when you’re not eating ice cream and watching the Food Network with your new best friend?”
I laugh. “Back home, you know, the usual. Hanging out, parties. I played volleyball and did debate all through high school.”
“Oh, no, you’re a jock, too,” he says. “Are you playing here?”
“No way. College volleyball is crazy intense. Besides, I was never really a jock. I liked playing, and I guess I was pretty good at it, but it was never my absolute favorite thing. Not like with you and theater.”
“Why do you assume I’m obsessed with theater? Just because I could sing you the entire score of Wicked right now?”
I smack his arm and bounce in my seat. “I used to love that show! I’ve seen it, like, thirty times at the Gershwin. What’s your favorite song? Mine used to be ‘Popular’ but it’s so overdone. I think now I like ‘For Good’ more.”
“What?” Carroll isn’t bouncing with me. “You saw it here in New York? I thought you were from Maryland?”
“I am. Well, my family lives in the DC suburbs now, but I lived in Brooklyn until two years ago.”
He looks pissed. “Wait, you’re from New York? Have you been secretly laughing at me this whole time for being such a tourist?”
“No!” Then I remember. “Okay, yeah, I did a little bit when you got so excited about the deli, but only in the nicest possible way.” I smile and tilt my head on his shoulder. “Come on, you can’t be mad at me. You’re my only friend here!”
“That’s true.” He settles back. I guess everything’s okay now.
We watch the waffle show for a while longer. I’m getting tired. I sink down lower on the couch and pull the blanket up to my chin.
Carroll is quiet for another minute. Then he slides down next to me and pulls the blanket up over our heads. I laugh sleepily. It’s so dark under here, all I can see of his face is his nose and his eyebrows. The reek of cigarette smoke is strong.
Now that it’s quiet, I can’t help thinking about Toni again. About what I did. God. I’m a truly horrible person. I don’t see how I can ever make this right.
“Look,” Carroll says, as if he can hear my thoughts. “We’re in college now. It’s going to be amazing. This’ll be a totally different universe from high school. We’ll have nonstop fun from tomorrow through May. I guarantee you.”
I nod against his shoulder. I think about seeing Toni the day after tomorrow, and how maybe college doesn’t need to be completely different from high school.
“Besides, you know what the most important thing is?” he asks. “The key reason college is going to be so amazing, for you in particular?”
“What?” I say, already smiling because I think I know his answer.
“You have me,” he says, kissing me on the cheek with a loud smack.
SEPTEMBER
FRESHMAN YEAR OF COLLEGE 1 WEEK APART
TONI
I dodge an unusually aggressive squirrel as I cross Cambridge Street and take out my phone to text my roommate. I’m going to be late for lunch. Ebony will probably already have eaten and be long gone by the time I get there. Ebony’s on the varsity tennis team and inhales food by the shovelful.
I played tennis in high school, too. I even thought I was good. Until I saw Ebony play.
Ebony is cool, though. Vastly superior to our other roommates. We all moved in a week ago, and right away Ebony and I decided we should share the smaller of the two bedrooms in our suite, and let Felicia and Joanna have the bigger one. We avoid running into them in our shared common room as much as we can. In return, Joanna and Felicia use their alone time to complain about Ebony and me. (We know. You can hear everything through the walls in this place.)
Sure enough, when I get to our usual table near the front of the dining hall, there’s already an empty food tray in front of Ebony, who’s wearing gym clothes and munching on a protein bar.
“Sorry.” Ebony sweeps a manicured hand over the tray, indicating the plates full of crumbs and salsa splotches. “I was about to starve to death. I’ll sit with you while you eat, though.”
“You don’t have to,” I say. “I should be reading Race and Politics.”
“Classes have barely started,” Ebony says. “Stop being such a psycho overachiever and go get some food. The only thing you need to know about race and politics is that white people suck.”
“Totally.” I stand up. “Want anything?”
“A banana, maybe? Actually, make that two bananas.”
My phone buzzes with a text while I’m in the food line. Gretchen.
Hey remember I told u about Briana from debate?? Crazy Texas chick w big hair?? Guess what she’s here!!! In my nat sci lab.
Yeah. I remember Briana.
Briana was the star of the national high school debate circuit. Gretchen ran into Briana at tournament after tournament over the past couple of years. They started out as rivals but they got to be friends, sort of.
Here’s what Gretchen told me about Briana: One, Briana was a cheerleader during the off-season. Two, Briana was hot. Three, Briana was brilliant. Four, and best of all, Briana was gay.
Now Briana’s at NYU.
Not that it matters. Sure, Briana gets to see Gretchen every day, but that doesn’t mean anything will happen. Obviously. I trust Gretchen. Mostly.
No, not mostly. I do trust Gretchen. Gretchen only kept the NYU thing a secret to avoid hurting me.
I understand. For real, I do.
I just wish I could force my brain to stop obsessing about it so much.
Gretchen sent me an email the day we left with a list of bus times, but I said I thought we should wait a week before our first visit. I said it was because we needed time to settle in, but the truth was, I also wanted time to figure out what all this meant. How we’d wound up hundreds of miles apart instead of across the river from each other like we’d planned.
I mean, I’m not one of those people who would insist my girlfriend go to a certain school just to be closer to me. I’m not some Neanderthal.
But, damn, this sucks.
What if Gretchen meets someone in New York? What if stupid Briana from Texas screws up everything we have?
Why couldn’t Gretchen just leave well enough alone?
I text Gretchen about how funny it is that Briana’s at NYU. Then I pick up my burger and fries, and trudge back to where Ebony’s drinking from an enormous water bottle. I manage not to slam my tray down on the table, but it’s hard.
I hate being mad.
“You’re lucky you can eat that crap.” Ebony takes the bananas and gestures to my tray, stealing a french fry at the same time. “You’re so skinny. What do you weigh, ninety pounds?”
“More than that,” I say. Five pounds more than that.
Ebony whistles. “I know girls that would kill to look like you.”
Yeah.
Except for the part where I don’t want to look like a girl. At least, not most of the time.
Like, for example, I have this enormously complicated relationship with my chest.
I’m told most people have complicated relationships with their chests. My sister reads Cosmo and Marie Claire, so I’ve absorbed via osmosis the