner of Billy’s copy of the case and tugs it out from under his elbows. Billy looks at her with wide eyes and an open mouth, but he can’t say anything without Professor Hill noticing. Agatha imitates Billy’s earlier position, both elbows propped on the table, hands scrunching the hair near her scalp. Agatha only half listens to Professor Hill’s commentary about the Socratic Method in favor of speed-skimming the case.
“As some of you may know, the Socratic Method is a teaching method favored in law schools across the United States. Nearly all of your professors will use this method to test your comprehension of the cases, recall of the facts, and public speaking abilities. In short, I will announce which case we are examining and call students at random to ask them to present various information about the case. Again, the case today is Wickard v. Filburn. Miss Bishop, we’ll start with you. Give us the background facts of the case, please.”
“Uh, sure, yeah. Um. I think there’s this farmer who wanted to grow food for his animals. Because it was World War II and everything was super expensive, so he figured he could save money by growing his own food for his animals. And the government wanted to stop him from growing -”
“Right, and what state did this case originate in, Miss Bishop?”
The sound of pages turning fills the room. Kate looks frantic.
“That’s okay, Miss Bishop. The case originated in Ohio. Mr. Rogers, can you give us the rationale for why the U.S. government took issue with Mr. Filburn growing his own animal feed?”
The next thirty minutes continue in a similar fashion. Professor Hill is strict but gentle, allowing students to offer an “I don’t know,” or a “pass,” when they’re unable to give an answer. Agatha senses that a hierarchy is quickly emerging based on which students are quick enough to answer the questions correctly. To make matters more difficult, Professor Hill isn’t moving through the case in order. She’s jumping from the government’s argument, to parts of the holding, to introductory facts and back again. It’s impossible to guess which question she’ll ask next; she’s clearly talented at keeping students on their toes, while ensuring her class is motivated to thoroughly read each case.
“Miss Harkness, please explain the clauses of the Constitution that the government bases its claim on.”
“The government’s claim is that it has the power to regulate Mr. Filburn’s growth of livestock feed under the Commerce Clause, specifically the section on regulating interstate commerce.”
“Correct. And which clause of the Constitution says that one farmer’s act of growing his own animal feed falls under the purview of interstate commerce?”
Agatha freezes. She glances at the relevant paragraph of the case. Other than the Commerce Clause, there isn’t a reference to the Constitution for the Court to base its decision on. Agatha looks back at Professor Hill, who seems unsurprised at Agatha’s ignorance.
A hand shoots up, blocking Agatha’s view of Professor Hill.
“Yes, what was your name?”
“Wanda, Wanda Maximoff.”
“Go ahead Wanda. Same question I asked to Miss Harkness, how does the Court justify regulating a farmer growing feed for his own animals under the Commerce Clause?”
“There isn’t anything in the Constitution that gives Congress that power. The Supreme Court established new precedent. It held that, because the farmer’s activities reduced the amount of animal feed he would buy on the open market, there was enough of an impact on interstate commerce to justify Congress prohibiting farmers from growing their own feed.”
“Not quite. You got half of it, and yeah, it’s a trick question. There isn’t a clause of the Constitution which allows Congress to stop farmers from growing feed for their own animals. And like you said, the Court held that Farmer Filburn’s activities fell under the purview of the Commerce Clause because the national animal feed market would be impacted by Farmer Filburn not purchasing feed at all. But that impact is so minuscule, Congress shouldn’t be able to regulate such private, small acts. To justify Congress’s actions, the Supreme Court aggregated the impact on interstate commerce that would occur if all small farmers grew their own feed, which would substantially impact interstate commerce.”
Agatha sees red. Not just because her eyes are boring holes in the back of Wanda’s head. Agatha had been right, the holding was based on the Commerce Clause. There was no other precedent for the Supreme Court’s holding. And Wanda had made her look like an idiot in front of the whole class. Agatha huffs and sits back in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. Billy catches her eye, gives her a reassuring smile, and mouths good job. Agatha rolls her eyes. Billy nudges her. Once he has Agatha’s attention, he surreptitiously makes finger guns, aims them at Wanda, and then imitates popping his finger guns up at the roof of the auditorium. Gunner. Agatha snorts and grins. Maybe Billy provides enough entertainment to stick around.