by Margot Wood
“Instead, I’m going to cover the basics and share some stuff I wish I had known when I was a freshman last year,” Rose continues. I glance around the room and remarkably, everyone is silent and paying attention to our RA—a far cry from my days in high school where everyone was constantly shouting over the teachers. We either all managed to evolve and grow up over the summer since high school, or (more likely) we’re all just too terrified of drawing attention to ourselves.
Rose takes her hands out of her pockets and starts walking around the room like she’s giving a TED Talk. “Here’s the only real important information you need to know: The health center is across the street on the third floor of the building next to the Irish bar. They have free condoms, birth control, and just about every over-the-counter drug you would need, so take advantage of that. If you are on the floor and have a health emergency during closed hours, please come see me or text me. You may also come to me for non-health-related emergencies or if you need help with anything. I am not here to babysit you, but I am here for you for any reason at any time. My room is the single at the end of the hall.” She points in the direction of her room and we all turn our heads like meerkats.
Rose continues monologuing. “If I see you with booze or drugs on the floor, I am required by the school to report you, and I will, but please don’t let the fear of getting caught stop you from seeking my help if you are in a situation that makes you uncomfortable. Okay, now onto some of the smaller stuff.” She stops to pick an unclaimed lollipop off the floor, unwraps it, and pops it into her mouth before she keeps going. “Don’t forget your shower shoes because, well, you’ll see soon enough. Invest in noise-canceling headphones. Don’t bother buying textbooks, the library carries everything you need. I’m about to sound like all your moms, but please, please remember to eat healthy. Just because we have a cereal bar doesn’t mean you should eat from said cereal bar for every meal.”
Now that gets my attention.
“There’s a cereal bar?!?” I whisper to Lucy who shushes me again, a little more aggressively this time.2 Rose catches me whispering and shoots death rays out of her eyes and I zip it up.
“Okay, one last announcement,” Rose continues. “If I even hear rumors of someone getting harassed, I will get involved and if you are the one who does the harassing, you will damn well regret it. So let’s all act like the grown-ass adults I expect you to be and treat each other with respect, okay?” Rose looks around the room, making eye contact with each and every one of us. She’s so intense. I am equal parts impressed and intimidated by her ability to control a room like this—I’m actually paying attention for once in my life. “Okay, that’s it, you may disperse,” Rose says when no one speaks up.
The tension breaks and the room fills with chatter and energy as everyone starts to mingle and sniff one another’s butts. Lucy excuses herself politely and dashes out of the common room to take a whiz, and just as I go to strike up a conversation with this hottie with a mohawk, a skinny brown arm hooks in and around my white arm.
“Don’t you just love her?” This short, pretty boy asks as if we’ve known each other for years and are not total strangers. From his taupe wool sweater and fitted corduroy pants to his expertly groomed stubble and combed black hair, everything about him is impeccably stylish.
“Who?” I ask, looking around the room. I’m pretty intrigued by his lack of boundaries so I just go with it and follow his lead.
“The RA, Rose.” He says it like I should already know this. “I heard she is majoring in costume design in the stage and screen design department and is already getting scouted by major Hollywood producers—and she’s only a sophomore!”
“How could you possibly know that? We’ve only been here a few hours.”
He stops midstride and gives me this little mischievous look. “It’s my job to know these things.” We continue walking down the hall as people pass us by on either side, but we slow down as we approach a room with an open door. “You see that cute girl?” he asks, pointing to the freshmen inside.
“Which one? They’re both cute,” I remark as I watch the two girls organize and arrange about nine thousand books in their room. I can’t help but notice that instead of facing a brick wall and alleyway, their room has a big, beautiful bay window that looks out on the Boston Common.3
“The brunette on the left is Aubry, she’s a stage management major, but the one I’m referring to is the pale redhead on the right. Her name is Sasha and she’s kind of a social media celebrity with more than half a million followers. You should befriend her immediately.” He then spins us around and nods to a really tall white guy sitting at his desk in his room across the hall from Sasha and Aubry. “And across the hall here we have a gangly-looking fellow named Marcel who is in desperate need of a makeover. His dad is a big-time Hollywood producer, a fact which Marcel thinks makes him better than everyone here so he will no doubt ask every hot girl on the floor to ‘star in one of his student film projects’ so consider yourself duly warned.” I take a mental note to avoid this room as my mysterious companion spins me around again. “Maggie and Meaghan live in this room. They’re both musical theater majors so if you hear singing at two in the morning, it’s probably one of them. If you need weed, ask for Foxy in that room, and if you need a login for any streaming platform, go right across the hall to the triple and ask Elissa, Allie, or Rebecca for their login info. And I haven’t been able to confirm this, but god willing it’s true, it’s been rumored that a group of sophomore boys on the soccer team are due to arrive tomorrow.” I have no idea who this guy is, but I already love him and the way he seems to feed off gossip.
“You are like the human equivalent of the trivia section on IMDB,” I tell him.
He unhooks his arm from mine and offers me his hand. “Micah Dalglish, journalism major.”
I give him a firm handshake. “Elliot McHugh, undeclared.”
He leans back, shifts his weight to one hip as he looks me up and down. “Really? I totally had you pegged as an acting major.”
“Please! I actually want to make money for a living,” I retort and he laughs.
“Ah yes, with that degree in undeclared you’ll be making millions in no time.”
I pause and give him a once-over. “I like you.”
“The feeling is mutual,” he says. We link arms again and work our way down the hall until we’re outside my room.
“This is me,” I say. “Do you know who lives across the hall, in #310?”
“Shockingly, I don’t, but let’s find out together, shall we?” Micah says and then knocks. My neighbors’ door swings open and we come face to face with two walking cans of Axe body spray.
“Wassup?” they say in unison. At well over six feet tall, these two poster boys for country clubs and boat shoes dwarf the doorframe they stand in. Sure, I’ve encountered their kind in high school—and once my older sister, Izzy, dated one of them—but never in my life did I think I’d cross paths with their kind at a school like this, let alone live right across the hall from them.
You see, Emerson is the kind of educational institution where clusters of trendy, artsy students gather in front of the dorms to chain-smoke Lucky Strikes and compare David Lynch films—not movies, films. Emerson attracts the artistic misfit type, not these sculpted creatures—I assumed they only traveled in flocks or herds and lived in pledge dorms, surfacing just for keggers or sport games. But lo and behold: My new neighbors are two living, breathing, football-watching, collar-popping, cargo short–wearing, standard-issue white bros.
Micah and I stare up at them, stunned into silence. Micah nudges me with his elbow and I am the first to speak. “Hello!”
“Wassup?” they say, again, in unison.
Micah reaches out and offers them his hand for a shake but one of them slaps it instead. “I’m Micah,” he says. “My pronouns are he or they, whichever you prefer, and this is Elliot. She lives across the hall from you.” Micah then says aside to me, “Sorry,
I never asked you about your pronouns.”
“You’re good, you got it right: she/her,” I say back.
“Nice to meet you, Ellie,” one of the big dudes says, butchering my name. “I’m Brad.”
“And I’m also Brad,” the other one says. “But my last name is Martin and his is Winthrop.”
“Wait, you’re both named Brad?” They nod, smile, and high-five like having the same name is the coolest thing in the world. I give them two enthusiastic thumbs-up. “Excellent. Good stuff, guys.”
Micah stifles a laugh and nudges me as we back away slowly. “Well, it was nice meeting you, gentlemen,” Micah says.
“See y’all around,” one of them says. I’ve already forgotten which Brad is which. They close the door and go back to manscaping or eating brogurt or whatever it was they were doing.
“They are so going in my report.” Micah grins as he pulls out his phone and starts taking notes.
“What report?”
“I’m planning on putting out a weekly recap of all the drama that happens on our floor. You need to keep me in the loop on what happens around here, in case there’s something I miss.”
“So this third-floor report is like, your version of TMZ?”
“Don’t you dare compare me to TMZ! But also, I like that name, The Third-Floor Report, I’m stealing it.” He types the name in his phone. “It’s something I did in high school, it’s what got me into the journalism program, and I’m hoping it’s what will give me an edge here over other broadcast journalism majors.”
Someone taps me on the shoulder and I jump to the side, thinking I’m blocking the hall, but when I turn around, it’s Rose, and she’s got that I’d like to have a word with you look. I go to beg Micah to rescue me but he’s already power-walking down the hall away from me, his arm thrown over the shoulder of some other girl. Reluctantly, I return my attention to my resident adviser.
“You need to take those lights down,” Rose says sharply.
“What lights?” I coo.
“The ten-thousand-string lights you have draped all over your room.”
“How do you even know about those?” I ask. She looks over my shoulder, into my room. I forgot I’ve been standing in front of my open door this whole time. Shit. Maybe if I ask her sweetly, bat my lashes a little, maybe she’ll loosen up? Yeah, sure, let’s try it. “Do I have to? My roommate Lucy really loves them and it’s important for her to have a cozy environment.”
“Nope, sorry,” Rose deadpans. “They’re a fire hazard.”
“What if we just take down the ones on the ceiling?”
“Take them all down.”
“How about we remove the ceiling ones and the strands draped over the window?”
“No.” Damn. This woman is difficult to negotiate with.
“Okay, fine. What if we keep just one strand, the one hanging behind Lucy’s bed? Please? It’ll make her so happy.” Rose glares at me, opens her mouth, and then closes it again.
“No,” she says, her patience meter very clearly starting to run low. “What’s your name?” she asks.
“McHugh. Elliot McHugh.”
Rose gives me a look. “Did you just Bond, James Bond yourself?”
I pause. “Yes?”
“While I have you here, McHugh Elliot McHugh, you are the only student on the floor who hasn’t declared a major yet, and I want to talk to you about the classes you’ve signed up for.”
“Do you have to?” I try to persuade her with my tone but she doesn’t take the bait.
“Yes,” she says right away. “You could talk to the academic adviser assigned to you, but you’re assigned to the same guy I had last year and let’s just say he is a bit of a talker. This will only take a sec, let me just see what you signed up for.”
Excuse me while I go on a tangent.
I knew being undeclared was going to single me out, but I was kind of hoping it wouldn’t be that big of a deal. And yet, I am three hours into my first day of college and I’ve already had three people comment on my undeclared status. You see, most freshmen come to Emerson already knowing what they want to study, which classes they want to take, what careers they want to pursue in The Great Beyond after college. They have dreams and goals and other synonyms for ambitions. Essentially, they know who they want to be when they grow up. I, on the other hand, am not one of those people. I guess you could say I fall into the spectacularly average category of students. I did okay in high school. But just okay. I wasn’t a standout, I got mostly Bs with a few As here and there and the occasional C. I wasn’t a star, but I wasn’t a burnout either. I was busy doing other shit like plays, choir, and hooking up with people in the plays and choir.
Perhaps you are wondering, Why, then, did you go to an expensive private school instead of a big state school if you don’t know what you want to do? And if you are wondering that, then congrats! You and my mom have something in common! So I’ll give you the same speech I gave her:
I love pop culture. End of speech.
Lol, just kidding! Okay here it goes: I love pop culture—books, movies, TV, etc. I know I want to do something with those things but fuck if I know anything else beyond that. My choices were this: A big school like Ohio State where I would have ended up lost in the void, or a small private school teeming with a bunch of creative weirdos that is so well connected in Hollywood its alumni association is literally called a mafia. The day I got my acceptance letter to Emerson was the day I knew I’d be joining the weirdos.
Now, as far as classes go . . . Rest assured, dear reader. While I may not be super great at planning my life four years in advance like Lucy or Micah, I am super okay at planning it four months in advance, and here is what I’ve done about that: To graduate with an undergrad degree from Emerson, you must acquire a certain number of credits that count toward your major and a certain number of credits to fulfill your general education requirements. And since, well, we both know my current chosen major is , The Elliot McHugh Plan for Academic Excellence in Her First Year at College is to defer taking any classes toward a specific major and instead knock out a variety of gen ed requirements. As easy as that sounds, I still had to pick a set of classes to attend and Emerson’s course catalog was so long, it was like picking what you want to eat at the Cheesecake Factory. Are you sure you want that flatbread pizza? Really? I mean, have you even read the descriptions for all nine Glamburgers on page 12? But you know what? I did it. I read through every option very carefully and let me tell you, I chose some spectacular courses this semester. So, gentle reader, please indulge me as I take the weirdest courses possible while calling it getting an education.
ELLIOT MCHUGH’S MOST EXCELLENT FALL SEMESTER Schedule
PH 205 — Queer Dreams
IN 146 — Making Monsters
SC 114 — Plants and People
HI 115 — The Culture of Burlesque
Amazing lineup, right? I am actually quite proud of myself for being conservative in my choices because I could have (and wanted to) signed up for classes like Literature of Extreme Situations or Deconstructing The Legend of Korra. The point is, I deserve copious amounts of praise for showing restraint in not signing up for the most ridiculous courses.
Unfortunately, my present company doesn’t seem to share my opinion.
I handed Rose my phone and now she’s swiping through my courses. “First of all, every freshman has to take Fundamentals of Speech Communication their fall semester so right away one of these has to go,” she says while still staring at the screen
“Barf.”
She swipes again. “The Culture of Burlesque?”
“It fulfills the history requirement.”
“And the plants one?”
“Science, obviously,” I tell her. “And I’m not really sure what Making Monsters is but I hope it involves Play-Doh.” Rose sighs and shifts her weight to one hip. She hands the phone back and there’s this long, silent pause between us, which can only mean one of two things: Either R
ose agrees with my plan—or I’m about to be offered some unsolicited advice from someone I don’t know very well.
“Elliot—” Rose says.
“Yes, Rose?” I use my sweet, innocent voice just to piss her off.
“You should really rethink this course load.” She gives me a condescending look.
“Why? I thought really hard about this curriculum. I selected these subjects with great care and thought.”
“You basically chose bullshit courses that will be easy As.”
“Nuh uh, that is so not true.4 The course description for Plants and People is deeply academic.”5
She shakes her head at me. “Elliot—”
“Rose—”
“Can I please give you some advice?” Annnnnd there it is. I never understand why people ask for permission to give advice when they’re going to do it regardless. “You need to take this stuff seriously.”
I straighten my posture and use the same voice and gestures that usually get me out of trouble with my mom. “What if I told you I selected slightly easier classes because I feel as though I am, perhaps, not yet emotionally equipped to handle a tougher course load? That I am feeling overwhelmed by the transition to college life and I want to ensure my grade point average will not suffer while I take a semester to mentally adjust to my new environment and prepare myself for the real work that lies ahead?”
“I’d say you’re full of shit,” Rose says immediately. I tilt my head back and groan as she continues. “Look, you already have to change one of these to the freshman speech class, so I strongly suggest you change out another one while you’re at it, Elliot,” Rose reiterates.
“Fine. Whatever. I’ll think about it.”
“So did you take her advice? Did you switch one of your gen ed classes for a core one?” Lucy asks during our first dinner together in the dining center. Emerson is on a swipe system, which means you swipe to get in to eat but once you’re in, YOU’RE IN, and you can eat as much as you can until they kick you out at 9 P.M.6 The kitchen is buffet style, with different stations that rotate based on the time of day, but the cereal bar and the waffle station stay the same all day, every day. Lucy and I are in a booth in the very back, in the corner that overlooks Tremont and Boylston streets. She’s having a grilled tofu Caesar salad with a small side of tomato soup. I’m having a large bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.7