The Mistake

It’s the first semester of my sophomore year. Which means I’m Sophomore Grace now. Freshman Grace, God rest her soul, let her best friend make decisions for her and guys walk all over her, but Sophomore Grace? She will do no such thing. She will not be Ramona’s doormat or Logan’s distraction. Nope. Sophomore Grace is the carefree nineteen-year-old who spent the summer gallivanting around France.

Does it still count as gallivanting when you do it with your mother?

Sure it does, I assure myself. Gallivanting is gallivanting no matter who you’re with.

Either way, a new year equals a new me.

Or rather, an improved version of the old me.

At the moment, new/old me is making the bed in my new dorm room and desperately hoping that my roommate won’t be a bitch, a psycho, or a psycho-bitch. I tried convincing the woman in the housing office to give me a single, but those are reserved for upperclassmen, so I’m stuck doubling up with someone named Daisy.

When my father helped me move my stuff to Hartford House yesterday, Daisy’s side of the room had been empty, but I got back from lunch today to find boxes and suitcases all over the place. So now I’m waiting for her to show up because I want to get the awkward nice-to-meet-you’s out of the way.

The fact that I’m getting a new roommate brings an unwelcome pang of sorrow. I haven’t spoken to Ramona since April, when I informed her I was done. Maybe we’ll sit down and talk one of these days, but right now, I’m looking forward to starting my sophomore year without her.

As exasperating as my mom’s ambush makeovers were, she taught me several valuable lessons this summer. First and foremost—be confident. Second—be spontaneous. Third—the only opinion that matters is your own.

I plan on incorporating Mom’s advice into my Sophomore Plan, which involves having fun, making new friends, and going out on dates.

Oh, and not thinking about John Logan. That’s a critical component in the plan, because ever since I ran into him at the park last week, I haven’t been able to get him off my mind.

I’m proud of myself for standing my ground, though. I was surprisingly anger-free when I saw him, but that doesn’t mean I’m willing to trust him again. Besides, I’m Sophomore Grace now. I’m not easily dazzled anymore. If Logan is serious about us going out, I need a lot more than a gruff apology and a crooked grin. He’ll have to up his game, that’s for sure.

The door swings open, and my back tenses as I turn to face my new roomie for the first time.

She is…adorable. Except I’m fairly certain that not only is “adorable” the last word other people would use to describe her, but that if she heard me say it, she’d kick my ass. Nevertheless, it’s the first adjective that comes to mind, because she’s a tiny pixie of a girl. Well, if pixies had black hair with pink bangs, a multitude of piercings, and wore cute yellow sundresses paired with Doc Martens.

“Hi,” she says cheerfully. “So you’re Grace, huh?”

“Yep. And you’re Daisy…?”

She grins as she closes the door behind her. “I know. The name doesn’t suit me. I think when they named me, my parents thought I’d grow up to be a Southern Belle like my mom, but much to their chagrin, they got this.” She gestures to herself from head to toe, then shrugs.

I do hear a trace of the South in her voice, though, a very subtle drawl that adds to her easygoing attitude. I like her already.

“I hope you don’t mind all the boxes. I flew in from Atlanta early this morning and haven’t had a chance to unpack yet.”

“No worries. Do you need help unpacking?” I offer.

Gratitude fills her eyes. “I’d love that. But it’ll have to wait until this evening. I just popped in to grab my iPad, and now I’m heading to the station.”

“The station?”

“Campus radio station,” she explains. “I host an indie rock show once a week, and produce two other ones. I’m a broadcasting and comm major.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I was actually going to check if there are any available student jobs there,” I confess. “I was thinking of joining the school paper, but the guy I spoke to said their freelancer list is a mile long. And I don’t have an athletic or musical bone in my body, so sports and music is out, and all the other clubs I looked into sound insanely boring. Or plain nuts—did you know the environmental activist group on campus spends their weekends chaining themselves up to trees to protest all the townhouse developments that are being built in Hastings? And last year some chick got struck by lightning because she refused to unchain herself during a thunderstorm—” I stop abruptly, feeling my cheeks heat up. “For the sake of full disclosure, you should know I’m a babbler.”

Daisy bursts out laughing. “Noted.”