Fresh

by Margot Wood

  “Dad, please don’t go,” I choke out. He wraps an arm around me and squeezes tight.

  “It’s scary, but you’ll be okay. I’ll always be here.” He kisses the top of my head and for once I don’t try to squirm away. “Elliot, this time in your life, what you’re about to do . . . it’s exciting! You should be excited! Your life is one long story and this is only the next chapter. You know the knights who go off and slay dragons in those fantasy books I used to read to you as a kid? It’s your turn now. You are about to embark on a big adventure, and it’s going to be hard and some parts will be scary but you gotta make the most out of it. Go slay some dragons, my girl.”

  And now I am laughing and crying and he’s laughing and crying and we’re both laughing and crying in a strange little dorm room in a strange little building in a strange city that I will hopefully, someday, come to think of as my home. Dad pulls away enough to wipe away some tears that have formed in the corners of his eyes. I give him one more tight hug.

  “Make good choices, Elliot,” he says as he gives me one last kiss on top of my head. “You will always be my most favorite middlest daughter.”

  “I’m your only middlest daughter,” I say back and he laughs as I finally let him go.

  He stretches, all his bones cracking in unison, and just as he is about to leave, he turns back and gives me a wink and that’s it. He pulls the door closed behind him and he’s gone.

  My dad is gone.

  I am on my own.

  I start to panic: My face burns and my eyes swell up with tears again. I pace back and forth, rapidly shaking my hands as I try to steady the rising ache in my chest. Fuck it. I quit trying to hold it all back and finally let go. I let go of the fear and doubt and sadness that’s been building inside me and for a full minute I scream and cry into the pillow I brought from home so no one can hear me.5

  And once it’s out, I instantly feel better.

  A good cry can do that.

  I dry my eyes with a dryer sheet—because I forgot to bring tissues and that is all I have—and it reminds me that a good way to keep yourself from getting stuck is to just keep going. I need something to do—I need to give my hands a task other than nervously running my greasy Cheez-It fingers through my road-trip hair. I look around my barren room and realize I am sitting on top of the answer. This ugly-ass mattress wrapped in swishy, waterproof vinyl needs to be covered and yes, that’s right, that’s what I had already decided I was gonna do before: laundry.

  I may not have fully prepared to leave home, I may not have brought enough underwear, I may have forgotten a winter coat, and I may have just now remembered that I left my toiletry kit in my dad’s car, but the one thing I know for certain I did not forget is laundry supplies. You see, laundry is a deeply soothing ritual for me and it’s the only chore I take great pride in.6 I dump all the snacks out of their tote bag and fill it with the box of dryer sheets from Remy and the box of fancy, handmade detergent I can only buy from a shop online. I open my door and carefully peek out into the hall. It’s still chaos, but I see no sign of my dad secretly hiding somewhere waiting to jump out and scare the crap out of me like he usually does, so I sling the tote over my shoulder, wipe away any remaining traces of tears, grab my new bedding, and set off down the hall until I find the laundry room. It’s a small, narrow room with only two washers, two dryers, and a three-column vending machine offering just one option for detergent, fabric softener, and dryer sheets each. I get my new linens going in the wash and leave my tote bag full of laundry supplies on the windowsill with my name and room number written on the front for when I’ll be back in half an hour to transfer everything to the dryer.

  And you know what? Avoiding your feelings by unhealthily distracting yourself with menial chores always works. By the time I get back to my room, I am still missing my dad like crazy . . . but . . . that sadness is starting to fade while another feeling emerges. And it’s the kind of feeling I am much more comfortable with: exhilaration. One hundred percent pure, unprocessed, free-range joy. As soon as I get back in my room, I close the door behind me, jump on top of that hateful mattress, and start pumping my arms up and down and running really, really, really fast in place.

  HOLY SHIT, YOU GUYS.

  I AM IN COLLEGE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  WHEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!

  MWAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!

  I cannot believe I am actually fucking doing this!

  OMGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!

  So, gentle reader, are you ready to join me on this adventure? Because I am 1,000 percent ready to slay the shit outta some dragons. I cannot fucking wait to end this literal chapter and begin my new metaphorical one, because right now I feel like maybe, just maybe, I can do this. But before I can do, whatever this is, I must first get off this bed and make myself presentable because someone is knocking at my door.

  Which can mean only one thing.

  My roommate is here.

  And it’s time to put my carefully laid plan into action.

  * * *

  1 At least not in public.

  2 It’s strange to go from one day living at home with my family like I have for the past eighteen years to the next day living in a strange building with strange people, sharing a strange room with a stranger. I’ve spent the past three months, the past year really, preparing for this moment, but nothing can truly prepare you for the first time you leave home—you just have to do it. And as I stand here, outside my room, pondering my life in the middle of a crowded hall, a large man carrying heavy boxes that obscure his view accidentally knocks me over and in the commotion he drops the boxes on my face and I am crushed to death. End of story. Proceed to acknowledgments.

  3 And now the image of my little forest sprite of a sister running around with a hot pink thong on her head is forever burned in your memory. Sorry about that.

  4 Or in, like, a week when I discover Boston is frigid nine months out of the year.

  5 I try to do most of my crying into pillows as I am not a polite crier. My cries come out in thick sobs and spastic bursts, my face reddens, my lips swell, and snot drips out of my nose.

  6 For the record, I don’t really care what happens to my clothes after they’ve been washed and dried. They can be wadded up in the back of my closet for all I care. It’s the ritual I love.

  CHAPTER 2

  Well, this is awkward.

  I had this whole plan, you know, for winning over my new roommate. It’s been dubbed Project Friendship® by my little sister and we worked on this plan all summer. After roughly 120 hours of hard work, Remy and I got the Project Friendship plan from a this is just embarrassing place to a this is so embarrassing it has circled around and is now totally endearing place with an (untested) guaranteed success rate. There’s even a whole choreographed dance number in the middle with expertly timed confetti poppers at the end, but the entire plan rests on my roommate entering our room alone, not surrounded by her entire extended family.

  There’s, like, ten of them of varying ages, and they have either a thick Russian-sounding accent or a thick Boston-sounding accent and they’re all talking over one another in a competition for who can be the loudest relative ever. They squeeze through the doorway as a group, and each is carrying either a big box or a big bag or a big glass container full of food, so I have to hug the wall just to avoid getting trampled. They don’t see me standing there beside my bed, looking like a Popsicle stick with two googly eyes. I can’t even see my roommate yet, she’s gotta be somewhere in the middle of this mosh pit.

  “Are you sure this is the right room?” An older relative asks. “This doesn’t look like the right room.”

  “Lucy, honey, did you get enough to eat? Did anyone see if they had potatoes on the menu in the dining hall?”

  “Where’s the furniture and her mini fridge? Ari, what did you do with the IKEA furniture? Did you bring it up?”

  “Are you sure she’s rooming with a girl? Elliot doesn’t sound like a girl.”1

  “Where�
��s the pahhhk? I thought this building overlooked the Boston Common?”

  There are so many loud voices that those are the only sentences I can make out. I stay frozen against the white wall, absolutely still, hoping I’m pale enough to blend in and remain unnoticed, but a woman who looks in no way old enough to be an eighteen-year-old’s mother spots me in the corner.

  “Look, there’s someone already here!” She points directly at me. “Are you Elliot, my daughter’s new roommate?”

  Everyone turns and looks at me expectantly.

  I look at them.

  They look at me.

  I look at them.

  They look at me.

  “Yes?” I say.

  “ELLIOT!” They yell in unison and rush over, smothering me in one oversize group hug. I am completely swarmed by a tangle of limbs and voices and it’s strikingly similar to getting attacked by a horde of zombies but with 21 percent less carnage.2 At this point, it’s unclear if they are hugging me or hugging one another, but suddenly, from somewhere in the hall, I hear a girl’s voice come in hot above all the others.

  “Okay, everybody out!” she orders them, and to my complete surprise, her family obeys. No McHugh has ever listened to any other McHugh and we’re only five people. This girl just said one sentence and all nine thousand listened. I haven’t even met this girl and already I am impressed. The family sets her stuff down on her mattress and files out of the room one by one, each taking turns to say goodbye to my roommate who still remains out of frame in the hall.

  “Bye, honey,” one says.

  “See yah latah, kid,” says another.

  “Don’t forget, I put the tabouli in the fridge,” says the cute old lady who definitely has to be a grandma.

  “I’ll swing by on Tuesday with your winter gear,” I hear Lucy’s mom say in the hall. And then . . . I hear a throat being cleared and footsteps as she comes around the corner and into our room, and I finally get to lay eyes on my new roommate, Lucy Garabedian. And now it’s just me, my new roommate—and the deafening awkward silence between us. She’s pretty—tall and curvy with light beige skin and long, silky brown hair with full bangs that stop at her thick eyebrows. Her makeup is minimal but bold, just mascara and a matte red lip. I look at her and smile and hope she’ll be the one to break the ice, but she just smiles back and fidgets with the rings on her fingers. I have no idea what to say to her since my original plan was ruined the moment her family barged through the door so . . . I panic and improvise. I rummage through the pile of snacks on my bed, grab the box of Cheez-Its, and hold it out to her.

  “Cheez-Its in exchange for friendship?” I ask. I have no idea why I chose to go this route for our first introduction but it’s too late now. I’m going with it.

  She looks confused. “What?”

  I shake the box and repeat the question. “Would you care for a Cheez-It in exchange for friendship?”

  She shoves her hands into the pockets of the oversize cardigan she’s wearing over her plaid dress and leans against the doorway. “Sure,” she says, hesitant at first, but then more confidently adds, “but before I can accept your offer, what are the terms of this friendship?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Well, you just requested my hand in friendship without providing any sort of context. I cannot enter any agreements without knowing which level on the friendship scale we will be.”

  I pop a single Cheez-It into my mouth as I think over my response. “Okay, how about this, you get to choose one of the following friendship types: 1) Will Hold the Elevator Door Open but Not Say Anything Once We’re Inside kind, 2) Goes Out in Groups but Never Just the Two of Us type, or 3) Holding Each Other’s Hair When We’re Puking level.”

  “And what is the time limit on the friendship warranty?” she fires back and damn, this girl is quick.

  “The options include first semester only, all of freshman year, or a lifetime-guarantee friendship.”

  She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she thinks about it. “Okay,” she says. “I’ll take Holding Each Other’s Hair When We’re Puking level of friendship with a lifetime guarantee. Once you’re my friend, there’s no turning back.”

  I hold the box out for her to take and she eyes it carefully, arching one of those thick, caterpillar eyebrows for a moment. And then, she stuffs her hand into the box of Cheez-Its and shoves a fistful of salty orange squares in her mouth, forever sealing our friendship fates together. I run to my dresser and grab the secret stash of confetti poppers I brought for the grand finale of my original plan and explode them in celebration.3

  As the last piece of confetti falls to the ground, Lucy turns to leave. “Hey! Where are you going?” I call out to her. “I thought we were friends?”

  “We are!” she says as she continues her way out the door. “I just have to get the rest of my stuff from the hall.”

  “MORE STUFF?!?” I look around at the assortment of boxes, containers full of food, suitcases, and various pieces of furniture taking up nearly every inch of our tiny room, including a big thing on wheels in the back by our brick window. “Is—is that—did you bring a tea cart?” I call out to her.

  “Yup! It’s a gift from my high school bestie!” She reenters the room, lugging two huge floral-print duffel bags behind her. “I firmly believe in afternoon tea and soon you will too.”

  “I can’t believe how quickly your whole family goodbye went,” I say as I help her heave the duffel bags onto her mattress. “I thought for sure there would have been more tears.”

  Lucy laughs but waves me off. “We live in Watertown, just outside Boston. My mom’s bed and breakfast is, like, fifteen minutes away. My whole family lives here.” Lucy rests her manicured hands on her hips and catches her breath as she looks around the room, taking in all its pathetic glory. There’s not much to look at, but that doesn’t appear to bother her.

  “Should we set up the room? Make it look nice?” she asks.

  “For sure, but fair warning, I am very unqualified to decorate. I do not live the tidy life. I live the slug life.”

  “Don’t worry,” Lucy snorts. “I’ll take care of it! You can help by entertaining.”

  “That I can do!”

  I do offer to help her unpack, at least, because I am an extremely nice person who wants to get to know her new roommate.4 We spend the next hour arranging and rearranging the furniture, putting away her endless supply of floral dresses and brightly colored yoga wear, and organizing her eclectic collection of vintage mugs and loose leaf teas onto her tea cart—or I should say, Lucy spent the last hour doing all that. I was helpful for all of five minutes before I got distracted unpacking her fun jewelry collection, and now I’ve been lounging on my bed ever since, draped in all her jewels while I observe Lucy in her natural habitat, mesmerized at how someone can be so fastidious for so long. I watch as she meticulously decorates her side of the room: placing each object in a designated spot, moving a throw pillow here, hanging a framed photo there, making tiny, minuscule adjustments until everything is just to her liking. She tells me about how she has about ten thousand cousins, aunties, and uncles who all live within five minutes of one another, how she spent all summer splitting her time between working at her mom’s B&B and waitressing at her uncle’s restaurant.

  And I tell her about my sisters. How my older sister, Izzy, a.k.a. The Golden Child, is a level-five pain in my ass and a second-year medical student at Columbia University in New York City and my little sister, Remy, is twelve and wants to be a pink jumping pony when she grows up. And after we’ve exchanged the SparkNotes version of each other’s familial and personal backstories, the conversation drifts to the reason why we’re here in the first place.

  College.

  Education.

  School.

  LEARNING.

  “So what’s your major?” Lucy asks as we start in on her last two unopened boxes. I rip the tape off one and discover it is completely full of tangled strands of tiny w
hite fairy string lights.

  “I, uh, haven’t declared a major yet,” I tell her and brace for more questions about my lack of an academic focus.

  “Do you at least have an idea of what you’d like to major in?”

  “Nope,” I say. I turn over the box and dump the knotted mass onto the floor.

  “That’s cool, I’m sure you’ll figure it out.” Her words say one thing but her eyes are screaming a different truth. I choose to ignore this and shift the focus back onto her.

  “What about you?” I ask as I try to detangle a bundle of lights. “What’s your major?”

  “I’m double majoring in public relations and marketing.”

  I lower my light wad and look up at her. “For real? I haven’t decided on one major and you’re already going for two? Damn, lady.”

  “I have to, I took out a ton of loans to be here! But we’ll see how long I last juggling two majors at once.”

  “Are you one of those people that already knows what you want to do for the rest of your life?”

  “Of course not, that’d be ridiculous,” she says, and I breathe out a little sigh of relief. But then she adds, “I do have my five- and ten-year plans mapped out—I want to go into business with my mom, expand her B&B business into a chain all throughout New England.”

  “Well, shit. That’s so—ambitious,” I say, feeling a little inadequate, but, as I’ve learned from years of practice, if I ignore this feeling, it will eventually go away.

  I manage to work two strands of lights free and hand them to her. She drags her desk chair over to our window and drapes the strands across the top, instantly improving our sorry excuse for a view. Then she steps off the chair and takes a few steps back, looking at her work like she’s analyzing a painting for AP Art History.