People are not my thing.
Trust is not my thing.
“What I also know for sure,” he continues, “is that you owe me lunch.”
So, we walk to the little Greek place a block from campus, and we order a crazy amount of food. I spend a lot of time stuffing my face and little time talking, but Simon manages to make our silence feel less uncomfortable than it should.
“I wonder what she’s like,” I murmur between bites. For a few seconds, I imagine having a typical college experience, complete with a bang-up, awesome roommate, with me actually welcoming that experience. My past two roommates and I made zero connection, unsurprisingly. I know that was my fault. “Maybe she was really cool. Maybe we would have been friends.”
Simon clears his throat. He knows I’m full of shit.
“But,” I continue factually, “leopard seals are obviously the love of her life, and since I find them terrifying, I suspect a friendship wouldn’t have worked out anyway. This is for the best.”
My head starts to hurt. I down my drink and then focus on filling and refilling my glass with the bottle of sparkling water.
“How much do you actually know about these animals?” Simon interrupts my obsessive water consumption. “I’ve barely heard of them.”
It takes only a minute for me to pull up a picture on my phone, and I stick the screen out in front of me. “Teeth. That animal has mini spears for teeth.”
Simon casts a look of defeat. “Okay. You’re right. That’s an unpleasant animal. She might not have made the best roommate.”
I sit back with immense satisfaction, my headache now subsiding.
CHAPTER 2
WE GET ONE
At nine o’clock at night, I’m in bed, smoothing down the crisp sheets, ensuring that the perfect fold resting on my chest holds its form. A small desk fan circulates enough air to keep me from suffocating on this hot night. Something about the sounds of students whooping it up and celebrating their return to campus makes my stomach knot up, so I don’t open the small window. The whir from the fan doesn’t quash the revelers’ drunken partying much, but it at least helps.
A sudden pounding on my door startles me, and it takes me a second to squelch my panic before I tentatively open the door.
“Allison! How was your summer? You coming to the dorm party upstairs?” A petite girl with a plastic cup stands before me. Her bleached hair spikes in dramatic chunks from her head and then lands just on her shoulders. I recognize her from a few of my classes last year. Becky? Bella? Brooke? Some kind of B name. She catches herself when she notices my tank top and pajama bottoms. “Oh. I guess not,” she says.
I form a big smile. “Hey! It’s so good to see you. Oh my God! You look gorgeous! Check out that tan!” I manage to sound so overzealous that even I’m surprised at the squeal in my voice. “I’m seriously beat from all the end-of-summer parties.” I give a knowing look, trying to convey the idea that I’ve been engaged in such wild and scandalous activities over the past few weeks that I cannot possibly haul myself to one more social event. I pretend to yawn.
B-name girl raises her cup in understanding and nods her head so vigorously that a strand of her hair bounces into the liquid. “I hear you. Well, rest up. Next time, ’kay?”
The idea that I am going to have to spend another two years here, deflecting social interaction, is daunting. If I could throw an invisibility cloak over myself and attend college that way, I would.
“For sure . . .” I make the horrible mistake of pausing, letting her know that I cannot for the life of me remember her name.
“Carmen,” she says with a splash of annoyance. “Carmen. I lived next to you last year, and we had lit and British history together.”
“I know your name, silly!” I scramble to think of something else to say. While I don’t want to go to any parties, I also really don’t want to hurt her feelings. It’s moments like this that I so wish I could be less awkward and weird. In a scramble to be friendly, I blurt out, “I just . . . I was just noticing your cool earrings. They’re so unique.”
She touches a hand to her ear. “They’re plain silver hoops.”
“Er, I didn’t mean unique, really. I meant . . . that . . . they’re the perfect size. Not too big, not too small, you know?”
Carmen looks at me skeptically. “I guess so.”
“They’re really nice. I’ve been wanting a pair like that.”
“My mom got them for me. I can ask her where she bought them if you want.”
I smile. “That’s so cool of you. Thanks!” I’m too chipper, I realize, so I bring it down a notch and fake another yawn. “Anyway, I’m sorry I’m so lame tonight. But drink a beer for me, will you?”
“You got it! I’ll start now!” She takes a big drink from her cup and goes down the hall, turning back after a few paces. “Nice to see you, Allison.”
“You too, Carmen!”
I lock the door and turn off the light. The door to the empty second bedroom is open, and I stare at it. Leave it open, or shut the door? I can’t decide what to do. Closed will make it seem as though someone is in there. sleeping, studying, hooking up, wanting privacy . . . As though maybe I have a friend in there with whom I have an actual connection. Something. Open will remind me that there is no one in there.
Truly, I have no idea what to do. Minutes tick by.
Suddenly, I lurch forward, grab the handle, and slam it shut. That room does not exist.
I rush away and quickly close my own door. I cannot get back into bed fast enough.
I scramble to pull the bedding up to my chin in some kind of crazy fit. Why would Carmen come by my room? It’s inexplicable. My toes are wiggling wildly, and I clap my feet together to calm them down.
I fan my body with the sheets before again smoothing the fabric, making sure the top fold is exact. Simon insisted on getting me new sheets, even though I already had one set, and he washed and even ironed these for me before we left home. He looked terribly disappointed when I tried to turn down these new sheets. “You can’t have just one set of sheets! Please? For me? Just this one year, have a second set,” he’d pleaded. “The thread count is off the charts.” So, I’d thanked him and accepted the gift of high thread count.
The feel of the heavyweight cotton is less familiar than the inexpensive, scratchy sheets that I’d often slept on when growing up, and so I am moderately uncomfortable and tempted to pull the old ones from my closet and remake the bed, but in an effort to make Simon happy, I stick with these. He’s been trying for years to give me a new normal.
I wish I could let him, but my history is too tainted for him to fix.