Fresh

by Margot Wood

  And I finally declared my major: business of creative enterprises.

  Here’s the thing I’ve learned most about myself this semester. I love movies and TV and theater and books and music . . . I love all of it. I love pop culture. And I don’t know if you’ve picked up on it this year, but I also kinda love making things happen, which, I learned from my media arts class this semester, is a good skill to have if you want to be a producer. So I met with an academic adviser and we talked it over and that’s when I learned that the Business of Creative Enterprises program is one big dish that has sourced ingredients from all the other departments, like Marketing, Writing, Literature & Publishing, Visual & Media Arts, Performing Arts, etc., etc., etc. According to my adviser, Mr. Tesmond, my whole “take a bunch of random courses” approach this year wasn’t a complete waste of time. In fact, several courses have already put me on the path toward the BCE degree.1 I can’t believe I’m going to say this but I’m excited to sign up for classes next year, I might even take some over the summer too. I finally feel like I’m on the right path and I can’t fucking wait to see where it takes me. It turns out, if you put in the work to make yourself a less shitty person . . . you become a less shitty person.

  Somehow, I managed to do it. I started and finished my freshman year of college. I made it to the end mostly unscathed. And now, all there’s left to do is pack up my life and say goodbye to the Little Building, to the place I now call home.

  So here I am, the last one to leave the third floor. Everyone, including Lucy, left this morning. Lucy and I didn’t say goodbye—that’s not our thing. We agreed that formal goodbyes were unnecessary given the terms of our friendship contract, which was expanded to include once-a-day video chats until we are reunited in the fall.2 Micah promised to visit me over the summer when he goes on a trip to visit his brother who just got a job in Chicago, and I reminded him that I’m from Cincinnati, not Chicago, so now I too have a trip planned to visit his brother in Chicago. Sasha, Brad, Nico, Rose, and every other side character I’ve randomly mentioned in this story have all left for home too. I didn’t bother saying goodbye to Rose. There’s too much I want to say to her, but nothing I will. Micah found out she is doing the abroad program at the Emerson castle in the Netherlands next fall, so that’s that. I doubt I’ll ever see her again. And you know what? I’m okay with this. It’s better this way.

  When I first arrived, I did not bring much, only the essentials: clothes, laptop, bedding, laundry supplies. And yet, I have somehow managed to accumulate things, things I would have scoffed at nine months ago but now can’t imagine living without. Hand-me-down clothes from Sasha, a vintage edition of The Princess Bride book from Brad, throw pillows and tea cups from Lucy, assless chaps from Micah. It would be so much easier to donate all this stuff than haul it back to Ohio, but I’ve attached memories and meaning to these objects.3

  These people who were once strangers have become part of me. They’ve become my family.

  I’m alone in the dorms again, without my mouse friends this time, and I have nothing to do but reflect on my first year away from home . . . and do one last load of laundry. I’m on the phone with Remy as I gather the clothes I had accumulated from my temporary laundry hiatus during the Avoid Rose at All Costs phase of my life.

  “Wait, so why aren’t you coming home until Sunday?” Remy asks. “I thought your dorm closed today?”

  “Izzy’s driving up from New York and we’re road tripping home together, but her med school lets out a day later than Emerson. So she’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “How come you’re allowed to stay then?”

  “I had to get the resident director to approve a one-day extension to my stay. He had to hang back anyway to oversee the cleaning crews.”

  “Cool, so how was it?” Remy asks, showing off her lightning quick ability to change topics.

  “How was what?”

  “Your first year?”

  “Oh, that? Piece of cake, no problem, a walk in the park,” I say as I look under the bed and find the missing bra I’ve been looking for since September.

  “Do you have any advice for me? I can’t wait to go to college.”

  “Advice? No, I have no advice for you, except for shaving—if you want to shave, do it in the sink. Oh, and bring double the amount of underwear you think you’ll need. And if you go to a school that has a cereal bar, go nuts but only, like, moderately nuts.”

  “Is that it? Just shaving, undies, and cereal?” Remy asks.

  “Ummm, let’s see. Don’t date anyone on your floor, you’re just asking for drama. Guard your laundry and supplies at all times—oh, and keep a pair of shoes by the door so when someone sets off the fire alarm, you don’t have to stand outside in your roommate’s boots. And don’t get shitty grades your first semester, you’ll be digging your GPA out of the gutter for the rest of your life. And, I guess, know that it’s okay if you don’t know what you want to study or what you want to do with your life, you’ll figure it out.” I stop and wait for Remy to ask me more questions, but I don’t hear anything. I pull the phone away from my face and check to see if the call is still connected or if I just gave a great monologue to a piece of plastic. “Hello? Remy? Are you still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here,” she says. “I was trying to write down everything you said so I won’t forget it when I go to college in a few years.” Ahhh goddammit I love my little sister so much.

  “You don’t have to worry about remembering it, Remy. I’ll write it all down for you. Maybe I’ll even turn it into a book one day.”4 I gather the last of my clothes that need to be washed and head to the laundry room, but as soon as I get my clothes loaded into the machine, I realize I’m completely out of detergent.

  “Shit!” I say.

  “Don’t say shit,” Remy says.

  “Hey Rem? I gotta run but I’ll see you in a couple of days, okay?”

  “Okay!” she squeals into the phone. “I can’t wait!”

  I hang up and look around the room for any abandoned supplies and over on the window ledge there’s a box of detergent—and it just so happens to be the exact same kind I use. Someone must have bought it recently and decided not to lug it home. Sweet! I think as I go to grab it but I stop myself short. This is definitely public property now, everyone has left, but it still feels wrong to take what is clearly someone else’s stuff. But . . . I still need to wash all these stanky-ass clothes. As much as it pains me to even consider stealing, I have a choice to make. Well, actually, you have a choice to make.

  THE ELLIOT MCHUGH INTERACTIVE EXPERIENCE: THE LAUNDRY EDITION

  Which of the following should I do next?

  OPTION A: Should I embrace being a total hypocrite and “borrow” some detergent from this fresh, unattended stash?

  OPTION B: Or should I take the high road, march over to that ancient-looking detergent dispenser, and cough up four times the normal price per pound for a single packet of liquid blue sludge that will definitely make my skin break out later?

  If you selected option A, please proceed to the next paragraph. If you selected option B, please proceed to the next footnote.5

  Before I break open the box, I tiptoe to the door and peek up and down the hall, listening for any kind of movement, straining for the sound of someone who might witness my thievery. But I hear nothing so, fuck it. Let’s do this. Hypocrisy be damned! I’ve got undies that need to be washed and I am not going inside-outsies again. I reach for the box and open it up.

  Hold up.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  What the—

  . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  There’s a note inside.

  . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  . . . . . . . . . . . . .

  I unfold the yellow piece of paper that was carefully placed inside the box and this is what it says:

  To the girl who called me an asshole nine months ago,
I’m sorry I used your detergent. To make it up to you, here is a replacement. But the fact that you opened this means you are a total hypocrite because you didn’t know this was for you and yet you opened it anyway. I’m glad to see you’ve *finally* taken my advice.

  Love,

  Rose

  A;dlkgfhjfa;dsfjhsdkfjhaergkjba;skdjghad;fjhsalskdjfhsl I don’t.

  I just.

  I mean.

  I can’t even.

  And that’s when I hear a knock on the laundry room door.

  * * *

  1 Ha! Who fucking knew?!

  2 I did, however, manage to hide a box of Cheez-Its in one of her suitcases as a little surprise for when she gets home.

  3 Plus, I doubt Goodwill accepts assless chaps.

  4 *wink* *wink*

  5 [Movie trailer narrator voice] Elliot McHugh was not a hypocrite. She made the ethical choice and purchased a packet of cheap, liquid detergent. What Elliot did not know was that the detergent had expired. Elliot had an unfortunate reaction to the toxic chemicals and suffered a slow, painful death. The end. Please proceed to the credits. This book has ended for you.

  CHAPTER 22

  She’s still here. Rose is still here. who, what, why, when, how is she still here?!?!?

  “Rose! What are you—how are you—why are you here?” I ask gracefully as I open the laundry room door for her. This is the first time we’ve spoken in six weeks. “I thought you left?”

  She bounces on her toes and leans against the door frame. “The resident director told me you were staying an extra night so I volunteered to stay back too and keep you company.”

  “Oh, that’s so great!” FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

  “Are you all packed?”

  “Mostly,” I say and nod to the washing machine. “One last load to go.”

  “Do you mind helping me pack? I could use an extra hand.”

  “Uh, sure, yeah. Just give me a minute and I’ll meet you down there,” I tell her. She smiles and takes off down the hall toward her room. As soon as she’s out of earshot I sprint to my room and text Lucy.

  Elliot: HALP! ROSE STILL HERE. SHE NEEDS PACKING HELP. WHAT DO?

  Lucy: all you have to do is help her pack. that’s it!

  Elliot: BUT WHAT IF SHE PACKS THE BOXES ALL SEXILY?

  Lucy: keep the convo casual, you only have to get through tonight

  Lucy: you can do this!!!!!!!!

  I shuffle down the hall to Rose’s room and steady myself before knocking. “Come in!” she calls from inside and I push the door open.

  This is the second time I’ve been in Rose’s room and it appears as though she has acquired even more stuff. She hasn’t packed any of it. Good. That means more packing, more distraction. Mellow, deep house music plays through a pair of speakers, and Rose has switched on two colored table lamps that bathe the room in an amber, moody glow. This room is pure Rose—warm, wild, sexy.

  Ahhh god, what the fuck am I doing? I shouldn’t be in here.

  While Rose packs away her sewing machine at her desk in the back, I take a seat on the soft, tufted area rug on her floor, and start packing her books. I try not to, but I can’t help but sneak a few glances at her when she isn’t looking. For once, Rose isn’t wearing some elaborate outfit. Her hair is unwashed and held together in a messy bun and she’s wearing loose-fitting harem pants and a big, hand-knit sweater. Not an inch of her body is showing and yet it is the sexiest look I’ve seen.

  She zips the case around her sewing machine and moves on to clearing out her desk. She opens a drawer and yelps. “Oh! I forgot I had these! Oh, this will be perfect!” She pulls out a few boxes of incense sticks and shakes them. “I like to create an atmosphere, so I need you to pick a scent. And choose wisely because I will judge you based on the scent you choose.” She arches just one eyebrow, a challenge. I get up from the floor and approach her slowly. I don’t know what she’s doing, what this is, so I just pick one at random.

  “No, no, no,” she says. “You have to smell them first. Close your eyes,” she says so softly it’s almost a whisper.

  “What?” My heart beats a little faster.

  She takes a step closer to me. “Close your eyes. You need to smell the incense without knowing what they are. It’s the only way to make an unbiased decision.”

  “How can one be biased about incense?”

  “Shut up and close your eyes already.” She takes another step closer and this time I obey. I close my eyes and a second later, I smell something cloyingly sweet and floral, like someone tried to recreate the scent of jasmine in a lab but got it all wrong. “Thoughts?” she asks. I keep my eyes shut.

  “No, not that one. Too powdery.” I don’t know why I’m whispering, it just comes out like that.

  “What about this?” she asks. The flower scent is replaced with something that smells smokey, almost tobacco-like, which of course makes me think of Nico and his cigarettes.

  “No, not that one,” I say.

  “Okay, last one.” The smokey scent disappears and a new fragrance takes its place. I can’t put my finger on any one note. With my eyes still closed, I reach for her hand and bring it closer to my face so I can smell the incense more closely. I inhale deeply. It smells like wet, dirty roses mixed with sandalwood, cedar, and amber. It’s spicy, lush, seductive. I don’t know what it is, but what I do know is I want to drink this scent. I want to bathe in it.

  “This one,” I whisper. I open my eyes and look for the box to see what brand makes it, but it’s just a plain black box, no logo or labels or anything. “Where did you get this?” I grab the box from her and sniff it again.

  Rose smiles at me. Apparently I’ve chosen correctly.

  “It’s custom made, actually, by me. There’s this little shop on Newbury Street where you can make your own perfumes. It’s me, or at least the olfactory version of me.” Rose takes a stick from the box, lights it, and places it in a metal holder on her desk. The smoke spirals into the air and slowly fills the room with the intoxicating fragrance. I stand there, frozen, unable to do anything but breathe in Rose.

  “Are you hungry?” Rose asks, shaking me out of my trance. “I just ordered some hot noods.”

  I nearly choke. “Excuse me?”

  “Hot noods, as in spicy noodle soup from Pho Pasteur. It should be here soon in case you want some.”

  “Uh yeah, sure, sounds good.”

  As we wait for our dinner, I dip out and go to the bathroom. “Get a grip, McHugh,” I tell mirror me after I splash cold water on my face. She’s not supposed to be here. I was this close to making a clean break. I’ve spent the last six weeks trying to forget about Rose and now, in the span of twenty minutes, all my feelings for her are threatening to resurface. I splash my face a few more times and wait until I’ve calmed down enough to return. I give myself one last pep talk before I leave, “Keep it casual, keep it neutral, keep it in your pants.”

  By the time I get back to her room, the food has arrived and Rose made us a little picnic spread on the floor. I take a seat on a pillow across from her and start slurping noodles and eventually, we even start talking.

  “So, I haven’t seen you much since the auction. I was hoping we could talk about it,” she says in between slurps of soup.

  “Do we have to?”

  “No,” Rose says and I breathe a sigh of relief, but then she adds, “I want to make sure you’re okay, though. You seemed upset by what happened up there.”

  “I have a pretty broad definition of what fun means, but getting publicly slut-shamed doesn’t exactly fall under the traditional definition of fun.” I try to play it off as though I don’t care, but Rose has this annoying ability to see right through me. She stops eating and looks me straight in the eyes.

  “When that person called you a slut, did it upset you because it forced you to confront something you already think about yourself or did it upset you because it made you doubt yourself—made you doubt a part of yourself that you had already accepted a
nd even celebrated?”

  I don’t hesitate, I know the answer to that question easily. “I don’t think I’m a slut.”

  “Good,” she says and goes back to eating. And then in a louder, fiery tone she adds, “I swear, Elliot, instead of bidding on you, I was this close to jumping offstage and smacking the shit out of whoever said that. I couldn’t believe no one was bidding, I mean what the fuck is wrong with people—”

  “Sorry, but I gotta stop you right there,” I tell her. “I mean, it’s sweet that you’d get all slappy on my behalf, but I don’t deserve to be defended. Yeah, it was a real kick in the nuts to stand up there and be humiliated, but it was only my ego that was bruised. It was my own fault, really. When I was up there, I saw all these people I had slept with and then ghosted, so I don’t blame them for leaving me up there high and dry, and you shouldn’t either.” I think, for a second, that maybe I should say something more on it, try to show her more ways that I’ve grown up this year, but why bother? It’s too late now. We go back to eating in silence, until Rose changes the subject.

  “Did you end up declaring a major?” she asks.

  “Yeah, actually—business of creative enterprises,” I say with pride.

  “Elliot! That is so awesome!” She looks happy. She too should be proud—of herself. If it wasn’t for her, I’d still have no clue what I want to do with the rest of my life. I may have done the work, but she’s the one who got me started.

  “Thanks,” I say informally, but mean most sincerely.

  “I need to introduce you to Eva Grey,” she continues. “She’s in that program too and really loves it. She is such a sweetheart.”

  At the mention of Eva’s name, the memory of her and Rose all over each other at the costume party flashes before my eyes. I do everything I can to keep my face neutral, to prevent my expression from laying my feelings bare. I don’t say anything, opting for a simple nod instead as I shovel a huge bite of noodles into my mouth and accidentally choke.