“Yeah.” I looked down.
“You have a beautiful voice,” she said. “They said you’d be in my dorm. I’m Angie your dorm advisor.”
“Does everyone know I’m the Publix girl?” I asked her.
She thought for a second before saying, “Oh, I doubt it. There are kids here whose parents are famous.” She nodded toward a girl in the back of the line and told me her mom was some actress I’ve never heard of. But I acted impressed.
I told her I was going by Jackie, in any case.
Angie said as long as I worked hard, I’d be fine. She handed me a marker and told me to use it to change the name tag. I had no idea what she meant, but I took it. She said don’t worry.
I wondered, will it be that easy here? Is it enough to be talented? I hope so.
But on the way to my room, each step seemed like a mountain, and not just because I was dragging two suitcases. What would my roommates and suite mates be like? What would they think of me? I thought I got off easy, because I didn’t have to audition for the school. But this was the audition, right here.
Do you think it’s wrong that I don’t want to talk about my past? Because I don’t, not even to you. I want to turn my back on everything that came before today, shut out all the bad memories. I want to be like other girls, like everyone else here except me. I hope you don’t mind. You’re probably not even reading this anyway, so you won’t.
I stepped off the elevator and into a long hallway with closed doors all along each side. On each door were cutouts of stars and moons and planets with names on them. My room was number 107. When I got there, my name, Jacaranda, was written on a cutout of Saturn. I turned it over, took the tape off the other side, and wrote “Jackie” on it with the marker. Then I taped it back up. A cutout of the moon said “Abigail.”
I thought maybe I should knock, in case Abigail was already there, so I wouldn’t scare her. I settled for rattling my key as I put it in the lock. I needn’t have worried. When I walked into the room, it was empty.
I pulled my suitcases inside and let the door shut behind me.
I am entirely alone for the first time in at least five years.
Love, Jacaranda
Date: September 5, 4:35 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: Roommate troubles?
Dear Mr. Smith,
So this just happened.
I was lying on the bed, minding my own business and contemplating the enormity of the fact that I, Jacaranda Abbott, am going to live in this beautiful place with gleaming wooden floors, music coming through the walls, and a semiprivate bathroom (we share it with the room on the other side—Angie said it’s called a Jack and Jill bathroom) and only one roommate instead of as many as three I’ve had in the past when suddenly . . .
I’m pausing for dramatic effect here, but also to thank you for my room décor. Vanessa bought everything, but I know the foundation paid for it. When I arrived, it was all piled on the bed closer to the window. I have a fluffy lavender comforter—something called a duvet (it’s French—ooh-la-la!) that goes over a real feather quilt. My sheets are lavender-and-white pinstripes. I have pillows in a deeper purple, and a fluffy white rug for when I get out of bed on cold mornings, and even a dorm fridge in a matching shade of lavender because that’s a thing that exists and that Vanessa thought I needed! I’ve long believed that lavender should be my signature color because of my name, but to decorate a whole room in it . . . I’ve never had so much as a bath mat! It was always someone else’s old castoffs or from Goodwill, so nothing matched. These are from Pottery Barn. So classy!
Anyway, picture this serene environment. Imagine me lying on my beautiful bed. Then, suddenly, this shrieking person bursts through the bathroom door.
“Abigail!” She ran up to me. When she saw my face, she jumped back.
“WHO ARE YOU?” she shrieked. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?” She looked around. I couldn’t tell if she was trying to find someone to report to or something to hit me with. She was a tall blonde. Very white, if you know what I mean, with blue eyes and skin that’s probably never seen the sun. Literally no one in Miami looks like this. She opened her mouth like she was going to scream again.
I froze. I should have explained that it was MY room and I had every right to be there, but first off, I was having trouble believing it myself and, secondly, this girl was LOUD.
Then the bathroom door flew open again, and another girl was in there, yelling, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”
Then, just as the first girl started talking, the new girl said, “Jackie?” Daisy from the bus.
She seemed glad to see me, and she turned to the screamer like everything was perfectly normal and said, “This is Jackie. She’s new.”
Okay, so this should have been the part where the screechy girl apologized, right? You’d think? Or at least looked embarrassed. But she started explaining how she was looking for Abigail, who was supposed to be there. I glanced over at the other bed, as if to say, “There’s two beds in this room.” I still hadn’t actually spoken words.
She must have figured it out too then, because she said, “I guess you’re her roommate.” Then she said she and Abigail were supposed to be roommates, but there must have been some mix-up ’cause they were only suite mates and she’d contacted Abigail over a month ago to correct the problem, but Abigail hadn’t gotten back to her. Probably Abigail got smart and didn’t want to room with the cray girl. I mean, she hadn’t even told me her name yet.
I stared at her until finally she said, “I’m Phoebe Pendleton- Hodgkins.”
Like the disease, I guess. Then she said we should switch rooms.
Remember how I’d just unpacked everything?
Deep breaths.
When I worked at Publix, there was this girl, Jasmine, who always tried to convince me to give her my Saturday shift because, she said, they must have gotten our names mixed up. I stood my ground with Jasmine. I stood it with Phoebe too. I said, “I don’t think so. We should stick with our assigned rooms for now. I don’t want to rock the boat.”
She stormed off in a huff, saying something about talking to Angie.
“Nice meeting you?” I said, and Daisy laughed.
“She’s usually not that bad,” Daisy said.
I stared at her, and she said, “Okay, she’s pretty bad,” and added that they probably put Phoebe in the room with her because they were roommates last year, and Daisy is the only one who can stand her. Daisy said she gets along with everyone.
And then, as if to prove this, she asked me if I wanted to go to dinner with her and her friends. So I have dinner plans in an hour!
I wonder, though. When Phoebe Hodgkins-Disease saw me in the room, she was so sure I didn’t belong here. Do I? And is it obvious to the world that I don’t? Do I have “Mom in Prison” stamped across my forehead?
Love, Jacaranda
Date: September 5, 5:23 p.m. Eastern Standard Time
Subject: I know this is way too many emails.
Dear Mr. Smith,
Turns out, Abigail isn’t returning. Phoebe is shattered, and because I didn’t switch with her, I have my very own private room. At least, Angie says, until someone can’t get along with their roommate and gets switched. But she said that would be at least a month.