“We have a party with the guys at the Sig Ep frat house.” She might as well be reading an obituary for all the enthusiasm in her voice.
“Not looking forward to it?”
“I’m kind of an introvert.” She picks up her iPad. “I’d rather be reading or working on an assignment for the paper.”
I’ve learned Violet loves to write, and she’s forever jotting things down in a pink floral journal. Though she’s a biology major, she’s also a reporter for the school newspaper. She lights up every time she talks about her article ideas.
Opening my closet, I pull out a flirty sundress of my own. It’s freshman mixer night, and though I have no idea what that is, it might pay to be cute. “Why join a sorority if you’re not into all the social stuff?”
“I’m a legacy,” she says. “Every woman in my family since my grandma Gracie has been a Kappa Zeta. If I didn’t pledge, my mom would’ve disowned me.”
Violet doesn’t smile when she says this, making me wonder if she’s kidding. “Probably lots of opportunities to meet people and make friends.”
“Right.” Violet goes back to her iPad.
A few minutes later, I grab a small clutch that holds my keys and new student ID, then head for the door. “Have fun tonight. I’m going to the Bear’s Den.” Otherwise known as the dining hall.
“Wait!” Violet hops off the bed, dislodging her glasses. “Um…can I go?”
“Sure. But won’t you get in trouble?”
“My introvert tank is depleted. It’s for everyone’s benefit that I don’t attend the social.”
We walk the half-mile of sidewalk to the cafeteria, where I’m instantly assaulted with a tackle and a hug.
“Katie!” Jeremy Phillips clutches me to him and swings me around. “You’re here!”
When my feet finally touch the ground again, I introduce this orange-headed In Between High School alumni to Violet. Jeremy and I met my sophomore year during my first school play of Cinderella. We both played ugly stepsisters.
Having never met a stranger, Jeremy peppers Violet with a million questions while we walk to the dining hall. As he holds open the door, he regales us with a story of his dad’s recent disastrous fifth wedding.
The Bear’s Den isn’t fully operating yet with most of the upperclassmen not on campus, but it still offers more variety than high school grub. I stand in line and wait on a stir-fry, while Jeremy opts for spaghetti, corn, and some stale looking breadsticks. When we sit at a table with a view of the outside sidewalk, Violet joins us with a large salad and a tragically small slice of pizza.
“My mom likes me to eat pretty lean.” Violet stabs her fork into a piece of broccoli. “She says carbs make me puffy.”
Jeremy hands her a napkin. “But happy.”
I bite into my chicken and rice. “Wow, this tastes like—”
“Cafeteria food?” Violet offers.
Exactly. “I expected it to be more cosmopolitan. I appreciate all the choices, but it still tastes like food service leftovers.” I could use my cafeteria credits on some of the on-campus fast food places, but I don’t know how to do that, and those places aren’t open until next week.
“So, are you in romance heaven now that you and Tate are in the same zip code?” Jeremy asks.
Violet reaches for the salt. “Who’s Tate?”
“Her boyfriend, who’s also a student here. They’ve lived hours apart all of their relationship, so now this close proximity will test their love.” His voice goes deep as he narrates the drama unfolding in his head. “Will they grow closer as their lives entwine at Hendrix University…or will these two love birds discover absence truly did make the heart grow fonder?”
“Jeremy watches a lot of old rom-coms,” I say. “Tate and I will be fine, but I haven’t seen much of him yet. He’s busy with his fraternity.” Tate lives in the Macmillan dorm, which I’ve yet to see. So far, residing a short walk apart hasn’t brought us closer. All we’ve managed so far are some late-night texts.
We pick at our food as my new roommate gives us some insider tips she’s gleaned about the school, from bike lane recommendations to which professors to avoid.
“Is it just me, or did they go out of their way to take terrible ID photos?” Jeremy holds his up. “I look like a serial killer.”
I laugh at his crazy-eyed photo and dig out mine. “I look like the lead singer in a band called We Love Meth.”
“Mine’s pretty decent.” Violet flashes us a peek. “My mom made them retake it twenty-two times.”
“What’s your major, Violet?” Jeremy asks.
“Biology.” She stabs a wad of lettuce with her fork. “I’ll be a third-generation pediatrician.”
Once again, I don’t see much enthusiasm, like Violet’s reading from a teleprompter someone else has prepared. “Is that what you want to do?”
She shrugs. “It’ll pay well.”
Jeremy pauses on a bite. “Interesting evasion of the question. Now give us the version that’s actually true.”
Her cheeks color. “Being a doctor has its positives. I like the idea of helping people. And kids are cute.”
“But?” I nudge.
“But…I dream of being an anchor on a national morning show or a journalist reporting from a war zone.” Her voice goes all soft and gushy as if talking about a crush.
I reach for the salt and apply liberally. “Does your mom know this?”
Violet returns to her salad. “She says it’s an impossible dream and lacks logic.”
“I think you should be whatever you want,” I say. “Have you tried talking to your mom about this?”
Violet studies her food as she gives a vague shake of her head. “Now’s not a good time.”
I turn the conversation to happier things, knowing when to stop pushing a bruised topic. Jeremy tells us about his summer as a camp counselor, and I blab on about the month-long theater program I attended before going back home to work at the Valiant, the old theater my parents own.
“Hey, did you see the audition flyers around campus?” Jeremy’s eyes take on a familiar light that can only be powered by…theater.
“Auditions?” Perhaps this will help my homesick blues.
“Yeah. You can pick up the scripts tomorrow. Auditions are next week.” He holds up his water cup for me to toast. “You in?”
I tap my drink to his. “Let’s show this school some Chihuahua talent.”
“Chihuahua talent?” Violet chokes on her greens. “Is that a good thing?”
Chapter Five
James says that college kicks off a series of nightmares that last well into middle-age. After last night, I’d have to believe it. I wake up Monday morning, gasping in a panic, convinced I’ve overslept and missed my first class. My heart pounds like it wants to escape the confines of my vintage Huey Lewis and the News T-shirt.
Pulling my head from the pillow, I reach for my phone and check the time.
7:00.
Plenty of time to shower, eat a bowl of cereal, and get to Comp I at 8:00. Slipping into my flip-flops, I stretch my arms wide, embracing my first day of classes.
“Good morning.” Violet sits cross-legged on her bed and applies makeup while a small mirror balances on some pillows. “How’d you sleep?”
“Terrible.”
Her mouth slackens as she applies mascara to one eye. “One bad night of sleep down, one thousand four hundred and fifty-nine to go.”
Very encouraging. “I think I’m gonna get in the shower.”
“Good luck with that.” She glances toward the bathroom door. “Jemma’s camped in there.”
I grab the clothes dangling from a hanger on my bunk, waiting for me like a freshly-ironed high-five. Twenty minutes later, I’m still waiting. “What is she doing in there?”
Violet shrugs. “Whatever she wants.”
I knock gently on the bathroom door. “Jemma? Hey, I need to shower and get ready. How much longer are you gonna be?”
“Ch
eck the schedule, freshman,” her aggravated voice calls from the other side. “This isn’t your bathroom block of time.” She turns up the volume on her weird techno music.
I turn back to Violet. “What’s she talking about?”
Violet picks up a large paperback and reclines against a pillow. “Jemma’s all about schedules.” She jerks her chin toward the front door. “She’s assigned each of us our morning and nightly bathroom time.”
I walk to the door and discover a variety of spreadsheets and charts. “She’s divvied up the fridge space by alpha?”
“Yeah, your waters need to be moved to the bottom shelf. They can’t co-mingle with the apples and cheese. Because—”
I consult the chart again. “Because items beginning with letters M-Z go on the bottom. Got it.” It’s a dorm-provided fridge. Why does Jemma get to control it?
Stomping to our disorderly fridge, I grab my milk and make myself a bowl of cereal. But even the Fruity Tooties can’t extinguish my anxious ire. “I’m gonna be late if she doesn’t hurry.”
“The crappy thing is Jemma’s first class is at nine.”
I pound on the door again. “Jemma, I have class at eight.” Clearly, my nightmare was a horrible prophecy. “You’ve been in there forever.”
Her music blares louder, and I know that’s all the response I’m going to get.
Ten minutes later, I’m dressed, my hair’s in a limp ponytail, and I’m worried I smell like bedsheets and morning panic.
Jemma finally steps from the bathroom. While I look like I slept in my car, she appears ready for a full day of beaker shaking and balancing formulas.
She wraps her ponytail in elastic. “Have a great first day.”
Violet’s head rotates back and forth between us as if she’s waiting for someone to throw the first punch.
This rooming situation is temporary. This rooming situation is temporary.
“I wasn’t aware we had a schedule for what time we were allowed in the bathroom.” I’m proud of myself for how calm I sound when all I want to do is throw open the refrigerator door and place the apples right smack next to the yogurt.
“There are three of us in one room,” Jemma says. “In order for that to work, we must have order, procedures, and structure. Right, Violet?”
Violet opens her mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Did you have a schedule with your roommates last year?” I ask, intrigued at the slight fall in Jemma’s face.
“I don’t want to talk about last year.” She grabs a granola bar and a textbook, then retreats to her bed. “I surrender my remaining bathroom time to you, but don’t expect it to happen again.”
Oh, thanks.
After the world’s fastest teeth brushing, I grab my backpack and race out the door. I run so fast across campus, it’s a wonder the track coach doesn’t recruit me. The college crawls with people, and I dodge and weave, light on my feet and sweating right through my cute shirt. My calves flex as I sprint up the two flights of stairs in Kimble Hall and race to room 204.
Where I find the classroom completely dark.
Oh, no. My heart hammers in my chest as herds of people pass me by. People who know where they’re supposed to be.
Digging in my backpack, I yank out my schedule.
Only to realize I’ve got it all backward. Tomorrow begins with Comp I. Today’s first class is Algebra I in the Peale building.
Where is that?!
I step out of the flow of traffic and rummage further, my temples beading with perspiration as I try to find my map. I can all but hear the sound of a clock ticking in my head, and I know I’m going to be late.
No map. I must’ve left it on my bed.
This is all Jemma’s fault. If she hadn’t spent an hour in the bathroom, this wouldn’t be happening. I had everything laid out and ready to go. Now my first day is ruined. Ruined, I tell you!
I hoof it back down the steps and run outside like I’m carrying a fresh transplant organ in my backpack instead of one laptop, two notebooks, my favorite pens, and a unicorn highlighter that smells like dreams and cupcakes.
“Excuse me.” I stop a guy in shorts and a Lord of the Rings t-shirt. “Do you know where the Peale building is?”
He throws up his hands and keeps walking. “How should I know? I’m new here!”
Frodo probably has a jerk roommate too. “Godspeed, dude!”
“The Peale’s that way.” A girl tall enough to touch the treetops points to my left. “Down the hill, take a shortcut through the Greek theater, cut through the bottom floor of the Holbrook, then when you step back outside, hang a right. Got it?”
“Yes…no… maybe.” But she’s already gone. It is heartening to find some kind people on campus—even if I’ve already forgotten half of what she said.
Ten minutes, one extreme workout, and two more stops for directions, I finally unlock the next achievement level and step into Peale. Of course, my class was on the third floor. By the time I arrive at room 321, my shirt is soaked, my ponytail sways in surrender, and…the door is locked. Peeking inside, I see the professor at the lectern.
In a triumph of will, I lift my hand in a weak knock and stare into the tiny window with puppy dog eyes.
The professor ignores me and continues to talk. I can hear words like syllabi, textbook, and no late work. Maybe I don’t want to go in there.
I rap on the door again, and the professor stops and slowly turns toward me. Her mousy gray hair parts in the center and hangs like faded curtains on either side of her head. Intimidating eyes behind large glasses bore right through me as she approaches and opens the door.
“Yes?”
“I think this is my class. I’m sorry I’m late, I—”
“Get out of the hall.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I jump inside as she returns to her post.
“Your name?”
My eyelashes flutter as I ponder the answer. There are at least forty other students sitting primly in desks, and I can feel the laser stare of every one of them. “Katie.”
She consults her roster. “Katie what?”
“Parker. I mean Scott.”
The professor arches one thick brow.
“Katie Parker Scott. I was adopted. Not adopted today. My junior year. It’s confusing. This morning is confusing.” I point to the last row. “I see a seat in the back, so I’m just going to—"
“You may sit right here at the front. You’ve already missed fifteen minutes of notes.”
I suppose it would be oversharing to mention Jemma, the militant shower hog. “Yes, ma’am.” I park myself right in front of the professor, my Fruity Tooties turning to sludge in my stomach. My face burns hot as a blow torch, and I calculate the likelihood of dropping this class and finding another with a teacher who doesn’t breathe dragon fire on poor, tardy souls.
She hands me a syllabus, and it’s long enough to be a small novel. Dates and assignments and rules swim before me, and my anxiety kicks up to derailed roller coaster level. There’s a test already next week? In high school, we eased into the hard stuff. How about some ice breakers or team building games? Maybe a multiple-choice worksheet? What if every class is like this? How will I keep all these assignments straight? What if I can’t get it all done? What if I flunk out before the new smell wears off my dorm comforter?
I think of Maxine’s idea to ditch college and start a cabaret act.
Suddenly cleavage and glitter don’t seem so bad.
Chapter Six
Tuesday morning begins with yet another Jemma skirmish.
Hair in a towel, I exit the bathroom at the unholy hour of five-thirty.
I find my grumpy roommate waiting for me, arms crossed over a pajama top that’s buttoned to her neck.
“You went a minute over your time.” She holds up her phone as if I need to see the digital proof.
“What’s with giving me only thirty minutes in here?” Meanwhile, Violet has forty minutes, and Jemma allotted herself nearly an ho
ur-and-a-half.
“I’m a sophomore,” Jemma said. “I deserve more time.”
“I disagree, and I think tonight we should talk about altering the schedule.” I see the panic on her face and know I’ve created a disturbance in the Jemma Force.
“I also noticed you didn’t make your bed yesterday.” She speaks to a space near my head but doesn’t meet my eyes. “That violates number ten on our Roommate Rules list.”
“I don’t remember seeing a rule about our beds.”
“It’s new.” She sends a withering glance toward my bunk. “Out of necessity.”
I have a breakfast date with Tate and don’t have time for any new edicts right now, so I zip my lips and finish getting ready.
Forty minutes later, I sit at a small table in the dining hall, nurse a chocolate milk, and check my watch for the hundredth time.
No Tate.
I call him again, but it goes straight to voicemail. “Tate, hope you’re okay. I’ve waited as long as I can. Gotta go to class. Call me.”
I had no idea what it would be like to have daily access to my boyfriend. I assumed going to the same college would make our relationship easier than ever. But so far, that’s just not true.
He’s so busy with his fraternity and all his new friends.
But is he really too busy for his girlfriend?
Or is Tate slowly walking away?
Comp I is taught by a handsome graduate assistant named Mr. Reckell, who says we can call him Jake. While he seems cool and laid back, his reading list is not. At this rate, I’m gonna need a U-haul for all these textbooks. My Tuesday-Thursday classes are ninety minutes, and that’s a long time to talk about one subject. Unless that subject is baked goods or favorite show tunes.
My next class is Intro to Theater. I know this because I rechecked my schedule exactly fifteen times. I don’t need to consult the Nerd Map for this one because I’ve been ready for this course since I registered in June.
Something to Believe In Page 3