“I love this so much,” Sofia says. “I’m going to take a picture of it to add to our mural. This has to be the best-looking room in all of Morningview Dormitory.”
“Oh, I meant to tell you—I think it should be called Dingymist Dorm,” I say. “Not our room, of course, but the rest of this place.”
“Ha! Dingymist.” Sofia laughs. She aims her lens toward our window. “Do something—you can see us in the reflection.” I raise one arm in the air and try to lift up a foot with the other. I scrunch my face into a silly pout—mouth closed—and I wait for Sofia to take the photo. “Well, that just looks absurd,” she says as our doorbell rings. I drop my foot to the ground and we look at each other questioningly.
“Do you think that’s Ella again?” I whisper.
“It has to be, right?” Sofia whispers back, and we both tiptoe—more easily than the first time, now that the floor is clear—over to the door. Sofia peers out the peephole and then nods her head. She unlatches the lock and opens the door. “Hi, Ella, what’s . . .” Sofia cuts herself off. I glance over her shoulder to see what she’s looking at, and as promised, Ella is there in the hallway.
Only this time, she isn’t alone.
“Hi, Avalon and Sofia!” she chirps. “I’m happy to introduce you to your new roommate!”
Sofia and I stand in the doorway in stark silence, dumbstruck. What does Ella mean, “new roommate”? It’s two people per room, and this one is ours.
“This is Kensington,” Ella continues, and if she’s picking up any sort of reluctance from Sofia and me, she’s choosing to ignore it. “Kensington Barrett.”
“Hi,” I say shyly.
“Hi there,” Sofia says in what I can tell is her trying-to-be-nice voice. “Do you go by Kensington, or a nickname? Kenzie, maybe?”
“Kensington,” the girl answers curtly. She has the kind of face that could be pretty . . . if it weren’t for its sour expression. Everything else about her is perfectly put together—perfectly highlighted blond hair, perfectly arched eyebrows, perfect dark-wash jeans, perfect black wedges. But her face is so unpleasant-looking that all this perfection is pretty much useless. Perfecto, she is not.
“It seems there was a mix-up with the room assignments,” Ella prattles on, oblivious to the tension that has fallen over the space. “And Kensington was given a male roommate—”
“I said that would be fine,” Kensington interrupts her.
“It’s against the PhotoRetreat rules,” Ella fills in. “And, of course, we don’t want anyone rooming by themselves—”
“That would also be fine,” Kensington interrupts her again.
“Especially for safety reasons,” Ella continues, seemingly unperturbed by Kensington’s attitude. “So we decided the easiest thing to do was to place both Kensington and her male roommate in preestablished rooms. Oh, here we are—perfecto.” I turn toward what Ella is referring to and see two men carrying a bed frame down the hall. Right behind them, two more follow with a bare mattress.
“Where do you want these?” one of the men asks. Ella pushes past us into the bedroom and does a quick sweep with her eyes.
“Wow, you girls have gone to town in here,” she says. “Let’s place the bed against this wall.” She points to the spot in front of our mural—the space where we had mentally placed our phantom beanbag chairs. I glance at Sofia, trying to will her to speak up on our behalf—to say that this is our room, our stuff, our mural wall. But Sofia stays as quiet as I do.
Because, after all, Kensington is standing right there.
Looking sour.
The men drag the bed frame and mattress through the door and plop it into place, instantly blocking at least half our pictures.
“Well, I’ll leave you three to get acquainted,” Ella says cheerily. “Remember, you need to meet the rest of the group in the lobby at four!” I look at my phone screen: 3:14 p.m. We have exactly forty-six minutes—forty-five plus the elevator ride—to waste. If it were just Sofia and me here, the extra time would be welcome—a delay from having to socialize with a bunch of strangers. But now one of those strangers is among us, in our space.
Which makes forty-six minutes seem like an eternity.
Once Ella and the movers have left, Sofia and I look at Kensington expectantly, but she remains eerily quiet, staring ahead out the twinkle light–draped windows.
“So, do you want us to help you bring in your stuff?” I ask, trying to sound friendly.
“This is it,” Kensington answers, gesturing to the bag hanging from her shoulder. It’s a fairly large bag, but still. Compared to all the stuff Sofia and I brought, it hardly seems like enough.
“That’s it?” Sofia asks incredulously. “That’s a joke, right?”
“No. Why?” Kensington answers, deadly serious.
“Oh, I just mean, it seems like . . . ,” Sofia stutters. “All I’m saying is that if you saw the number of bags Avalon and I arrived with, you would laugh.”
“Yes, I gather that,” Kensington says, sitting primly on her bare mattress and unzipping her bag. She peers in and pulls out a single flat sheet, followed by a tightly folded blanket and a blow-up pillow, like the kind people use on airplanes.
“Where did you fly here from?” I ask as she begins to drape the sheet over her mattress.
“I’m sorry?”
“The pillow.” I point to it.
“Oh,” Kensington says. “No, I didn’t fly here.” When she doesn’t elaborate, Sofia and I exchange looks.
Is this girl for real?
“So, where are you from?” Sofia prompts her, as if speaking to a kindergartener.
“Here,” Kensington answers.
“Here, like New York?” I ask.
“Yes,” Kensington says.
“Wow,” Sofia interjects. “That must be so cool.” But Kensington only shrugs.
“I mean, it’s like being from anywhere else, I guess,” she says.
“It’s definitely not like being from Arizona,” Sofia says, settling cross-legged on her bed. “I’ve never even been to New York before, and Avalon, you’ve been here, what did you say, twice?”
“Yeah,” I answer. “And only around Christmas.”
“Worst time of year,” Kensington says. “That’s when all the tourists descend.”
“Yes, well, I am a tourist,” I say, maybe a bit too defensively.
“Where are you from?” Kensington asks me. Which I suppose is progress—it is an actual question, after all.
“New Jersey,” I tell her. “But South Jersey, closer to Philadelphia.”
“Oh” is all Kensington responds. I turn to roll my eyes at Sofia, but she’s concentrating on her phone. I climb up the side of our bunk bed to my own mattress and send her a text.
If she lives in New York, why is she staying here?! Go home!
Right????? Sofia responds. Ugh, so over her. She’ll probably tear down our mural while we sleep.
Before I can reply, a text from Arden appears across my screen. How’s it going?
I think about how to answer this. If she had asked me an hour ago, I would have said that I was having fun. That I was settling in. That I was . . . happy.
But now? Not so much.
We got a new roommate, I reply.
Wait, what? Who? Arden asks.
Long story, I say, swiping back to the rest of my texts. Where I find six in a row from Celia, all of which I missed while Sofia and I had been decorating our room.
“The key chain!” I call out despite myself.
“What’s that?” Sofia asks from her bunk.
“Sorry,” I say. “My best friend, she gave me a key chain, and I wanted to put our room key on it.”
“Did she give you a friendship bracelet too?” Kensington asks in a mocking tone as I climb down the ladder from my bed. When I reach the floor, I look at Sofia, hoping she’ll defend me and put this snotty New Yorker in her place. But Sofia only concentrates harder on her phone, leaving me on my own.
>
“No,” I answer Kensington coldly. “Just the key chain.” I open our top dresser drawer and retrieve the bag where I placed it, and then I take the key from my back pocket and loop it through the enclosure. I snap a quick picture of it and send it to Celia with the caption, Sorry, forgot to do this when I arrived.
I thought you were going to text me as soon as you got there, Celia responds.
I got distracted decorating the room, I tell her. How are you?
But fifteen minutes later, even after I can tell she’s read it, Celia doesn’t respond.
By the time we leave for our early bird dinner, our new roommate is fully unpacked. And it’s obvious that she brought nothing but the bare essentials with her: no keepsakes, no momentos, no reminders from home. Perhaps when home is right down the street, you don’t need such things?
Or perhaps Kensington is more robot than human. That somehow seems more likely.
The three of us ride the elevator to the lobby in silence, with even the bond that Sofia and I formed seemingly vanished. When my phone buzzes with a text, I’m relieved to have somewhere to place my eyes. Arrived at Retirement Ranch. Wish me luck with the Pinochle Posse, from Arden.
Do you think it’s too late for me to join you? I write back as the elevator doors open. I follow Kensington and Sofia out to the main lobby, where Ella, perky as ever, is in the middle, trying to gather the group. I stand as far away from her as possible, moving behind two taller people so I’m out of her sight line. My fear is that if she makes eye contact with me, she’ll immediately introduce me to someone else. And the last thing I feel like doing right now is making small talk.
In contrast, I see Sofia flitting around the lobby, talking to anyone she encounters, not looking for me once. My stomach sinks—I had figured we would stick together, like how at home, Celia and I always stick together. If I didn’t have Sofia, I’d either have to talk to these strangers, or to no one. It’s not that I minded people once I knew them—it was the getting to know them that made me feel unsure. I didn’t have it in me to walk up to a stranger and strike up a conversation. I always had Celia around for that job, or Arden, or (I had thought) Sofia. On my own, all I wanted to do was slink off to the side of the lobby and stare at my phone.
I make my way toward a corner, glancing around the room to see if there’s anyone who looks half as awkward as I feel. But everyone is already talking to one another—if I walk back over now, I will have to insert myself into someone else’s conversation, which is even more horrifying than hiding over here by myself.
I look down at my phone again, willing a text to flash across the screen so I can pretend to be busy. When nothing does, I open the camera instead and aim the lens at the larger group. I photograph what scares me. I photograph the things I scare. Sofia’s words flash across my mind as I press the button, even though she herself is now hidden within this social circle.
“Paparazzi-ing them?” I whip around to find Kensington seated behind me, so deep in the corner that she’s nearly invisible.
“Sorry, I—it just—I didn’t see you—” I stutter, feeling the need to explain myself, but Kensington holds up her hand to stop me.
“I get it,” she says. “I hate this kind of forced socialization as much as it appears you do. Feel free to stand back here and ignore them all with me.”
“Thanks,” I say. “I just don’t want Ella to yell at us for being, you know, antisocial.”
“We’re socializing,” Kensington reasons. “Look at us—socializing. With each other. That’s good enough.”
I smile tentatively, settling onto the couch next to Kensington. We sit quietly, waiting for our cue that it’s time to leave for dinner. And when we see the rest of the group begin to move toward the lobby doors and out onto the sidewalk, we both stand reluctantly. As we make our way outside, I catch a glimpse of Sofia, chattering away ahead of us.
“I dare you to post that,” Kensington says suddenly as we trail behind the group.
“I’m sorry?” I ask, wondering if I was starting to hear things.
“The picture you took,” Kensington says. “In the lobby. I dare you to post it and caption it Forced Socialization.”
I laugh out loud at this, though Kensington doesn’t crack a smile.
“Wouldn’t they see?” I ask. “I’m assuming they’re going to make us all start following everyone else’s PhotoReady accounts.”
“Even better,” Kensington says. “Give them something to talk about.”
I consider this. “I don’t think I can. But if you want to post it, I’ll send it to you. . . .”
“No, it has to be you,” Kensington replies. “You look sweeter. They won’t expect it coming from you. And make sure to label it with #PhotoRetreat so it appears in that feed.”
I continue to walk beside Kensington, considering this, but I don’t make a move to post anything.
“Think of it this way,” Kensington continues. “You’d be saying what everyone else is thinking.”
“They seem to be enjoying themselves.” I gesture to the group ahead of us.
“They’re not,” Kensington says. “It’s all an act. Plus, if you post it, that will at least give them something interesting to say to you. Otherwise, you’ll be forced to talk about where everyone’s from or whatever. Boring.”
“You only think it’s boring because you’re from New York,” I point out. “Of course every other place is boring compared to here.”
“I’d kill to not be from here, actually,” Kensington tells me. “I mean, not literally kill—I’m not as mean as I look—but trust me: It’s annoying.”
“Why?” I ask, looking up and down the street as we cross it. Despite the three or four blocks we’ve walked, I feel like I’ve had blinders on until this moment. Like Arden said, people come from everywhere to experience New York. Here I am, right in the thick of it, and I’ve been too distracted with worrying about who I’m going to talk to at dinner to even see it. When it’s right there, all around me.
And magnificent.
“For instance, look at the ivy on that building,” I say to Kensington. “You’ve probably never seen that before.”
“There’s ivy on a ton of brownstones,” Kensington says. “It’s kind of a thing.”
“But have you ever seen it on this one?” I ask. “Like, really noticed it?”
Instead of answering, Kensington gives me a half smile—not with teeth or anything, but there’s a definite upturn of her lips, which thus far is the closest I’ve seen her come to not scowling.
“You’re a funny one, you know that?” Kensington says.
“And you’re not as scary as you look,” I tell her honestly, which makes Kensington break into a genuine, completely unexpected laugh. Right before it ends, I manage to whip my phone out quickly enough to snap a photo of her. And the picture proves that my suspicions about Kensington are correct—that without the sour expression on her face, she really is pretty, with an easy grin that could rival even Arden’s.
#IfYouJustSmile, indeed.
“Maybe I’ll post this instead,” I tell her, holding the photo up for her to see. “You know, I did do my entire PhotoReady project on smiling in order to get in here.”
“Of course you did,” Kensington says. “And no posting that. You’ll damage my street cred.” The group in front of us begins to merge through the door of a pizzeria. Before entering, I load the photo I had taken in the dorm lobby onto PhotoReady and give it Kensington’s Forced Socialization caption, plus the label #PhotoRetreat.
And in the shaded filter that I place over top, the scene doesn’t look so frightening after all.
By luck, I end up standing in line at the pizzeria counter next to Sofia, which means I don’t have to make small talk with anyone else.
“Where have you been?” Sofia asks as we wait to grab a slice. “I lost you once we got to the lobby.”
“I was talking to Kensington,” I tell her. “Plus, you looked pretty comfor
table making your way through the crowd.”
“Kensington?” Sofia asks with wide eyes, ignoring my other comment. “She actually spoke to you?” We each take a slice of pepperoni and head toward two empty seats, Sofia chewing as we walk.
“She’s not that bad,” I say, looking around to make sure Kensington can’t overhear us. “Really. She just has a very New York personality.”
“You mean rude?” Sofia asks. “New Yorkers aren’t rude. That’s a stereotype.”
“I think she’s more reserved than rude,” I say. “She likes to keep to herself. I don’t think that’s bad. I kind of do the same thing.”
“I do the opposite,” Sofia tells me. “I’ll talk to anyone, about anything. My family calls it ‘word vomit.’ ”
“Yeah, I noticed,” I say with a smile. “But I promise Kensington’s better than we thought if you give her a chance.”
“Harumph.” Sofia makes a grunting sound as she takes another enormous chomp out of her pizza crust. For such a small girl, she sure manages to eat a lot—and quickly. She’s already weaving back toward the counter before I’m halfway through my slice. She returns with one for each of us, and I’m certain that a week of eating with her is going to give me indigestion, if nothing else.
“I saw her PhotoReady project,” Sofia says after she’s swallowed her corner bite.
“Whose?” I ask.
“Kensington’s. I looked up her account to find out what she created to get into the retreat. Guess what the title is?”
“Hold on, I want to see,” I say, stuffing the last of my first slice in my mouth so I can retrieve my phone. I open PhotoReady and type “Kensington Barrett” into the search field, but nothing comes up.
“@W84PX,” Sofia fills in. “Don’t ask me why, but that’s her account name.”
“How did you ever find her?”
“Please, I can find anyone. It’s a gift,” Sofia says. “Now look at her project title.” I click on one of Kensington’s photos—of a gaggle of people hunched over a jewelry case, the surefire signs of visors, sneakers, and large cameras outing them as tourists. The location tag on the photo indicates that it was taken at Tiffany & Co. on Fifth Avenue.
Spring Break Mistake Page 4