by Daryl Banner
“The dorms are nearby,” I assure her.
Of course this isn’t the Quad. I know we’re literally on the opposite side of the campus from the dorms. Really, I just prefer to take the scenic route there. I’ve sorta missed the freedom over the summer of walking the campus, my home-away-from-home.
“What’s your first class tomorrow?” she prompts me, her voice lilting as she feigns interest.
“Music Theory,” I murmur.
“Oh! Sounds … complicated. Goodness, you’d better get your rest, then! No partying in the dorm basements or joining any sororities.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her I’d already joined and quit one. “I guess I’ll cancel my party plans, then. I even packed booze,” I say dryly, giving my backpack a little pat.
My mom chuckles so hard, she snorts. “Oh, you! I already miss you. The house is too quiet when you’re gone. Is that the School of Music over there?” she asks, shifting in her seat as if to get a look at the building, like she doesn’t recall being there twice this past spring for my music recitals.
I study the side of her face. How does someone like me come from someone like her? She’s so pretty. Dad was an idiot to leave. It’s now been officially one and a half years since I’ve gotten so much as a call from him. I literally—literally—wonder sometimes if he’s still alive. My mom could have gotten the call one night that his tour bus was robbed with tragic results, or he overdosed on meth, or fell off the lip of the stage during a drunken performance. She could be hiding the truth from me this whole time, carrying the burden for the both of us. I’d never know.
“I love you so much, Samantha,” my mom says suddenly.
If we keep this up, I’ll stall getting out of this car until it’s Monday and time for that first class. I turn to her. “Call you tomorrow.”
My mom runs a hand through my hair. “Want me to walk you—?”
“No, thanks. I got this.” I smile, then lean over to kiss her cheek. “Don’t forget to water Little Nico.”
She gives me a doleful stare. “I’d never dream of neglecting Little Nico. Love you, Samantha. Be safe.”
“Sam,” I correct her, then experience a jolt of surprise at my own exclamation. “I’m … I’m going by Sam now.”
She makes a perplexed face, her dark eyebrows crashing into one another. “Since when?”
Since a year ago. Since I decided to make decisions on my own. I stare at my mom. Ever since Dad left, she has worked tirelessly to support us, including taking on extra shifts at the hospital. She helps mend wounds all day as a nurse, but the worst wounds are her own—and they’re the kind you can’t see.
I undo my seatbelt, sling my backpack over an arm, then give my mom a tightened smile. “I just needed a change.”
She frowns. Then, after a flicker of thought passes through her eyes, she says, “Could you consider Sammy at the very least?”
“Love you, Mom.”
The next moment, I’m standing on the curb with my backpack hanging off my shoulder and a duffel bag full of clothes sitting on the pavement next to me, watching as she drives off. A minute later, the buildings of Klangburg University slowly pass by like giant, sleeping monsters as I make my quiet way across the campus lugging two bags, which are actually lighter than they look. Strangely, warm joy fills me up. I wasn’t expecting to be so happy to be back, even with the campus being so silent and creepy at this time of night.
Well, to be fair, it isn’t that late. At eight o’clock, the bookstore is still open for another hour, being that it’s the day before school starts and they run on a special schedule. To my surprise, the bookstore is quite lively with others picking up their textbooks at the last minute. I only require three: a book for Music Theory, another one for Music History, and Algebra. The bookstore is so thick with bodies, I’m pressed against the backside of someone who clearly hasn’t showered since 2010 as I wait in line to pay. I mask my choking and gagging between chapters 4 and 5 of my Theory book, where I’m sure it’ll teach me the proper chord progressions to convey emotional turmoil.
Before heading to the Quad, I perch myself on the edge of the large fountain where Dmitri and I shared a kiss last year, my duffel bag at my feet and the books on the stone fountain ledge next to me. With the company of at least ten or so others around the fountain reading or chatting softly with one another, I clutch my backpack to my chest like a pillow as I listen to the rush of the water, letting myself become hypnotized by it. On the top of my stack of textbooks is my Theory one, opened to the first chapter, which I’m reading under the buzzing light of a streetlamp. I read as many words as I can manage before my blurry, sleepy eyes take them from me.
Did you know that harmony in music is not a construct of mankind, but rather a science of what combinations and movements of sounds our ears are naturally made to perceive? The notes we know today are not arbitrary; they are self-generated by science itself. In a way, we didn’t invent music; music invented us.
And as I lose track of time like a responsible college student, I’m staring at a starry sky trying to perceive the music of the campus when I realize there’s none left. No one’s nearby. The lamps are buzzing along the walkways, and a soft wind is pushing past my ears.
I suppose this is my cue to get off my ass and find my doom. I mean, my dorm.
And the new roommate I’ll have to endure this semester.
My stomach is rumbling because I only had a late breakfast today. My mom teased me when I came home for the summer because instead of gaining the freshman fifteen, I somehow lost it. It’s pretty amazing how much time you can let go by without eating when you’re writing music. All spring, I’d spend hours stowed away in one of the private piano rooms in the music building and the most I’d eat some days was a single lunch or dinner in the dormitory cafeteria (they’re the cheapest) and a bag of complimentary chips. I suspect this year will be much the same, especially if I get another roommate like Kelli who ignores me all semester and does her own thing.
In continuing my way toward the Quad, I experience an ill-timed misgiving that perhaps my mom and I should have taken the extra ten minutes to drive around the dark campus to the dormitory parking lot. I’m getting the unsettling feeling that I’m being watched, even with no one around.
And I don’t spook easily.
Just as the Quad courtyard looms close, I hear the unmistakable shuffling of footsteps behind me. I quicken my pace and clutch the strap of my backpack tight and my duffel bag tighter.
The footsteps persist.
At least if I die tonight, my mom can proudly boast at my funeral that I made it to my second year of college.
Just not to the dorms.
Shush, Sam. You’re fine. Keep putting one foot in front of the other.
I don’t know if it’s my imagination or that the sound of the water from the fountain is still playing with my ears, but the footsteps are sounding a lot closer than they did a minute ago.
Just when I’m entering the courtyard of the Quad, I drop my bags and whip around, ready to punch my assailant.
A meek boy who’s shorter and thinner than me shrieks and raises his hands, wide-eyed. The books he was carrying drop to the pavement.
I blink. “Are you following me?”
He sputters his response. “I-I-I’m just going to my dorm! I live here! Don’t hurt me!”
I drop my fists. I probably looked twice as ridiculous as he does right now, seeing as I have zero training in any form of self-defense. I only imitated a stance I’ve seen in a hundred movies.
“Sorry. I’m Sam. I live here too.”
“I’m Bailey. Please don’t karate me to death.”
“Only because you asked nicely,” I deadpan. “Freshman?”
He crouches down to gather up his books. “Yep,” he grunts as he keeps fumbling with them, still shaking from our confrontation … if that’s what I dare call it.
I try to lighten his fear. “What’s your major?”
; “Psychology. I want to b-b-be a school counselor.” He drops one of his books again and crouches to reclaim it, out of breath.
“I’m sorry I scared you.”
“You already apologized. It’s okay.”
Thinking of school counselors makes me think of bagels suddenly. My stomach growls. “Anyway, I better get checked in before they close the office,” I tell Bailey, my tiniest college friend ever. “I still have a new roommate to meet.”
“Me too. I hope he’s nice. I’m not good with people.”
A wannabe counselor who’s not good with people. “Good luck.”
I leave Bailey and head for the central building that sits in the courtyard between all the dorms from which the cafeteria is attached, and yes, I smell every bit of whatever they cooked today. I think it might be beef stroganoff.
“Room 202,” the woman at the desk grumbles.
I lift an eyebrow. She looks horribly exhausted. “Long day?”
“Longest ever. Oh, your roommate’s just lovely,” she says, bleeding with sarcasm. “Had the utter ‘pleasure’ of meeting her yesterday. Major drama queen, that one.”
“Drama queen?”
The woman seems to think better of what she’s saying. She rights her posture and slides my key across the counter. “Your roommate’s name is Desdemona Lebeau. She’s a Theatre major. I’m sure you’ll get along famously. You know … like Bette and Joan.”
“Like who?”
“Never mind. Before your time.” She picks up a sandwich she’d abandoned when I approached the desk and takes a big bite. I stare longingly for five awkward seconds before dismissing myself to West Hall where my fate awaits me.
When I open the door, the room is dark. I assume my roommate’s gone until I notice the lump in the bed sheets. For a second, I wonder if it’s actually Kelli sleeping there. I tiptoe to my own bed and set down my bags. After silently checking to make sure I’m not disturbing my roommate, I start to unpack my five or six tops (including the one I half-stole from Kelli), a few pairs of jeans, some sweats, and an old t-shirt my dad gave me when I turned sixteen. It’s about a body and a half too big for me, but I wear it anyway. I wear it so often—even to sleep in—that it’s gotten washed out and threadbare, yet I continue to cling to it. Maybe someday when I’m finally convinced I’ll never see my dad again, I could write a song about it and burn the thing.
After putting it on and shoving my empty bags into the closet, I pull out my Theory book and sit on my bare mattress, as I’d forgotten to bring my sheets and can’t bother my mom with it, not when home is three hours away and she’s got a week full of double shifts at the hospital to deal with. The last thing I ever want to be is a bother.
The moon and the wash of light pouring into the room from the courtyard in stripes isn’t enough to read, so I lie back and cuddle my book, thinking about what class I might have this semester where I’ll sit behind a cute boy and wish for him to look my way.
Somehow, I don’t think any boy will ever compare to Dmitri.
It’s the next morning when sunlight spills through the window and washes over my bed that I peek an eye open and sit up. My roommate is still sleeping. The book in my clutch has a speck of drool on it, which I pretend isn’t mine as I wipe it off with a frown, then break it open to get a head start on chapter 1. It’s when I turn the fourth page that my roommate bolts up from her bed like the waking dead, clutching her sheets to her body. “Who’re you??” she blurts.
I lift my gaze to her.
She’s, like, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen. She has long dark hair that, even in the early morning light and having been woken from the dead of sleep, cascades down her shoulders in silky curtains. Her face is basically the face of the dolls on the top shelves that every little girl wants. Even her lips are cute.
I kinda want to hate her. But I’m instantly drawn to her instead.
Like, legitimately. I’d totally go gay for her. If I could.
“Sam,” I answer.
“When did you move in? I … I’ve been asleep. I didn’t even hear you at all.”
I’m not sure why it doesn’t surprise me that the first conversation I have with my new roommate is an interrogation. It’s sort of adorable. We’re gonna be great friends, her and I.
“I didn’t really move in,” I answer, feeling smart.
After staring at me in bafflement for a second longer, she then lets her eyes scope the room from the protective, safe space of her bed. Her eyes land on mine, and then she voices an observation. “You don’t even have sheets. You’re … You’re sleeping on the bare mattress.”
“It’s okay,” I say, glancing down at it. I’ve slept on less comfortable surfaces. I even fell asleep in the garage once when my dad was trying to show me how to tune a snare drum. He didn’t notice until it was two in the morning and he forgot it was a school night. He carried me to my bed and kissed me goodnight—or so he told me the next day.
“So … we’re roommates,” she says.
I really miss my dad. I really miss and hate my dad. I clutch the sleeve of the shirt I’m wearing, wondering if I should maybe burn it today instead. First day of sophomore year. Seems significant. Maybe this year is when I finally find myself. “Yep,” I confirm before returning my attention to my Theory book, an image of the backside of my father burned into my retinas while he works on that snare drum, giving it a tap every couple of seconds.
Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“So … you’re a Music major?” she asks, her voice turning light and sweet suddenly. “What instrument do you play?”
I pull some hair behind my ear when I look up again. “Piano.”
“Oh. Don’t you need to practice? Did you bring, like, a little keyboard or something?”
“They have private piano-playing rooms at the Music building.”
“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.”
She’s making an effort. I should too. “I wanted a Yamaha, but my mom made me choose between paying for school or buying expensive electronics, and …” Of course, money wouldn’t be an issue if my dad hadn’t run off to pursue his dream, abandoning us utterly. A dark cloud passes over my eyes. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Well, I’m here, so …”
“Yes. Right. You’re … You’re here.”
There’s a reason my dad was a percussionist and thinks in rhythm and noise, and there’s a reason I play piano and think in strings and chord progressions. I have a feeling one reason is a cousin to the other.
After catching myself staring through the window, thinking of him, I pull my focus back to my roommate. “And you are—”
“A Theatre major. I’m Dessie.”
Desdemona. Dessie. Alright. She still clutches her sheets so close to her body, you’d think I was someone who broke into her room overnight. Maybe I kinda am. “I’m Sam.”
She stares uncertainly at me.
I stare uncertainly back.
Then I return my gaze to the book in my lap and my lovely new roommate returns to sleep. Another Kelli. She’ll definitely be another Kelli. I hope you enjoyed your little conversation with your roommate, Sam, because it’ll probably be your last until you break for the winter.
Well, that turns out to be quite far from the truth.
Every time she comes back from class and I’m sitting on my bed reading or messing with another music composition software I found (I’m in love with the school’s speedy internet; it’s a billion times faster than the cheap DSL at home) she gives me a cheery hello before taking a long shower and then disappearing for hours.
She may assume I’m always trapped in my own world, having headphones in my ears most of the day as I work on music, but between listening to my works-in-progress, I’m hearing everything, and from what Dessie is saying on the phone or telling her friend Victoria who lives across the hall, she’s obsessed with some hot guy at the theater who is apparently super rude and ignores her. Well, if that’s Dessie’s type, then more power to her.
Of course,
I have to pretend that I don’t know this information when she runs into me at the University Center food court and asks to sit with me while I’m studying Theory and occupying a table that twenty other couples and pairs of seat-seeking students could be sitting at. Dessie offers me half of her delicious-looking sub sandwich, which I struggle to decline. “Well, guess that second half’s gonna go to waste,” she says in her singsong voice, which convinces me to pick it up and take the first bite. I have an orgasm in my mouth as I enjoy it.
And then she flees my table in pursuit of something which, with a bend of my neck, I conclude must be the hot guy she’s into. He’s not really my style, being built like a house with muscles pulling on every seam of his shirt, but he’s got one hell of a face. I can even tell from across the whole food court, thanks to my trusty glasses. I watch as she starts doing weird things with her hands, which confuses me until I see him looking at them, not replying, and then lifting his phone at her, as if to show something on the screen to her.
It hits me. He’s deaf.
At the same time I make this conclusion, I turn my head and notice my ex-sorority sister Amy sitting at a table directly across the aisle from my own. How did I not notice until now? Did she just sit there or has she been there the whole time?
She’s looking right at me, her eyes like two cold pinheads.
Then she turns back to the person in front of her, some young, mousy thing, and loud enough so I can hear, she states, “Yes, I most certainly agree. Rho Kappa Lambda is the best thing to have happened to me, too.”
I bring the sandwich to my mouth and let it hover there like a big bready mask. Great. I’m hiding behind half of my roommate’s lunch. This is what I’ve been reduced to.
“That’s exactly what I said,” Amy says, speaking in a volume that’s three times louder than her tablemate, whose voice I can’t even hear. “A Really Kool Lady knows how to support her sisters, and she’ll be there through thick and thin. Thick … and … thin.”
I cough at my sandwich. Crumbs flutter to the table like little beige and brown snowflakes.