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The place is larger than it looked from the outside. On the right, just past the door, there’s a bunk bed. Beyond that sits an outdated wooden dresser that looks to be heavier than I am. Across from the bed, there’s a small wooden desk and chair. Then in the corner, near the desk, there’s an empty aluminum trough large enough for someone to sit back and recline in. My eyes widen. Oh god, is that where I’ll have to bathe? Out in the open?
Then my eyes belatedly fall on a half-open door and I realize there’s a bathroom directly across from where I stand. Inside, I spot a small wall-mounted sink, a toilet, and a shower. There’s no curtain rod for the shower, but the floor is graded toward a drain in the corner so water won’t get everywhere
I give the place an approving nod. This is shaping up to be quite a luxurious little abode. As far as I know, the guys in the bunkhouse have to share communal bathrooms. I get one all to myself. Well…kind of.
I do have a roommate, and he’s already been here. I know this because there are personal effects neatly stowed around the cabin. On the sink, there’s a toothbrush and some toothpaste sitting in a cup. A towel hangs on a hook by the shower. Behind me, on the bottom bunk, I spy an open paperback halfway tucked beneath a pillow. On the dresser, there’s a worn baseball hat. When I gently tug open the top drawer, I’m greeted by a stack of black boxer briefs. My cheeks burn and I immediately shove it closed again, embarrassed. I am apparently a ten-year-old. They’re just underwear! I chide myself. Then the child in me shouts back, Yes, but a stranger’s underwear!
I have no idea how long he’s been here, but it seems like he didn’t just arrive today if he’s already been showering and reading.
Maybe he’s the one who cleaned the place up. Compared to the bunkhouses, this cabin is practically sterile, in a good way. The dark wood floors are shiny as if they’ve been mopped recently. The beds have linens on them that seem relatively new. There’s no mold or ambiguous green sludge collecting in the bathroom.
Overall, I decide this cabin will do just fine as I start to empty my duffle bag into the empty bottom drawer of the dresser. It takes me all of two seconds and then I sit back on my heels wondering what I’m supposed to do now. It’s nearly 8:30 PM. There’s no point in wandering back out into the woods. The guys are probably all settling into their bunks, and Jeremy’s probably on the phone with Khloe swearing he misses her already. My roommate will probably be here soon and then we can meet and I’ll have to look him in the eye knowing what color underwear he’s wearing.
My neck grows warm.
I’m being ridiculous.
Still, maybe an early-morning introduction is best, rather than a late-night one. I decide to get ready for bed, but it’s proving kind of difficult now that the sun has fully set. My eyes have adjusted slowly, but it’s too dark now and I fumble around quite a bit until I manage to turn on the electric lantern I spotted on the desk earlier. It produces the same amount of light a small lamp would and makes it easy to navigate around the cabin as I quickly brush my teeth and change into my sweatpants and t-shirt.
I wouldn’t mind a quick shower, but I don’t want to chance it. What if my roommate arrives while I’m bathing? What if he assumes I’m a dude and waltzes right into the bathroom to go pee without even knocking first? No. Nope. I’ll have to wait until the morning.
As it is, without A/C, the cabin is a little stuffy. I pry open the windows to let in some air, but Texas is Texas, even in spring, and there isn’t a breeze cool enough to bring this cabin down to a temperature conducive to heavy sweatpants. Unfortunately, they were the only thing I could find to sleep in that would cover my legs. I couldn’t exactly pack a pair of tiny sleeping shorts. My main objective is to fly under my roommate’s radar, not flash him my butt cheeks.
After I wash my face with cool water, I turn the lantern off, drop my baseball hat on the dresser beside my roommate’s, shake out my hair (Ah! Freedom!), and climb the ladder up to the top bunk. There’s a wave of relief as I lie down on top of the cool sheet and stare up at the ceiling.
I did it.
I survived the first day.
Kind of.
Tomorrow is the real first day.
This was nothing, really.
Still, I’m here, and it’s an accomplishment for a girl who’s never spent a night outside of Oak Dale in her entire life. I’m embarrassed to admit there’s a tight ball of tension in my stomach I’ve been trying to ignore: homesickness. Ridiculous, I know. I’m too old to feel homesick. Besides, there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t call home—there’s no cell reception out here. I’ve been trying to pick up a signal since I first arrived, and now, as I try to call my mom’s phone yet again, it won’t go through.
