I told myself, Pull it together.
I was a normal girl. I was not the kind to cause alarm. I was the kind who showered daily and wore clean clothes and answered the phone when it rang. When danger approached, I crossed the street. When mornings came, I ate breakfast.
This person who stood in the doorway wasn’t me.
I shook Hannah’s hand. I made my face smile.
“I must look like a disaster!” I said. “I’ve had a rough couple weeks. I’m going to set my stuff down and find the showers.”
Did I see relief pass over her? I hoped so. I went to unzip my duffel but thought of all the dirty clothes stuffed inside, of the smell they’d emit, and thought better.
“I’m going to find the laundry, too,” I said.
“Second floor,” Hannah told me. “And the bathrooms are right around the corner. We did the family tour this morning.”
I smiled again.
“Thanks,” I said.
Most of the showers were in a row, locker-room style, but I found one full bathroom with a door that locked. I pulled off my shirt and my pants, let them drop to the floor. This place was so much cleaner than where I’d been.
I stepped out of my underwear, unclasped my bra. The girl in the mirror was feral. Puffy face, wild eyes, greasy hair. No wonder Hannah was shocked. I was shocked, too.
But I didn’t have soap or shampoo. It was enough to make me cry. Water could only do so much.
I wanted a room full of steam and the smell of lavender or peach.
There was liquid soap on the wall by the sink. I pumped as much as one hand could hold and then opened the shower door with the other. As if by magic, sitting on a shelf were containers of hotel shampoo, conditioner, and soap. I turned the tap and washed the yellow chemical soap down the drain. As the water warmed, I examined the little hotel bottles. Eucalyptus. I stepped under the water and closed myself into the square, mint-green-tiled space. Its smallness was comforting. All I heard was water falling, water echoing.
Eucalyptus filled the room.
I shampooed and rinsed until the bottle was empty. I washed my face and my body with the soap. I let the conditioner stay in for a very long time. In California, we were always worried about droughts, always conserving water. But I was far away.
“I’m far away,” I whispered.
I stayed longer. The hot water lasted forever. I knew I could wash away the dirt and the grease, but the wildness in my eyes was more difficult, and that was the worst part.
I told myself to just breathe.
I breathed in.
I breathed out.
Over and over. Until I wasn’t aware I was in the shower, in the dorms, in New York. Until I wasn’t aware of anything.
Putting dirty clothes back on was a sacrilege. I chose the least worn of them and stuffed the rest into the washer with detergent from the vending machine. Then I went to find the student store, desperate for something else to wear in the meantime.
The store was chaos. Parents and their kids swarmed through the aisles, admiring knickknacks, complaining over the cost of textbooks. The incoming freshmen whined and fretted; everything was the most important thing ever. I was invisible, moving silently among them toward the clothing section, the only solitary person there.
What I found filled me with awe.
I had no idea such school spirit could exist.
There were Tshirts and polo shirts and sweatshirts and sweatpants and shorts. Panties and boxers and bras. Pajamas and tank tops and socks and flip-flops. Even a dress! All of them emblazoned with the school colors and mascot. All of them so clean.
I bought an armful, over three hundred dollars’ worth of clothes. As I swiped the ATM card, I tamped down the knowledge that my funds would run out. Not soon, but not too long from then either. Unless I found a way to start putting some money back in the account, I would be broke in a year.
I asked to use the dressing room on my way out and pulled on the clean bra and underwear. The panties had a picture of the mascot across the butt. They were fun, even if only I would ever see them. The bra was sportier than any I’d ever had, but it was cute anyway. The day was hot so I chose the terrycloth shorts, grateful that my blondness allowed me to show my legs even when I hadn’t shaved them for a while. Last came a T-shirt, the creases still there from how it was folded.
I looked at myself in the full-length mirror.
My hair was clean and straight, still a little damp. My clothes fit me fine. I smelled like a spa. I looked like any other girl.
I stopped by the laundry room on the way back, but instead of putting my clothes in the dryer, I threw them into the trash.
Hannah was in her room when I showed up again, and this time her parents were there, too. Her mom was putting sheets on her bed. Her stepdad was hanging a framed poster from a Broadway production of Rent.