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I took in a breath.
No. This was my time to start over. I had totry.
“So,” I began, hefting my duffel up onto the naked mattress. At least she’d left me window side. “How was the trip over here? Did you move in today?”
According to the sparse three-sentence-long email the university had sent out to me a week ago, all I knew about my roommate was her last name, and the fact that she was from California. But hey, conversations have to start somewhere.
“I actually moved in a couple days ago,” she said, as if a couple days was two years, nodding to the explosion of cosmetics on the vanity, and her bed, which was made up with layers of throw pillows, bras and hangers packed with miniskirts and tube tops. “Is that all you brought?”
I didn’t understand until I saw her eyes move to my bag.
“Oh,” I laughed. “My mom’sgonnasend some boxes up. These are just clothes to get me by for now.”
I looked back at the pile of outfits on her bed and noticed that her closet was stuffed enough to warrant it hanging open a crack. A scattered trail of heels drew the boundary between her side of the room and mine, which was soulless as a prison cell between the metal desk and chair, skeletal bed frame, and nothing else.
Her side, on the other hand, was as lived in as a teenage girl’s room could be in eighteen years of growing up, meaning, messy as hell—an incredible feat considering it’d been two days. Though tidiness was usually the last thing on my radar, even I couldn’t trash a room as quickly as she had.
“Well, as long as it isn’t anything similar to what you’re wearing now, then yeah,” she said, shrugging, “you should get by.”
I pressed my lips into a flat line meant to emulate a grin.
“There’s a meet-and-greet type thing,” she continued, grabbing her purse from the hook beside her vanity. “You should come.”
The pit that had started forming in my gut flipped into butterflies, and I lifted my head a little higher. “Why not?”
She felt awkward. That had to be it. I wasn’t expecting to come into my first year of college making friends left and right, especially not after getting used to being Elliot’s punching bag for four years in a row. But I was past that. Maybe we didn’t click right off the bat, but she’d invited me to join her. At least she was trying.
I couldn’t give up on my social life now.
She opened the door without saying anything more and I followed her into the hall. Our neighbors were blasting hip-hop, and the bass drowned out the voices within. A girl stood in the doorframe of the following room, taping faux flowers and leaves to the front of the door. We made eye contact.
“Looks good,” I said, slowing my pace long enough to butter her up a bit more. “Gardenias, right?”
Her brown eyes lit up. “Yeah,” she answered, tilting her head as if to get a better look at me. “How did you—”
“I like Billie Holiday,” I said, grinning at her reaction, and decided to throw in a shrug for a show of modesty. “She was famous for putting gardenias in her hair.”
“Ugh, IloveBillie,” she gushed, her smile spreading even further. “What’s your name by the way?”
“Kathlee-een,” Vivian called. We both turned our heads to look at her. She was standing at the end of the hall, twirling the lanyard for the room key around her index finger. “Stop admiring the marijuana leaves or we’ll be late.”
I let out a flimsy laugh and started to back away. The girl smiled in sympathy.
“I’m Tara,” she said. “See you around, Kathleen?”
“Kat,” I replied, “and definitely.”
I found myself smiling a genuine smile for the first time since I’d arrived at Freeman. See, Kat? New people, fresh start. I was expecting worse, to be honest. I was on someone’s good side. Pierre would be so proud.
Vivian whipped around the corner of the hall as soon as I caught up with her.
“I knew her in high school,” she called over her shoulder, without consideration for the fact that we were less than three yards away from the girl’s room. “Total pothead. Ask her for a cheap deal if that’s what you’re looking for. Heard she’s already growing weed under her bed.”
“Bet you’ve heard a lot of things,” I muttered under my breath. Vivian must have heard it, because she threw me a close-lipped smile so flat she could’ve shattered her teeth.
I was familiar with girls like her back at Woodman. They’re simple—they like those who are like them, and they don’t like those who aren’t. The best part? They have zero qualms about letting everyone in on their social preferences.
We reached the elevator without getting into a cat fight, so for that, I gave myself another mental pat on the back. She jabbed the button with a French-manicured fingernail. We were on the fifth floor. My worst fear was upon us—if the elevator system was crappy, I’d have to stare at her, waiting in an awkward silence that’d last way too long for my liking. Crossing my arms, Isettled against the wall opposite from where she stood scrolling through her phone. Maybe now was the time to start some more small talk.
