Finding Felicity

by Stacey Kade

  “Okay if I sit here?” I ask, the words running together in my haste.

  “I’m sorry?” The princess looks up from her phone.

  I can’t repeat myself—the words are lodged somewhere in the depths behind my molars—so I point at the empty spot.

  “Of course, of course.” She pats the cushioned back of the couch with a beneficent smile.

  I sit, careful not to knock into the twin next to me with my elbow or smash my cheek against the side of the princess’s leg—awkward.

  Ayana claps her hands to get our attention. “I think everyone’s here now.”

  Everyone except Lexi. I flinch in empathy, imagining her walking in late.

  “So, I’m Ayana Naqvi, your resident advisor. I met most of you when I was helping at check-in. We’re meeting for a few minutes before we go downstairs. I want us to start getting to know one another.”

  Oh, please not icebreakers. I’m terrible at icebreakers.

  “Introduce yourselves with your name and where you’re from, and then share something about yourself.”

  At least we’re not trust-falling or trying to play two truths and a lie. I can do this.

  Silence hangs for a long moment, no one willing to go first.

  “Okay, I’ll start,” Ayana says. “I’m a junior, and I’m from Lahore, Pakistan. This is my first year as an RA, and yes, I’m Muslim.”

  Technically, that’s two things. I hope that doesn’t establish a new standard.

  “Who’s next?” Ayana asks.

  The princess raises her hand in a wave, her thin silver bangle bracelets clinking. “Hey, y’all. I’m Tory from Texas, and I’m so excited to be here, but I miss Major Neville. He’s my horse. I have the single at the end of the hall. Come by and visit. My mama sent all kinds of goodies with me.”

  The twins stand up. They’re pale with wide-set blue eyes and dark, curly hair that is exactly shoulder-length. One of them is in a red-striped shirt, the other in black stripes. “Hi, I’m Cara,” says the one in black stripes.

  “And I’m Lara.”

  “We’re twins from Minnesota,” they say together, and everyone laughs.

  Lara holds up a photo on her cell phone. “And this is Max! My boyfriend.” Her face is lit with obvious adoration. “You’ll meet him in a couple weeks when he visits.”

  This announcement is greeted with whoops and awwwws that make her blush.

  “We live in 409,” Cara finishes, and they sit back down.

  Gradually, the introductions work their way around the room. Anna with the blue hair—Tamika is her roommate. Jessica, Jaime, and Sari are the selfie girls.

  Charlotte. Mimi. Demetria. Jen. So many names and faces, they start to blur together. Plus, the imaginary mic is making its way back to me, and I’m going to have to say something.

  My neck feels tight, like there’s an invisible hand pressing against my throat.

  Evie, the girl on the floor in front of me, finishes speaking, and all eyes are now on me.

  The room feels like it’s spinning, but I take a deep breath and make myself start. “Hi! I’m Caroline!” To my surprise, my voice comes out sounding almost normal. Well, the new, exclamation point-ridden normal. “I’m from Arizona. But I grew up in Manhattan!” That usually has a certain cachet to it.

  A few heads bob in approval—I’ll take it.

  “Your fact about yourself,” Ayana prompts.

  Doesn’t the Manhattan thing count? I don’t know what else to say, and panic claws at me until my mouth opens and sounds emerge. “ ‘Sometimes it’s the smallest decisions that can change your life forever.’ ”

  A sea of blank faces stares back at me.

  “This is your motto?” Ayana asks.

  My cheeks flush hot. “It’s . . . a quote. From my favorite show, Felicity.”

  “Is that, like, that other show, Dawson’s Creek or whatever?” Anna asks, twisting her blue hair into a loose knot on the top of her head.

  No! Dawson’s Creek was a teenage soap opera, not a loving exploration about identity and finding yourself when you don’t know who you are. Though they both featured love triangles.

  But I nod. The shows were, theoretically, contemporaries, and the Dawson’s Creek thing at least got some of the girls to “oh” in understanding.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have brought up Felicity. It is an old show, older than I am. Is it too weird to like something from that long ago?

  Everyone’s attention, thankfully, shifts then to the last girl in the corner, the one still chewing her hair.

  “Sadie. Illinois. Premed,” the girl mumbles around her braid.

  “Great, thanks, everyone,” Ayana says brightly. “So, the next couple of days are about getting to know one another and getting to know campus. Some of the events are required; some are not. The schedule is in the orientation packet you received at check-in. First day of classes for most of you will be Tuesday. Monday is freshman registration for classes. If you’re transferring in with credits, you can still make changes to your schedule if you need to. Tonight, your agenda is pretty light. In fifteen minutes, we’ve got the residential director’s hall-wide meeting outside on the lawn. And I’ll warn you now: It’s short, but required by the RD.”

  Everyone groans.

  “If you don’t go, you get vacuuming duty this week,” Ayana says. “Please don’t make me supervise that. You may not have a life here yet, but I do.”

  That gets a laugh.

  “Then we’ll meet in the caf for pizza, and after that, the Film Board is showing an outdoor movie at the union. It’s hot now, but it will cool off, and we get a breeze up on the hill. So bring a blanket or whatever you want to sit on and a sweatshirt. No alcoholic beverages, please, unless you are of age.”

  Another groan mixed with giggling.

  “Before you leave, make sure you grab one of these.” She pulls a stack of pages from her clipboard. “It’s a list of the floor rules, and you need to sign and return the bottom to me by the end of today, please.” Everyone stands almost at once, and my wingmates start to filter past her slowly, taking the handout. “And don’t forget, meet me at the door to the stairs in ten minutes, and we’ll walk down to the lawn for the RD meeting.”

  I wait until Tory hops off the back of the couch and then follow her.

  When I reach Ayana, I take my sheet and then hesitate. “Can I take an extra . . . for my roommate?” I jerk my chin toward her clipboard.

  Ayana pauses, frowns at me. “Who is your . . . ?” Then her mouth goes tight. “Lexi.”

  What is that about?

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Sure, yeah,” she says, handing me a second sheet, but her tone is grim, the unspoken “good luck” louder than her actual words.

  I take the pages and flee the lounge. We’ve been here less than seven hours; what did Lexi do?

  When I get back to my room, I realize I might have at least a partial answer to that question, which is: deliberately skipped the wing meeting (a.k.a. flouted Ayana’s authority).

  Because Lexi is stretched out on her bare mattress, boots still on, texting with her phone above her face.

  “Hey,” I say, closing the door behind me.

  “Hey,” she says without looking away from her phone.

  “So, I brought you . . . These are the rules for . . . You have to sign and return it.” My voice grows softer, my Stella imitation fading until it’s nonexistent. Lexi’s refusal to make eye contact is making me feel more and more self-conscious, like I’m interrupting her during something important.

  “Thanks.”

  I wait, but she doesn’t move to take the paper, so I set it on her desk.

  After that, I sit on the edge of my bed cautiously, not sure what to do with myself.

  Should I tell her about the Ayana thing? How she reacted? Probably not. I mean, if it’s that bad, Lexi probably already knows.

  Instead, for something to do, I read the floor rules—nothing too dramatic or unexpected
, basically a regurgitation of the rules in the student handbook, which I perused when they sent it in the mail months ago.

  Getting up to find a pen, I lean over my desk and sign the bottom of the sheet with a flourish, taking care to rip the page exactly along the dashes that indicate a tear line.

  Lexi makes an impatient noise, and her bed squeaks as she gets up.

  When I turn around, she’s facing the mirror inside her closet, combing her fingers through the long portions of her hair, yanking it ruthlessly to the top of her head. The back of her head is shaved as well.

  “So . . . we’re supposed to go another meeting in a few minutes,” I say. It’s easier to talk to her back. “It’s required. After that, there’s pizza and a movie outside somewhere, and I thought maybe we could go to the . . .”

  She faces me then. “Listen, Caroline, you seem nice,” she says.

  That falling feeling, the one I had when my mom left, returns.

  “And I don’t mean to be a bitch, but we’re not going to be friends.” She resumes her grooming in the mirror.

  I can’t breathe; air comes in my nose but won’t go any farther.

  “We’re roommates. That’s all. You do your thing, and I’ll do mine.” She winds an elastic band around her hair. Then her hands fall to her sides, leaving her to stare at her reflection in the mirror. “I didn’t even want to be here,” she says, more to herself, it seems, than to me. Whatever she sees in the mirror seems to strengthen her resolve, though, because she straightens her shoulders and walks out of our room.

  Chapter Six

  Standing there, frozen by the edge of my desk, I replay Lexi’s words over and over in my head. We’re not going to be friends. We’re not going to be friends. We’re not going to be friends. The meaning changes slightly, depending on where you put the emphasis. But none of the versions are good.

  Felicity and her roommate, Meghan, didn’t get along either. The look on Meghan’s face when Felicity announced herself as her roommate was clearly one of disgust. When it wasn’t happening to me, it was funny. Probably because I knew, even then, that Felicity was going to be okay. But with me, I’m not so sure. Felicity already had other friends by that point—Julie and Noel and Ben. I don’t have that. Plus, it seems levels and degrees worse that Lexi felt compelled to make that pronouncement aloud. Even Meghan just rolled her eyes, letting the differences between them speak for themselves.

  I’m not even sure what I did wrong. I go through the two encounters we’ve had, over and over—maybe it was that I took a side of the room without checking with her first?—until I realize that I have been sitting there for a while and the hall outside my room has gone quiet.

  The RD meeting.

  After grabbing my signed form, I hurry out the door and down the hall. The last of the girls from my wing are already disappearing through the doorway to the stairs by the time I arrive.

  “There she is,” Ayana greets me like I’m the pathetic puppy who keeps running into chairs and walls. I flush with embarrassment as she checks off my name. “No Lexi?” she asks.

  I pause and then shake my head.

  She makes a note on her clipboard, takes my form, and then waves me toward the stairs.

  I end up behind the twins and Sadie. As we clatter down the steps, our group blends with others, including some from the guys’ floors. The boys are louder, joking around and shoving at one another.

  I suddenly feel light-headed. I’m not ready. And yet I can’t stop myself from looking at the boys, searching for familiar features. But I don’t know any of them.

  Out on the lawn, everyone settles onto their own patch of grass between Brekken and Granland, the other freshman dorm.

  I’m surrounded by strangers. That fledgling bit of early panic has now sprouted wings and grown into a full-size velociraptor, clawing at the inside of my chest.

  To distract myself, I keep searching, my heart beating in a desperate rhythm, as Sadie and the twins claim a section of grass a few feet in front of me. People are scattered every which way now. Some are lying down, some have their backs to me, making my task that much harder.

  In the distance, the doors to Granland open and a new crowd pours out, led by three guys hauling a sofa, of all things.

  The Granland residents stick to their half of the lawn, some of them spreading out blankets and towels on the ground. The guys with the couch plunk it and themselves down toward the front.

  Then the woman from check-in is up in front on the Brekken side, clapping her hands for our attention. “All right, Brekken Hall! Welcome, freshmen! I’m Diane Landry, your RD.”

  “Hey, are you going to sit down or what?” a girl behind me asks in an irritated voice.

  I glance back and realize that (a) she’s talking to me, and (b) I’m the only one still standing. Others are staring at me now too, including the twins and Sadie.

  My cheeks burn. “Sorry. I was looking for my friend Felicity.” The lie slips out without conscious thought. But then I catch the twins exchanging frowns and remember, too late, that I mentioned Felicity, the show, in our wing meeting.

  I sink to the ground, hugging my knees to myself.

  “I know you’ve signed and returned the acknowledgment of the Ashmore University code of conduct as part of the admissions process,” Diane says, “and you’ll be going over everything again during orientation, but to sum up—respect is the key word. Respect others. Respect yourself. Respect the boundaries we’ve established to keep you safe.”

  Behind Diane, a guy is standing up in front of the Granland crowd, likely giving the same speech.

  But I’m barely paying attention to either, my ears buzzing. I’ve already starting lying and not even lying particularly well. And I don’t see him anywhere. Did I mess this up? Is there, like, another Ashmore University somewhere? Or do people suddenly change their minds last-minute about where they’re going?

  Yes. Of course they do. That’s exactly what Felicity did.

  The thought makes me feel light-headed, and I consider putting my head between my knees to ward off fainting.

  “Ashmore is a small community, and a safe learning environment is our top priority. Next year, when you’re allowed to choose off-campus housing, you’ll have more freedom, but this year, your first year, we want to keep an eye on you,” she says, wagging her finger dramatically enough that it gets a small laugh. “I encourage you to talk to your resident advisor or me about any troubles you’re having, especially this first week or so. That’s what we’re here for. The beginning is always a little rocky.”

  Tears burn my eyes, and I blink rapidly.

  “My door is always open to you. Figuratively. If you knock at two a.m., you get what you deserve.”

  Another small laugh.

  “In the spirit of that, let me share a few things I’ve learned in my fifteen years as director here.” Diane holds up her first finger. “One, you’re going to get locked out. Two, your roommate will do something that will make you want to switch rooms. Maybe not right away, but it will happen.” She continues ticking items off on her fingers. “You will have at least one laundry mishap. Please try not to set the building on fire by forgetting about the lint trap. Gentlemen, I’m looking at you.”

  Diane pauses then and surveys us with a critical eye. “How many of you have hometown sweeties? Boyfriends or girlfriends you left at home or another school?”

  Hands go up throughout the crowd. Lara bounces to her feet, waving her picture of Max over her head, like we’re at a football game and it’s a poster board supporting the local team.

  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but the odds aren’t good,” Diane says crisply, not sounding sorry at all. “You’re better off knowing that going in.”

  Lara sinks to the ground slowly, like her legs are dissolving beneath her. She’s crying before her butt even hits the grass. Cara leans over, wrapping an arm around her sister’s neck, pulling her close.

  That temporarily jolts me out of my perso
nal crisis. Is it Diane’s job to crush our spirits? Plus, she doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Some couples are meant to be. Like Felicity and Ben.

  Diane finishes her speech—I have no idea what I missed, something about ID cards—and there’s a half-hearted smattering of applause as she wishes us luck and steps away. Then Ayana is up and waving us toward Brekken again, like we’re geese.

  I stand but let everyone—these people I don’t know—pass me by. The longing for home in that moment is so intense, it immobilizes me. It’s so easy to imagine curling up on my bed, under my worn comforter with the popcorn-grease stains, and tapping open my Netflix or Hulu app. In a room that I don’t have to share with someone who would obviously prefer that I wasn’t there.

  Granland’s meeting wraps up too, and the residents start to move toward their building. As I watch—trying to stifle the onset of sobs—the guys with the couch are struggling, mainly because the third guy who was in charge of cushion control has vanished.

  Then a figure with sun-streaked hair and wearing a very familiar burgundy T-shirt darts forward to help.

  Liam.

  The electric shock of recognition is immediately followed by a warm rush of relief. He’s here.

  A ridiculous grin pulls at my mouth. I must look crazy, but right now I don’t care. Because I was right. Because Liam is here. My Ben is here.

  On my first day at Merriman South, I ran into him, literally, while on the verge of tears, trying to find a classroom that didn’t seem to exist on the map I’d been given.

  One minute I was hurrying along, checking once again the layout for this hall—A-22 and A-24, with no A-23 between them—and the next I was on the floor, notebooks and papers scattered everywhere.

  The boy standing over me grimaced, shoving his blond hair off his forehead. “I’m so sorry,” he said, bending to help me up. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded, even though pain was shooting from my wrist to the tips of my fingers.