Unfortunately, I never saw Connor. But I also didn’t see Ashton. I did meet a few more freshmen, though, including a Korean girl named Sun who’s as new to the whole partying scene as I am and sort of attached herself to me on Thursday night.
I honestly don’t know how Reagan is going to survive the heavy workload of classes here. Her books sit in a pile on her desk, unopened. Not even a flip-through. I’m starting to believe that she’s not a student, that Kacey and Dr. Stayner have somehow planted her here. I can almost picture them cackling while they hatched this plan. Student or not, though, I’m happy to have Reagan as a roommate. Except when she puppy-dog-eyes me into drinking with her.
Ceaseless knocking on our door wakes me up.
“Kill me now,” Reagan moans.
“I will, but can you get that first?” I mumble, burying my head under my pillow, pushing a textbook with exceptionally sharp corners out from beneath me. I had managed to sneak out of the dorm party two floors up and come back to get some reading done late last night. The clock read three a.m. the last time I had checked. Now it reads seven. “It has to be for you, Reagan. I don’t know anyone on campus,” I rationalize, curling my body up tighter.
“Shhh . . . they’ll go away,” she whispers. But they don’t. The knocking increases in strength and urgency, and I’m starting to get concerned it will wake up half the floor. As I lift myself to my elbows, ready to crawl out of my top bunk and answer it, I hear Reagan’s defeated groan and rustling sheets. She makes a point of stomping to the door. She throws it open with a quiet curse and something about Satan.
“Wake up, sleepyheads!”
I bolt upright so fast that the room starts to spin. “What are you doing here?” I ask in a high-pitched voice as I turn to see the distinguished-looking man in a well-tailored suit step into the room. I haven’t seen Dr. Stayner in person in two and a half years. He looks basically the same, if not for a bit more gray in his hair, which he has a bit less of, in general.
He shrugs. “It’s Saturday. I told you that we’d talk today.”
“Yeah, but you’re here. And it’s seven a.m.!”
He glances at his watch with a frown. “Is it really that early?” And then he shrugs and throws his arms up in the air, his eyes lighting up with genuine excitement. “What a beautiful day!” As quickly as they lifted, his arms drop and his calm tone returns. “Get dressed. I have a conference in the city that I have to get back to by noon. I’ll meet you in the lobby in thirty minutes.”
Before turning to leave, he spots a disheveled but curious-looking Reagan in a rumpled tank top and pink pajama bottoms. He holds out his hand. “Hi, I’m Dr. Stayner.”
She accepts it with a weary frown. “Hi, I’m Reagan.”
“Ah, yes. The roommate. I’ve heard so much.”
From whom? I haven’t talked to him since . . .
I sigh. My freaking sister. Of course.
“Make sure Livie socializes, will you? She has a tendency to focus too much on school. Just keep her away from those Jell-O shooters.” Not waiting for a reaction, he walks out as briskly as he walked in, leaving my new roommate staring at me.
“Who is that?”
Where do I begin with that answer? Shaking my head as I swing my legs out of bed, I mumble, “I don’t have time to explain right now.”
“Okay but . . . He’s a doctor? I mean, is he . . .” She hesitates. “Your doctor?”
“For better or worse, it would seem.” I want nothing more than to pull the covers over my head for a few more hours, but I know that if I’m not down there in thirty minutes, he’s liable to march down the hall shouting my name at the top of his lungs.
“What kind of doctor is he? I mean . . .” She’s twirling a strand of her long hair around her fingers. Nervous Reagan is a rare sight.
I open my mouth to answer but stop, an impish idea coming to me. I still owe Reagan for the vodka shot she practically forced down my throat last night. . . Pressing my lips together to hide my smile as I rifle through my dresser for a pair of jeans and a shirt, I say calmly, “Oh, his focus is primarily schizophrenia.”
There’s a pause. I don’t look, but I’m sure her mouth is hanging open. “Oh . . . well, is there anything I need to worry about?”
Grabbing my toiletry bag, I walk over to the door but make a point of pausing as my hand closes over the knob, looking up as if deep in thought. “I don’t think so. Well, unless I start to . . .” I wave my hand dismissively. “Oh, never mind. That probably won’t happen again.” With that, I quietly slip out the door. I make it about four feet before I burst into giggles, loud enough that someone moans, “Shut up!” from a nearby room.
“I’ll get you for that, Livie!” Reagan shrieks through the closed door, followed by her howls of laughter.
Sometimes humor does make it better.