“Awful. He talked the entire time, and I doubt he could tell you a thing about me. At one point he called me Alexa. I just looked at him, confused, and he said, ‘I like using your full name.’ I didn’t even correct him. So, if anyone calls the house looking for Alexa, I moved away.”
“Never coming back.” Tay laughed.
“Joined a convent,” I added. Jules burst out laughing, earning a death glare. She must have forgotten this was her fault.
“I’m sorry.” She attempted to suppress her smile but failed. “It’s just been so long, and I wanted you to meet someone, have some fun.”
“I’m fine. I have fun. I don’t need to meet anyone.” I huffed forcefully. “Really.”
“Not fictional fun, Lex. Real fun!” Okay, so maybe I lived vicariously through fictional characters—that didn’t mean I was boring…right? Right?
“I really do have fun,” I protested.
“Okay, time for the phone emoji test,” Jules announced, pulling her phone from the back pocket of her jeans.
“The what?” Taylor asked, exchanging a worried glance with me.
“Look at your frequently used emojis,” Jules instructed. “If your top three emojis are sad, you need to look into that because you are not having fun and your life is filled with too much negativity. If they are the knife or gun, maybe check out anger management, and if it’s the wine or beer glass, an AA meeting might not be a bad idea.
“Okay, so mine are kissing, heart, and…poop,” Tay said seriously.
“That’s serious relationship stuff.” Jules laughed. “Kissing and poop—the vows of matrimony. Lex, what are yours?”
“Laughing with tears, pizza, and the nerdy glasses one.” I grinned. That did describe me pretty well. It was a fairly accurate test, and not at all sad.
“What about yours, Jules?” I asked.
“Kissing, sunglasses, and that cute little ghost. I’m not sure how that got there.” She laughed.
“How many people are you sending kissy faces to?” Tay asked her.
“Seriously, you know herpes is contagious, right?” I joked, causing Tay to snicker. “”
Jules gave us the evil eye while we rolled on the floor, clutching our stomachs.
Travis was long forgotten in the giggles of friendship, and I almost didn’t feel so bad about having gotten out of my yoga pants. Almost.
CHAPTER 7
THE WEEK DRAGGED on, full of long classes and longer hours studying. As always, after Wednesday came Thursday, and just like on the endless string of Thursdays half the campus didn’t remember, there was a frat party. I should have been thankful that Jules at least spared me from the bar scene for the week, but I still couldn’t find a smile to put on my face.
Greek Street was on the north side of campus. Two-story brick houses lined the narrow road that was always crowded with cars. Tonight, like most Thursday nights, multiple fraternities had decided to host a throw down. More often than not, though, the parties filtered out into the yards, mingling together.
You know when you walk into a retirement home and it smells distinctly of old people? Frat houses are the same way. There is an aroma that is hard to stomach, a mixture of beer, mold, sweat, and a stout cologne to try to cover everything. I had a strong urge to hold my breath all night.
It was loud, too loud to hear Jules talk beside me. There were too many drunk people crashing into each other on the dance floor, too many people to fit in the eighty-five-year-old fraternity house.
We hadn’t even been there for a full half-hour before a guy bumped into me, sending warm beer down the front of my shirt. Cursing inwardly at the intoxicated Neanderthal and at myself for being there, I went to the kitchen, which was just as hopeless as you would expect a frat house kitchen to be. A pyramid of beer cans towered over the sink full of dirty dishes that were attracting gnats, leaving me uncomfortably trying to wet the one paper napkin I could find, which I was certain had come from some fast food restaurant months ago.
“That sucks,” Ben said, coming up beside me and effectively scaring me. I dropped the soaked napkin on the floor and bent to retrieve it before he noticed the blush he’d caused on my cheeks.
“I’m swearing off parties, and men,” I added. “I’m so done with guys.” Not that I’d ever really not been done, but he didn’t need to know that. I continued pointlessly swiping at my shirt with the cheap napkin that was practically disintegrating.
“Come on, I’ll get you a shirt so you don’t smell like beer.” He didn’t wait for me to accept or reject his offer, just turned on his heel and headed upstairs. Curiosity and lack of better options had me following him up to his room. Okay, it was mostly curiosity, and what I found when we crossed the threshold was surprising. His room was unusually clean, especially considering the dismal state of the first floor. I took the liberty of looking around while he rummaged through his top drawer.
His textbooks were stacked neatly on his desk, all the binders organized with white labels in neat block letters. His clothes were either put away or in the hamper beside his closet. It was ten times cleaner than mine, which normally had more than one load of laundry scattered across the bed, desk, and floor along with books overflowing from every available surface.
“You are very organized,” I observed out loud as he handed me a clean t-shirt.
“It’s kind of mandatory for me. I have to stay organized or I’m completely useless in class,” he said, breaking me out of my internal denial.
As I was running my fingers over the picture frames on his dresser, he asked how my blind date had gone then laughed at my sour face.
“It reminded me why I don’t date frequently,” I answered honestly. Or at all. His laugh followed me as I turned away, pulling the alcohol-soaked shirt over my head and replacing it with the much larger one. It was worn and comfortable, and it smelled like Ben, which I refused to acknowledge in protection of my ovaries, which I was sure were ready to commit treason and offer themselves freely to Ben.
“I take it there won’t be a second date?” he asked. When I shook my head, he continued. “That shirt looks much better on you.” He smiled. “But you look good in everything.” I watched him suck his lips in, like he’d said something he hadn’t meant to say. A blush rose to his already rosy cheeks, and the only shy smile I’d ever seen on him appeared. It was so freaking adorable. I meant that as a single female, not as someone who was, you know, into him.
“What is wrong with you?” I asked, rather bluntly.
He looked at me, confusion written all over his face. Even that was a good look for him. Maybe it was my inability to focus around him, or maybe the fact that I couldn’t stop staring at the little tilt of his lips from his shy smile, or maybe just the fact that my internal lecture of denial didn’t seem to be working. Whatever the case, I couldn’t hold my tongue.
“What do you mean?” His smile indicated he knew exactly what I meant.
“You’re being weird.”
“Weird or charming?”
“Definitely weird. You’ve never been so…”
“Charming?” he suggested.
“Weird,” I filled in. “Why are you acting like this?”
“Acting like what exactly?” he countered, stepping way too close to be considered friendly. I exhaled slowly. He didn’t lean in any more, but he didn’t pull back either.
“Why are you suddenly so interested in me, Ben? You’ve known me for three years—why the sudden crush?”
“It’s not really all that sudden, actually,” he admitted on an exhalation, causing his chest to brush mine, leaving me more vulnerable than I felt comfortable with. “Let’s say I’ve been interested for a while, just waiting for an opportunity.”
“Last time I checked, any opportunity would have been thwarted by your fling of the month. They do tend to get in the way.” Hold up, world, I’ve got my sassy pants on today.
“I don’t have flings of the month,” he protested.
“Ju
st of the week?” The sass doesn’t stop, folks.
“Lex, that’s not fair.” His brow was creased in the most adorable way. “You never date. How was I supposed to know if you were interested?”
“Listen, Ben…Benny…Benjamin.” What are these words coming out of my mouth? “Just because I don’t date someone every week”—or month, or year—“doesn’t mean I’m not interested in dating.”
“So why aren’t you dating?” he asked me, face still clouded with confusion.
Mainly, I didn’t date because it was hard to find someone interested in my particular brand of disaster that included awkward flirting, gracelessness, and embarrassing knowledge of fictional worlds. Did I want to tell him that? No way. I went with the more obvious choice. “Guys are jerks.”
“As true as that might be, I don’t think that’s the only reason.” Smug was the only word to describe the look on his face now. It had me walking to the door, wearing his oversized shirt.
“Well, who knows, maybe I’ll start looking…elsewhere.” I heard him laugh all the way down the hall, but I kept my head high and dignity intact while I searched the dance floor of gyrating bodies for Jules—at least as much dignity as I had left while clothed in a t-shirt that brushed my knees and clearly belonged to Ben, since I’d now realized based on the envious whispers had his name on the back.
Sneaky. Maddening. Secretly adorable.
Once I found Jules, I dragged her unwilling body to the car, throwing out the best friend card and the promise of ice cream to get her to come quietly—as quietly as you can get a buzzed, already dramatic girl to stop dancing with ‘a hunk of grade-A, meaty man-flesh.’ Thankfully, we were already outside when she decided to whisper-scream that description.
Sometime on the short drive home, while listening to Jules mumble about missed opportunities and perfect hairlines, I decided I really was done with the parties. I wanted to date, sure, but not at the expense of my sanity. Instead, I was focusing my attention on intellectual hangouts as my dating grounds.
I didn’t know why I felt the sudden need to find a date, though it was probably to prove I actually could. Ben’s words kept repeating in my head: You never date. I did too date. Okay, so not really, but whatever. Just because he had a new date every other week did not mean my life was missing something…yet there I was looking for that something in the form of a willing dinner companion.
The next day was spent browsing the bookstore for possible male companions. Looking for a date in the bookstore seemed like the most logical answer to me. He wouldn’t be drunk, for one, at least probably not in the middle of the day. Plus, if he was at a bookstore, he probably enjoyed reading, which earned him points.
My strategy was in place. Scope out target. Evaluate choice in book. Strike up an invigorating yet casual conversation about said book. Blow his mind with my cleverness. Suggest coffee. Marriage plus baby carriage. Okay, maybe I skipped a few steps there, but the idea still has merit.
I was just about to give up after the second hour when I found an eligible candidate. He was handsome, and tall, which I had always found attractive. His navy checkered button-down was partially untucked from his dark khakis. He was looking at the Sherlock Holmes collection by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. There was a TV series out about the detective, causing a new interest in the old story. I loved the mysteries myself, and although I was a firm believer in the idea that the book is always better, the TV show wasn’t half bad either, especially when it made people read the books that inspired it.
“The Hound of the Baskervilles is my favorite,” I tell him as I browse the section next to his, not even reading the titles.
“Really? I’ve heard great things about The Study in Scarlet.” His smile showed straight teeth, another check in the plus column.
“It’s good, too. They’re all good. To each his own, I guess.” I shrugged, giving him a smile I had carefully practiced to look relaxed.
After a fifteen-minute conversation about Dr. Watson, I finally found the courage to ask if he wanted to grab some coffee sometime. I thought I did really well considering I’d never actually been the one to initiate a date. As far as first times go, maybe it wasn’t too terrible, but it was embarrassing, especially when he got a panicked look on his face.
“Oh, I’m engaged,” he said, quickly excusing himself like he’d just found out I had a contagious plague that would take over his body and make him kill innocent puppies. He left the store without buying anything, which made me feel worse, like somehow I’d let Sir Arthur Conan Doyle down by scaring away a potential fan.
After that, I left the bookstore, deciding I’d spend the afternoon browsing the animal shelter website for adoptable cats.
CHAPTER 8
THE DEADLINE FOR the articles that would make up the first edition of The Dixie Chronicle was rapidly approaching, and I was still struggling to finish mine. I’d been staring at my computer screen for days without any luck.
“What are you doing?” Jules asked me after I let out a particularly painful groan.
“Writing. Scratch that—I take it back. I’m attempting to write,” I amended, hitting random keys to fill up the blank page. Sometimes, if I went through the motions of typing, even senseless words, I thought I could trick my brain into writing functionally. It rarely worked.
“What are you attempting to write?” she asked, undisturbed by my unorthodox writing methods, which she’d long grown accustomed to. There’s something to be said about a roommate who knows and lives with your quirks. Maybe that was a worthy topic for this issue?
“I don’t know,” I answered honestly. “Something pertaining to freshmen.”
The first article of the new school year was always aimed at new freshmen. In a typical year, they made up almost twenty-eight percent of the campus population. Due to the fact that about ten percent dropped out or flunked out after the first year, the numbers evened out eventually.
When you’re a freshman, the rest of your college years still have so much potential. Responsibility seems so far off. My freshman year was less than stellar. The classes were easier and the anxiousness was less, but I avoided my dorm like the plague. My roommate, Jenna, a skinny girl from Kentucky, did not believe in putting a sock on the door knob. Do I have to tell you that we didn’t see eye to eye? Unfortunately, my eyes kept seeing other unmentionable parts of her body. Needless to say, I learned a lot about life that year, and now was my chance to pass on that wisdom, but I had no idea what to say to these new freshmen. They were young and impressionable. It was the perfect time to influence someone’s life, the perfect opportunity to affect with my writing, and I had nothing.
What had I wanted to hear as a freshman? No—what had I needed to hear as a freshman? The sniff test is not an appropriate way to judge laundry. Leftover pizza is only good for so long. Learn how to do your FAFSA. Balance your checkbook. Take time to learn all those practical things high school didn’t teach you.
In my first year journalism class, I concentrated on adjusting to life without Mommy holding my hand. It went over well with the editorial staff and earned me the coveted spot on the staff. Later I focused on the importance of maintaining health and diet, mainly directed at the freshman fifteen and how ramen noodles for every meal is not a wise choice if you want to live long enough to use your degree, even if it helps you pay for it. This year I wanted to tell them how they’d miss this year when it was over. I wanted to ensure they would embrace life, not waste time, like I was still trying to do.
You only get one first year on campus, and it deserves to be embraced. At the time, that seems like an easy feat. Everything is new and exciting, but before you know it, you’ve entered this rat race and the world is throwing things at you left and right.
What did I want to tell them? What did I want to make sure they remembered? Embrace hot water—it’s a luxury denied to late sleepers. Enjoy homecooked meals—your nutrition will now be dependent upon free food and leftover takeout.
&nbs
p; I wanted this article to touch on roommate issues, too. For some, it was the first and only time to share so much in such a little space. Pick a good roommate. It deserves to be repeated: pick a good roommate. Pick a good roommate and be a good roommate. If you get to choose, choose wisely. Even if you don’t get a choice, maintain a pleasant social relationship with your roommate. You are stuck with them for the next year, if not four. Like all relationships, communication is key. You need to lay down some ground rules, determine your schedules and habits and expectations. Morning person or night owl? Study with music or in silence? Reality TV or crime shows?
Welcome new friends. Making friends is hard. Many forget how to do that, since our friends have probably been our friends since forever. Learn again. Many people don’t realize how unfriendly they are until they’re staring at a room full of strangers wondering how they haven’t gotten to know one person in this class they’ve been in three times a week for months.
Emerge yourself in campus life. Attend a theme party. Rock out at the free concerts. Look into study abroad programs. Get involved in student government. Play intramurals. There are opportunities beating down your door. Open up.
As a senior, I could look back and say I hadn’t embraced campus culture. I’d ignored it, and I regretted it.
Accept that you’re going to have to study, and sometimes study a lot. Figure out what works for you. Learn how to take notes: typing, writing, color-coding. All-nighters are very real. Don’t ruin your GPA in your first year of general classes. Save that for the harsh teacher who doesn’t curve with a cumulative final. Yes, that happens.
What else was there? What else needed to be taught to eighteen-year-olds just now leaving the nest? I jotted down thoughts as they came, remembering my own freshman year, how freeing it was, how different from what I was used to.
This transition is probably going to be one of the hardest of your life, but don’t be scared. There is help around every corner. Life goes pretty fast, and this year is no exception. Freshman year will be over too soon. Embrace it.
Blank Pages Page 5