Denbigh dorm is across the green from the library, hidden away amid the spruce and the pines. From my room, on the fourth floor, I can actually see over through the treetops to the comings and goings along the green, but I am high enough to hear only silence and the occasional chirping birds, which are actually flying dinosaurs.
Don’t even talk to me about birds. I can’t even.
My only sadness, which is a goofy sadness, is that Remy wasn’t here when I opened the door. See, what would’ve happened then is that we would’ve held our breath, unlocked the door, opened the door, and then squealed with glee and delight and immediately had a pillow fight when we saw how superfantastic my new room was.
That did not happen. Instead, I crept up the stairs to my lonely little room on the far end of the dorm, wiggled the key in the lock without any ado, opened the door, and peered in on the best room ever. But there was no squealing. And no pillow fight.
There was only a brief sigh to be noticed by no one. Not even the leaves on the trees seemed to care. And the only room anywhere near mine in this small alcove, at the end of the hall, is this tiny room next door, which appears to be empty. It’s open, but, really, this adjacent room barely counts as a room. More of a large closet.
But my room! Oh, ladies and gentleman, it is a grand affair! It is an affair with different-colored wood in the floors, like little designs in the wood. What will they think of next? Back home, if you wanted designs on your wood floor you would have to use a marker.
But wait, there’s more! The fireplace has tile around it with little designs in the tile. Like little pictures. One is a scene of a girl sitting by a lake. In the tile. That scene is in the tile.
And out of the windows, I kid you not, there is a little squirrel, just sitting in the space between the window and three of the little turrets that seem to have spawned all over this campus. The squirrel is standing still, in a sort of profile, holding on to an acorn, pretending not to notice me, or to exist at all. The squirrel is sizing up the situation. The squirrel is attempting to figure out if I’m going to try to eat him.
“Hi, squirrel.” I say it in a singsongy voice. To alert the squirrel to my intentions. Happy intentions. Non-squirrel-eating intentions.
“Hi, little squirrely. Hi there.”
The squirrel decides I am not his evil nemesis and decides to pay attention to the acorn he is holding and nevermind me anyway.
I mean, you know you got the best room if there is a squirrel there to greet you. That is a sign from the good Lord above that this was meant to be. The only thing not meant to be is that I am alone in this room. I want to share this room. I want to jump up and down in this room and scream and giggle. I want to hold grand affairs in this room and maybe even a tea on Sunday.
But it’s a holding pattern.
I’m on standby. In this room.
Alone.