It’s been a whirlwind week — as promised — for the freshmen. My roommate rocks, but she’s just what Dad was afraid of — a total party machine. While I burn the midnight oil with my books, she hits any and every party on campus. Didn’t miss a single one this week, sometimes two in one night. Confession: she’s having way more fun than me. We’ve been sharing cooking duties and have dinner together before going our separate ways. She makes a killer mac and cheese, but I’m more of a throw-everything-in-one-bowl kinda cook.
Betty made sure to schedule late-morning classes so she can sleep in. My classes start at eight, before any thinking person is out of bed. My day is practically over when hers is just starting.
Clad in my go-to outfit, plaid pajama bottoms and a T-shirt, I start setting up my computer for my first journalism project, a vlog about this storied school. Yep, I’m delving into the mysteries of Silas University, because the folklore surrounding this place is truly legendary. It’s shrouded in mystery after mystery: there’s even a question about whether there are real eyeballs in the eyeball soup. Okay, the campus myth that unlucky scholars who linger too long in the library might find themselves digitized, trapped for eternity in the online catalog, has me on red-hot alert. No one knows how it happens, only that it does. But I’ll get to the bottom of these mysteries with my journalistic skill.
My epic project will land me the A my father expects. I mean, keeping a vlog isn’t hard-hitting journalism on its own, but I’ll use it to keep all my facts straight for the paper I’m going to write. That’s the road to the best grade in class.
“All right, let’s do this!” I yell at the computer screen, trying to fire myself up for the beginning of the weekend. The commotion at our door shuts me up when Betty swirls in like a hurricane. Did she really wear a sequined skirt and ripped tank top to class? I wouldn’t mind tapping into some of her confidence, but maybe Silas is my chance to do just that.
“How did you do on the government test?” I ask.
She shrugs. “A sixty-two. So, not bad?”
“If I got a sixty-two on anything, my father’s brain would explode, then he would order me to move home.” And, okay, I wouldn’t like it, either. The one time I got a C in high school geometry, I cried for a week.
“You’re better than that,” I tell Betty, but she’s already moved on. Tossing her backpack off to the side of the bed, she roots through the mini fridge and takes a beer from her shelf. She raises the bottle to me and changes her clothes between swigs of brew.
“Shouldn’t you be studying?” I ask sheepishly. Her laugh says not so much.
“It’s Friday night. There’s a raging party in the quad. Everyone will be there. You need to come,” she lectures while rifling through the closet for the perfect outfit. Articles of clothing fly through the air, landing everywhere.
“I don’t know …”
Betty grabs my hands and twirls me around. “I do. You’re eighteen years old. There’s plenty of time to study. You’ve been at it all week. Come on, we need to get you into something besides those pajamas and get you out of this cave. You’re withering away. Plus, Danny will be there,” she adds, all singsongy.
Not gonna lie. That gets my attention. I mean, she’s my teaching assistant in women’s studies and all, but not my teacher. Big difference. Turns out that’s just the push I need to join the Silas student body tonight.
When I met Danny last week I was so tongue-tied that she must think I’m an idiot. At the very best, she probably realizes my game is that I have none. Thank God Betty was there to run interference. (By that I mean speak in complete sentences without swooning.) Danny’s flaming red hair cascaded down her shoulders and her smile was as bright as the sun. Just remembering gives me goose bumps.
I take Betty’s fashion advice and lose the jammies in favor of a skirt and white tank top. I run my fingers through my hair and add some pinkish lip gloss.
Betty even compliments me. “You’re hot,” she says.
I check myself out in the mirror. I clean up pretty well. Now to get Danny to notice. I’m so rusty — I haven’t had a girlfriend since junior year, when Aisha Carson crushed me, leaving me to wallow with a broken heart for the rest of high school. Pretty crappy timing. I ended up going to prom with some rando setup. My dating skills need some work. Okay, a lot of work.
Betty and I walk arm in arm to the party. The lights lining the walkway flicker as we stroll through campus. Or are my eyes playing tricks on me? Betty doesn’t seem to notice. My eyes dart back and forth when the low howl of the wind stirs up the fall leaves. I hear crunchy footsteps behind us, but when I glance over my shoulder there’s no one there.
When we step into the party, multicolored strobe lights nearly blind me. My sandals stick to the floor, and I can’t get away because hundreds of students surround me, gyrating while they juggle drinks.
A guy hands a bottle of vodka to Betty. “Ten-second pull, let’s go!” I watch as she puts the bottle in her mouth and drinks for a full ten seconds. She doesn’t even choke.
“I love this game!” she screams over the music. “Your turn. Start small. Five seconds.” She hands me the bottle.
A few kids surround me. “Drink. Drink. Drink,” they chant. Reluctantly I take the vodka. I want to hold my nose before I sip it, but I also want to be one of them and fit in. Betty starts the stopwatch on her phone. “Go!”
I suck up my fear and bring the bottle to my lips. I’m pretty sure half of it is running down my chin but I manage to continue until Betty calls time. I thrust it back into Betty’s hands and almost cough up a lung. Man, this stuff burns.
“Fun, right?” Betty says.
“Yeah.” I just hope I don’t puke.
Betty points to a group in the far corner wearing green glow sticks around their necks and carrying neon drinks. “Steer clear of them. The Alchemy Club. They do weird experiments that you don’t want to be caught in the middle of. Trust me.”
Oh, I will, I think. I’ve never been anyplace else with such a mix of creepy and crazy. Now I’m caught in a sea of wasted people, and I need to find a corner to catch my breath. I turn to ask Betty a question, but she’s vanished. Panic starts to set in, when a tap on my shoulder startles me. I turn to see Danny, and a five-alarm fire blazes in me. Stay cool, I plead with myself. Do not babble. Please.
“Betty’s up on the bar — she’s doing Jäger Bombs. She’s owning them.” Danny points across the room. “She’s really something.”
“Yeah,” I manage.
“It’s nice to see you out,” she says, grinning.
I shift closer to her. “It’s nice to be seen” just falls out of my stupid mouth. “I mean, Betty talked me into getting out of my pajamas. You know, to come here. I guess pajamas are frowned on at parties.” I just babble. And. Babble.
Danny doesn’t seem to notice. “You’re cute.”
I feel the red spreading across my cheeks.
“Dance?” she asks.
Grateful for the liquid courage I was cursing a few moments ago, I answer with a smile. The touch of her hand on mine as she guides me through the maze of people to the dance floor makes my crush on her grow exponentially. She’s just so everything.
And we have the whole year ahead of us.
•
My tongue seems to be wearing a wool sweater this morning. This is exactly why I don’t go to parties. I let Betty talk me into all of those vodka pulls and Jäger Bombs, and now I’m paying the price. I look over at the lump beneath her covers. Betty. She ruled the party last night. She is officially the queen of vodka pulls at Silas University, or so said all the screaming students who were cheering her on. With each chug from her perch on the bar, the noise from the crowd was deafening.
The light on my computer is flashing. Crap, I left the camera on. I roll up out of bed and down an entire bottle of water while I scour the room for something for my pounding headache. I spot the bottle I need in a sea of cosmetics on my dresser. Fighting with the childproof top, I yank it off and pop two. I yell to Betty, “How’s the Jäger-Bombinatrix this morning?”
No response. Not even a stretch. I know she’s sleeping, but no one is going to need this more than she does. So I yank the covers back.
Nothing but pillows.
And then, before I turn away, a piece of folded paper flutters to the floor, stuck together with some unrecognizable fluid. I pry it open. “Dear Student, your roommate no longer attends Silas University …”
I knew it. I knew that party was a mistake. I should have insisted we stay home, but no, I succumbed to the pressure to fit in, to be a normal college freshman who chugs beer and hammers shooters on a Friday night instead of studying. And now Betty is kicked out of school? I text her on my flip phone. Yeah, my dad thought I’d sext selfies to strangers on an iPhone, so this was my only option. He gives new meaning to the words “better safe than sorry.”
My first text goes unanswered. Another also goes into oblivion.
My mind starts racing a mile a minute. I mean, I go from zero to one-eighty. Whatever her future is at Silas, where is she now? What if she’s lying on the side of the road?
What kind of roommate am I? Did I lose her or did she lose me? Calm down, Laura, I tell myself. We’re at college — maybe she hooked up with someone. That has to be it. My inner dialogue seems to be working. My heart rate is slowing down.
I scan my computer, checking her social media. Nothing since the pic of us playing flip cup with Danny and a couple of knucklehead Zetas. Betty’s a poster. I mean, she posts her every move. Her breakfast. Her outfits. Everything. So why the silence?
My heart picks up its pace again.
What can I do but text? Hey, not to be a freak but are you alive? Hookup?
I add a laughing emoji to lighten it up and force myself to lie back down. That lasts about forty-five seconds before I pop up to check my phone. Nothing. Maybe I need some cookies.
I rip open a box of vanilla wafers. She’s definitely missing. I pause. Do I want to be the overreactive friend who panics? Maybe she’s fine.
What if she’s not?
I comb the college directory to figure out who to call. I pound in a number in the housing office, hoping someone will answer at this ungodly hour on Saturday morning. I shake the vodka cobwebs out.
“Yes! A person!” I scream when I hear a voice on the other end of the phone. “I want to report a missing person.” I don’t even wait for a response. “My roommate disappeared last night and all I found was a sticky note, and there is no way in hell or Hogwarts that she would bolt in the middle of the night and leave me with a cryptic scrap of paper.”
Plus, she was too drunk to do anything other than pass out. I keep that fact to myself. She was just drunk. Now she’s gone. Simple.
“No.” I interrupt the lame-sauce BS they’re feeding me. “No one leaves a multiple-choice note,” I insist. That’s the weirdest part of all.
I listen, bobbing my head, then I cut the guy off. “Sir, this is what was left behind. I will read it to you word for word so that you can comprehend the situation.
“Dear Student,
Your roommate no longer attends Silas University. He or she has (a) lost his or her scholarship and has decided to go home; (b) elected to attend another school due to your extreme incompatibility [please, never]; (c) experienced a psychological event that left him or her unfit for student life or (d) cited personal reasons, and really, why does anybody do anything? Exit procedures have commenced. No action on your part is needed.”
Obviously, this is a load of crap. It doesn’t make the least bit of sense. But I listen. Listen some more. Until I can’t stand another word. I take a deep breath and try to be reasonable. “Sir, I don’t think you’re getting the drift of this. I do not need a new roommate. My old roommate is perfect. It’s just that she vanished last night. Disappeared. Something is terribly wrong. I can feel it.”
He explains that some kids just flip out and not to worry, they’ll get me another roommate shortly. He mentions that I’m overreacting. He’s clearly not getting it.
At the end of my rope, I holler, “Obviously you’re refusing to help me! I demand to talk to a supervisor!
“You can’t hang up on me!” I scream to no one. I’m ready to throw the phone across the room, except where would I even replace a flip phone? I know I can be a tad high-strung but my gut is telling me that we are at DEFCON 1.
Betty, where are you? I wait a few minutes, then my texts get a bit more frantic. You need to text me before I call the police. I need to know that you’re ok. NOW.
Crickets.
So I’m on my own in my quest to find my missing roommate. This calls for all the junk food, starting with more of these vanilla wafers and maybe some chips. I find a number for campus security, but my phone rings before I get lost in the automated abyss.
“Yes, I am the one with the missing roommate. Thank you so much for calling.” Finally, someone who cares. I listen to the babbling and I have to cut her off right away. Why do these people not get it? “No, I do not need a new roommate! I need to find my old one. She’s missing!” I shout. Once again, I’m silenced by a dial tone.
My laptop is the only sign of life in this room. “Fine. If no one wants to help, I will find her myself,” I say. “I’m not backing down.” Yes, now I’m having a conversation with a computer.
I don’t know how, but I will. I close my eyes, willing my head to stop pounding.
This is basically my father’s worst nightmare about college come to life. Hangovers, debauchery, kidnapping. Maybe it’s all a bad dream. I get back into bed, hoping to start all over by going to sleep.
I toss, I turn, I get caught in the covers like a fish in a net. I try counting sheep, meditating. Nothing works, so I throw the sheet off and get up.
I make a cup of coffee and drag my fingers through my hair. How the hell am I gonna pull this off? I have to find a way. People don’t just disappear in the middle of the night. Do they?
A noise outside of my door startles me … but not as much as when it opens. Standing smack in the middle of the doorway is a raven-haired girl wearing black leather pants and an attitude for days, looking like she’s fresh off a Harley. She unnerves me. “Who are you?”
“Carmilla, your new roommate, sweetheart,” she answers. Why does she seem so … superior? She’s the new one here.
“Um, no,” I say hesitantly, “there’s been a mistake. This isn’t happening, I have a roommate.”
She blatantly ignores me, reaching into the fridge and helping herself to one of my sodas. “Don’t you catch on fast.”
I double back. “No. I mean I have a preexisting roommate, her name is B-Betty,” I stammer.
Carmilla surveys the room. “Really? Where is she?”
“She’s missing,” I snap. This girl is really getting on my nerves.
She strides around the room like she owns the place. Never taking her dark eyes off me, she waves a piece of paper in my direction. “Well, I live here now, per my letter from the dean of students. And no one dares to question her.” She’s sarcastic but serious. She’s ballsy, I’ll give her that.
Carmilla tosses her backpack on the bed, then starts ransacking Betty’s stuff. Tossing aside her jeans, picking through her pile of clean laundry. When she picks up Betty’s shirt, holding it up to herself, I flip. “Hey, that’s not yours.” Jesus Christ, what is wrong with her?
Her lips turn up and she cocks her head. “It’s on the bed that’s now mine. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, cutie.”
I don’t like the way she says that, so I snatch the shirt away from her.
Carmilla shrugs. “Until you cough up Betty, I’m your new roommate and this is my side of the room.” She draws an invisible line between our beds with her index finger. She grabs the cookies from my desk and plops down on Betty’s bed, scrolling through her phone and munching away.
“I’ll find Betty so fast that there will be scorch marks on those leather pants of yours.”
The grin on her face rattles me.
And that’s before she blows me a kiss.