Fresh

by Margot Wood

  “Do you think that’s too many lights?” she asks.5

  “I once read on the back of a Snapple cap that there is no such thing as too many fairy lights.”

  Lucy clasps her hands together and beams. She drops down, reaches under her bed, and magically produces four more boxes of lights. She holds them up for me, her face lit up.

  “What if we cover the entire ceiling with them too? Or would that be too much? Maybe that’s too much.”

  I stop her before she can talk herself out of it. “No, no, I like it. It’ll be like we’re sleeping in a planetarium. It’ll be so Instagrammable.”

  Lucy looks skeptical. “Are you on Instagram? I couldn’t find your account.”

  “Ohhhh, I’m on Instagram, but I don’t post, I prefer to lurk.” I give her a wink and she makes a face at me.

  “That is so creepy! Do you use any social media at all?”

  “Nah, I’m old-school. I prefer to air my grievances out of a window instead of on Twitter.”

  Together, Lucy and I finish untangling the rest of the lights and line our ceiling with rows and rows of the delicate, twinkling orbs. When we’re done, we stand in the corner of the room and assess our work. I don’t know how she did it. An hour ago our room looked like a panic room that ran out of funding, but now . . . now our room is what dreams are made of. At least, her side of the room is. Our ceiling and walls now glitter and sparkle, and every surface is color coordinated in soft pastels and creams. Her bed has more pillows than I have friends, and her floral down comforter is the kind you want to fall onto in slow motion. I pull out my phone and text a picture to my little sister.

  And when she’s done surveying her side of the room, Lucy glances over and frowns at my bed, which is still just the blue vinyl mattress. “Where are your sheets?” she asks and ahhhhh shit, I completely forgot I left my sheets in the wash over an hour ago.

  “Be right back!” I say as I moonwalk out the door. My ass starts vibrating and it’s my little sister calling me. “Hey, Remy, good timing, I’m about to do some laundry,” I say into the phone as I walk down the long hall toward the laundry room. This is something my little sister and I have been doing for years: laundry and sisterly bonding. “Did you get the pic I sent you?”

  “OHMYGOD,” Remy screams so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear. “YOUR ROOM LOOKS SO AWESOME!” And then, at a lower decibel, she adds, “It’s giving me tons of ideas for how I’m gonna redecorate your room at home.”

  “What do you mean redecorate? I’ve only been gone for three days. What’d you do with all my Angelina Jolie collages?”

  “Don’t worry, I put them all in the basement storage room.”

  “So you’ve put my personal hero next to the cat’s shit box.”

  “According to this show I saw on Netflix, you should get rid of anything that doesn’t spark joy,” she says firmly.

  “Excuse me?” I scoff. “Late nineties and early aughts Angelina Jolie ab-so-lutely sparks joy. Have you ever seen her in Gia? Actually, no, you’re too young for that. Watch Tomb Raider or better yet, watch Maleficent.”6

  “Don’t you ever watch movies from this decade? You know, everyone hates it when you make outdated references.” I can picture her now, standing in the laundry room in our house, her small hands on her hips, her blond curls shaking as she cuts me down like only a twelve-year-old can. “What are you doing right now, why is there so much noise?”

  “Sorry, I’m trying to get to the laundry room to transfer my sheets to the dryer but to get there I have to pass through a gauntlet of people still moving in. There’s a lot of shit going on right now,” I say as I sidestep someone recording a dance routine on their phone.

  “Don’t say shit,” Remy scolds. “Are you using the dryer sheets I gave you?”

  “I’m about to, I left all my supplies in the laundry room.”

  “Aren’t you worried about someone taking your stuff?” Remy asks.

  “Nah, I wrote my name and room number on all my supplies so people will know it’s mine.” When she doesn’t acknowledge my innovative solution right away, I begin to worry. “Why? Should I have not left it all in there? Do you think someone’s going to steal my stuff?”

  “How would I know?!? I’m only in sixth grade!” I pick up the pace because Remy’s got me all panicky and come to a skidding halt when I get to the laundry room. I peer in through the glass window in the door.

  “Shit.”

  “Don’t say shit!” Remy says again but I’ve stopped listening.

  “Listen, Remy, I gotta go.” I try to sound as normal as possible. “Talk next week?”

  “What? Why? What’s going on?” she asks eagerly. She’s so good at sensing the changes in my tone. I could never lie to her—she’d know instantly.

  “You were right. Someone is in here,” I whisper into the phone. “And she’s using my detergent.”

  “Oooooooooh! Go kick her butt, Elliot! You should totally—” I don’t hear the rest of what Remy says because I hang up on her and push open the door to the laundry room. I clear my throat to get the person’s attention. Whoever this person is, she is way too dressed up for laundry. She’s wearing a long, sheer, floral-print duster thing over white overalls and four-inch-heeled black combat boots.

  “Hey! That’s my detergent,” I firmly announce to the thief’s back. She still hasn’t turned around, even now as I yell at her. I wave my arms in the air, trying to get her attention. “Excuse me? Hello? I’m talking to you! That’s my detergent you’re using. You can’t do that.”

  “Anything left in public spaces is fair game,” she says over her shoulder. Who the fuck does she think she is? On any given day, I like to radiate calm, chill vibes, but if someone is openly rude to me, it’s the quickest way for me to go from zero to rage. I cross my arms in front of my chest, tilt my chin up, and rip into her.

  “Hey. Asshole. My detergent is not fair game, okay? I wrote my name and room number on the box right there, see?”

  “Oh, freshman,” she says with a sigh, and then she turns around and oh crap. That face. That is one beautiful face. Long voluminous curls with short, tousled bangs soften and frame her thin, angular face. There’s a smattering of freckles across her tan nose and cheeks but it’s her bright green eyes that stop me in my tracks. I drop my arms and run a hand through my greasy, unwashed hair, very aware that I had just called this woman an asshole—straight to her beautiful face.

  She crosses her arms and lays into me. “Let me tell you right now that if you leave your stuff out, it’s public property, even if you write your name on it. No one cares here. If you leave your laptop out in the common room, step away to take a piss and come back to find it gone—no one will feel sorry for you.”

  I want to keep yelling at her because I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone steal detergent from me—it’s the good, expensive kind—but her stupid gorgeous face is making it very hard to maintain a consistent level of anger. So I just stand there and think of every possible comeback I could say that would put her in her place as well as make me seem clever and smart.

  “Fuck you,” I finally say. Okay, so it wasn’t my finest comeback but cut me some slack, it’s my first day of college and she’s completely disarming me. It’s that face, and hair, and those cheekbones and that stupid hot mouth. Ahh fuck I wanna put my mouth on that mouth.

  She turns back to the washer to swipe her Emerson ID card and turns it on. “You’re welcome,” she says. Aaaaannnnnnd now I’m back to being pissed.

  “You’re welcome? Why would I thank you when you just fucking stole from me?”

  She crosses her arms and looks down at me—not in the condescending way (well maybe) but the literal way because she has a couple of inches on me.

  “I just gave you a valuable college life lesson that most freshmen don’t learn until the second semester. So yeah, you’re welcome.”

  Oh, this smug asshole is about to get an earful. Just as I open my mouth to insult
her, the fucker smiles and it’s the kind of panty-dropping smile that gives me full-on tender chicken.7 I hold firm. I refuse to budge. I know if I try to say something mean, there’s a 99 percent chance my mouth will betray me and I’ll end up hitting on her, so I just stand there and try to convince her I hate her with my eyes. We stand there in a stare-off in the laundry room until the buzzer on the dryer breaks the tension. She picks up her empty laundry bag from the floor and smiles as she brushes passed me on her way out the door.

  When I get back to the room, I tell Lucy everything. “I can’t believe she did that!” Lucy exclaims as she neatly fans colorful packets of teas onto an antique floral plate and rests it atop her tea cart. I love that thing friends do when they get mad on your behalf at whatever unimportant thing you’re complaining about even though they secretly think you’re just overreacting. It’s cool that Lucy and I are already at this stage in our friendship.

  “Yeah, well, now we know to never leave detergent in the laundry room,” I admit. My ass buzzes again with a text from Remy.

  Remy: Did you get your detergent back?

  Elliot: Sure did!

  Remy: Coolio! gotta go school supply shopping with Mom. talk this weekend?

  Elliot: Wouldn’t miss it!

  Remy: Miss u, big sis!

  Elliot: Miss u too, smol sis.

  A pang of homesickness stabs me in the heart as I stare at Remy’s last text. Sure, I miss my parents, but they’re still parents, which means they sometimes suck—but little sisters? Little sisters are worth missing.

  Lucy approaches with caution and sits next to me on the bed.

  “You okay?” Her tone is sweet and gentle.

  I throw on a big dumb smile for show. “Yep, I’m great, totally great.”

  “I know we just met, but I’d really like to give you a hug,” she says, opening her arms wide, inviting me in. “If that’s okay with you,” she adds on. I don’t usually let strangers hug me, but I’ve known my roommate for two hours now and we ate friendship-binding Cheez-Its together, which technically means we are no longer strangers. I nod and let Lucy wrap her arms around me and I am now enveloped in the warmest hug I’ve ever been a part of in my entire life. This is what bathing in hot chocolate must feel like. This is what hugging clouds must feel like. I had no idea hugs could be so good.8

  “Woo!” I say into Lucy’s honey-scented hair. “We completely bypassed that whole getting-to-know-you stage of our friendship and went right into the seeing-me-cry stage, didn’t we?” Lucy releases me and I’m already missing her warm embrace. I fan my eyes and shake myself out of it. “Where’d you learn to hug like that? That was some next-level hugging.”

  “I have six aunties and twenty-two first cousins and they all like to hug. Not one of them knows how to mind their own business or respect personal boundaries and we meet every Sunday for family dinners.”

  “I’m assuming I’m invited now that we are eternal soul mates?”

  Lucy laughs and shakes her head. “Are you sure you want to be surrounded by twenty nosy Armenians as my aunties force-feed you borscht and my born-again Uncle Stan tries to quote you scripture as my grandma pokes your ribs and says you’re too skinny, all while my little cousins torment you until you sit and watch them play video games for two hours?”

  “Lucy.” I take her soft hand in mine. “As painfully loud and uncomfortably intimate as that sounds, I will never turn down free food.” I take a deep breath—I feel better. Even though I’ve cried enough today to meet my usual yearly quota, I’m good. I feel good.

  “What should we do now?” Lucy asks.

  My face lights up the second I get an idea. “Wanna go spy on our neighbors?”

  She looks at me and grins. “Hell yeah I do.”

  Look, I have no data to back up this claim, but I’m pretty positive that I can state, with absolute certainty, that I have the best fucking roommate of all time.

  * * *

  1 Goddammit.

  2 Again, I have no way of verifying this statistic.

  3 You should always have a pack of these on you. You never know when you’re going to need a little spontaneous confetti in your life.

  4 And because I kinda sorta love snooping through other people’s shit.

  5 Lol, as if I have any clue about how to make a dorm room look pretty.

  6 The first time I snuck onto my parents’ HBO Go account to watch that movie, Gia, was the first time I realized I was capable of experiencing intense sexual feelings for women. So you could say Angelina sparks joy . . . in my pants. (Sorry! I can never resist a good “in my pants” joke.)

  7 Tender chicken is a McHugh-coined term that means a lady wood, a female hard-on, a girl boner. The origin of the term is this: Remy invented the phrase when she was eight years old. Izzy and I went down to the basement one day and saw Remy sitting on top of a pillow while watching a show. She said, “Whenever I see two people kissing on the TV, I get tender chicken and have to stick a pillow between my legs.” And in that moment, a legend was born.

  8 You see, most of my family sucks at hugging, with my dad being the only exception. It’s like we’re allergic to it. High fives, pats on shoulders or back, meaningful looks with slow subtle nods we excel at, but hugging? Nope, hugging is something we’re genetically predisposed to suck at. I don’t think Izzy and I have ever hugged. I kind of grew up feeling apathetic toward hugs. So, I am delighted to discover that my new roommate is the world’s greatest hugger.

  CHAPTER 3

  “Are you ready to do this?” I ask Lucy as she puts the finishing touches on a small whiteboard we’re going to hang outside our door. “What did you write? I really hope you went with Hello from the other side—or Now Streaming: Free Hugs and Tea.”

  “I went with Come on in, the water’s fine.” She flips the whiteboard around to show me her handiwork and if her whole marketing/PR double major doesn’t work out, she’ll have an excellent backup career as a calligraphist/illustrator. She’s paired perfectly scripted words with a delightful island beach scene complete with palm trees, a sandy beach, and a sparkling blue ocean. It’s almost perfect.

  “You should draw a shark fin in the water right there and maybe add a little blood around it,” I say, handing the board back. She laughs at my suggestion and in thirty seconds she’s worked my suggestion in.

  “There,” she says as she hangs her work of art on our door for all to see. “Now I’m ready.” She kicks a floral doorstop under the door—because of course she would think of bringing that with her—and joins me in the hallway, but before we even have a chance to walk the two steps it takes to cross over to our neighbor’s door, a loud female voice bellows through a megaphone at the other end of the hall.

  “THERE IS A MANDATORY THIRD-FLOOR MEETING HAPPENING IN THE COMMON ROOM RIGHT NOW!”

  Neither of us moves and as we look around, nobody else is moving either. For the first time, the hallway is dead silent . . . until the megaphone speaks again.

  “Y’ALL KNOW WHAT MANDATORY MEANS . . . RIGHT?”

  Lucy and I shrug as we change plans and walk in the megaphone’s direction until we reach the common room.1

  Lucy and I snag seats on one of the leather couches and as more third-floor residents file in, I study the faces of my new neighbors. There’s at least four, no, five people I’d like to make out with so far. I’m about to point them out to Lucy when our resident adviser struts in and oh fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Shit.

  Fuck.

  I shrink into the couch and hide behind Lucy in a subtle attempt to obscure my face. Our resident adviser . . . is the girl who stole my detergent. Our RA, the person who has the power to make my life a living hell, is the same person I just called an asshole—to her face!!!—no fewer than thirty minutes ago.

  Cool.

  This is cool.

  This is totally, absolutely cool.

  Given our earlier meet-ugly, I expect her to yell or talk down
to us lowly freshmen, but the first thing she does when she gets to the front of the room is throw a bunch of lollipops into the air. Nobody moves at first, but then a guy at the back makes a dive for one, and suddenly there’s a stampede as if they were hundred-dollar bills.

  The commotion provides great cover for when I whisper to Lucy, “That’s her. That’s the girl from the laundry room.” Lucy glances at our new RA and her eyes go wide as she gives me a you’re totally fucking screwed face to which I reply with a think of me after I’m dead face.

  “There, that oughta keep you guys quiet,” our RA says as we all settle into our seats again. “My name is Rose Knightley and I’m your third-floor RA. Hang with me for a minute here, I’m supposed to read from this script.” She grips a stack of paper and reads from it in a bored, impatient tone. “Welcome new students. Undergraduate Orientation is a week designed to show you the Emerson experience. This week marks the beginning of an important journey you will never forget,” she continues. “You will meet professors who will inspire you, build friendships that will stay with you forever, and create memories to treasure for life. The Emerson experience is blah blah blah boring boring boring annnnd scene!” Rose crumples the script and tosses it behind her. She leans back against the wall and shoves her hands into the deep pockets of her white overalls. “Okay, basically yay, you’re all here, you made it. Woo!”

  “Woo!” shouts a dude somewhere in the back and everyone nervously giggles.

  Rose adds, “This week is important and it’s about getting the lay of the land and meeting your academic advisers and signing up for clubs, submitting your course selections, and all that jazz. I’m not going to read this whole thing because it’s all the same stuff that’s in your orientation packet, which I’m sure you’ve all read by now.”

  I lean over and whisper in Lucy’s ear. “There’s an orientation packet?” Lucy shushes me, keeping her eyes laser focused on Rose.