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Home sweet home.
I walk up the four brick steps to the large wooden door and pull the U-shaped handle. It’s a heavy door and I’m grateful I didn’t have to lug my bags here myself.
Once inside, I look around, taking in the wide-open space. From the wall of stainless-steel mailboxes on the left, to the large stairwell in front of me, all the way up to the five indoor balconies. The vaulted ceilings occupy a stained-glass skylight that lets in only a hint of dim lighting due to the branches that hang over the building.
I’m making my way up to the second floor, when a few girls come jogging down the stairs. They’re all wearing the same BCA uniforms Melody and Hannah had on. Those skirts will definitely take some getting used to. I don’t think I’ve worn a dress or skirt since I was like seven years old.
The girls all stop simultaneously and look at me like I’m an alien invading their space. I stop, too, lifting a brow and silently asking if they have something to say.
Yet, they say nothing at all. That is until I keep jogging up the stairs and the whispers begin. I hear them loud and clear, though.
“That’s her. The new girl.”
“Did you see what she’s wearing?”
“Maybe she’s a lesbian.”
Cackle. Cackle. Cackle.
I loudly blow out a hefty hee-haw, mocking them without even turning to look at their expressions. It immediately shuts them up.
Screw what they think. I have my own sense of style and I like it. I prefer worn shoes and holey jeans. Garbage band tee shirts and no makeup. I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty or run down the sidewalk with bare feet. My point is, I’m not a girly girl and I never will be. No amount of insults will ever change that.
Once I’m at the second level, I step off the staircase. As I walk down the hall, I search for my bags that should be outside my door.
The rooms are spread out, which leads me to believe they are spacious. Some of the doors are decorated with cutesy little doormats outside them. I can already pinpoint which rooms belong to cheerleaders because of the paper-cut pom-poms taped to the door.
I come up to one door that is decked out in pink. Like, a lot of pink. It looks like a unicorn had a massive case of diarrhea in the room and it exploded all over the door. There’s a dozen little pink flamingos spread from top to bottom, glittery cut-out hearts, and…lips. I run my finger over one of them, wiping up a waxy residue. No shit. Someone actually kissed their door like twenty times with hot pink lipstick. That’s demented.
I wipe my fingers on my jeans and keep walking, observing the numbers. This is 211. I’m in…210. But my bags aren’t there. I turn around and my insides freeze.
Fuck.
I’m in the unicorn shit room.
My stomach twists into knots. I don’t do sweet. Maybe I can switch rooms. There is just no way I can…
My train of thought is interrupted when the door of room 210 flies open.
“Heyyyy,” a cute girl with bouncy, blonde curls, wearing a pink dress with a jean jacket, comes barging out of the room. In two seconds flat, she’s in front of me. “You must be Scarlett.” Cotton candy floods my senses, and I feel light-headed. “I’m Riley. Your new roommate.”
“Yay,” I drawl. “So…nice to meet you.” I take a step back, offering her my hand.
She looks down at my offering and snickers. “Silly girl. We’re practically besties now.” She throws herself into my arms while I throw up a little in my mouth.
Still wrapped in her arms, as if we’re old friends, I pat my hands gently on her back. “Okay.” I attempt to break free from her hold on me, but she only hugs me tighter. “All right then. Yup. This is nice.”
Pat. Pat. Pat.
Finally, Riley takes a step back but keeps her hands on my shoulders. “What is the name of your perfume? I have to try it.”
“Umm.” I swallow down the saliva pooling in my mouth. “Dove bar soap.”
Her head tilts slightly to the left, and she lifts a smile. “Well, it smells magnificent.”
This has to be a joke. Punishment over. I’ve learned my lesson. No more cigarettes, no more pot, and no more fights.
“Let's get you settled in, roomie. I brought your stuff inside for you.” Riley takes my hand in hers and tugs me toward the dorm room—our room—that we will share for the next eight months. “We have so much to talk about. Do you have a boyfriend? A girlfriend? Because I’m totally cool with either.”
