Emma
They gave her back her phone, three pairs of underwear, two pairs of jeans, two worn T-shirts she usually wore to bed, and an oversized cardigan sweater everyone else thought was ratty but that she loved. With the weather turning colder and frost on the grass, that was actually the best thing they could have done. She was certain they thought it was fashion punishment, but it was an accidental act of cozy kindness. She also found a dark-green jacket in the hall closet that they’d forgotten to search, so she was set until it snowed. She thought they’d locked the rest in her room, but she wasn’t sure, or maybe they’d divided the cutest things among them or sold it all on eBay or burned it in a pyre while chanting her name. She didn’t know, and on some level, she didn’t care. She was mortified at first, embarrassed by her stupidity, then flat-out afraid. Afraid they’d tell the RA, afraid they’d tell everyone, that they’d use it against her somehow. But then, she saw the mistake they’d made.
She missed her flannel shirt and her long yellow dress that was as comfortable as pajamas, but other than that, she wasn’t that attached to anything. They’d made a critical error, thinking she was like they were. That she cared about clothing and jewelry, how she looked. Of course they would think that, these shallow girls who thought sex work was harnessing their own power. Fiona and her merry band of followers.
There was something freeing about fitting everything into a backpack. It was like living in a tiny house or traveling through Europe. You pared down, and then you could go anywhere. The couch was just the beginning.
Because she didn’t intend to stay on the couch for long. She would find Jason, and he would help her find refuge while she was writing the piece and interviewing Mr. Maserati. He probably lived off campus, in an apartment, with a bunch of other guys. They’d have no room for her, but they’d know other people. Senior girls who were too smart for the kind of bullshit she was going through.
Emma was looking forward to meeting with Mr. Maserati later that night and seeing Michael afterward. He’d suggested going out for a late supper, and she’d said no, warning him that she was going to be casually dressed, and he’d countered with pizza or a burger, and she’d laughed and said maybe. That kid did not take no for an answer, which reminded her, in a weird way, of her dad. All the more reason to keep him at a distance. She was at college, and she had to be focused on people there.
She’d called Jason and left a message, told him she had an update for him, and he’d texted her back a few hours later and agreed to meet in the journalism building.
She was starving, so she went to the dining hall first and ate a bagel with cream cheese, just half, in case he wanted to grab a meal with her. Something to tide her over either way.
As she sat down, a short girl with a tight head of black curls pulled into a ponytail, a girl she recognized vaguely from one of her classes, walked by with a shirt tied around her waist. Emma’s shirt. Brown-and-green plaid.
“Hey,” she called out, and the girl turned. “I don’t mean to be weird, but did a girl give you that shirt?”
“My boyfriend found it in a dumpster,” she said. “He does work-study as a janitor.”
“Yeah, it’s actually my shirt.”
“What? Are you sure, or are you just doing random walkabouts to get shirts?”
“I’m in your history class. I’ve worn it, like, a thousand times.”
The girl blinked at her, considering, and Emma blinked back. Was this girl truly poor and more worthy of the shirt? Should she back off or press on?
“Then why did you throw it out?”
“Someone else did. My roommates are assholes.”
The girl cocked her head, sizing her up. Then she untied the sleeves and handed it over. “It needs to be washed. It smells like Chinese food.”
“Wow, thanks for understanding.”
“My roommates are assholes, too.”
“Freshman?”
“Sophomore, and you know what that means.”
“Yeah, it means it’s not going to get better.”
“Hey, you have any classes in the liberal arts building?”
“Yeah, why?”
“You ever see the bathroom on the first floor, in the back? There’s, like, a shower in there. And a sofa. The teachers use it because it’s near their lounge, but no one’s there later. In case you need an escape valve.”
“Thank you.”
“College sucks,” she said, and Emma smiled.
She watched the girl walk away and imagined telling her mom about this encounter. She knew exactly what good old Maggie would say. Did you get her name and number? You could make a date for coffee, or maybe file paperwork to become roommates somewhere else? She sounds like someone with character. Someone who would be a true friend. And she would have to explain that meeting your new BFF in the cafeteria was not a thing. The world did not work like that. Not with friends, not with boyfriends. The world was not a romantic comedy.
Emma finished her bagel and put the shirt in her backpack. It did smell vaguely of peanut sauce and red pepper, which wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Funny how things that were gross and dirty could actually be not terrible if you didn’t think about them too hard. She remembered a boy she knew in high school, Keegan, who had moved away. That’s what he’d said about a hoagie-eating contest. That at some point you stopped thinking about what you were doing and you just did it. That it was the thinking that would get you, not the doing. Life advice from a stoner. Thank you, Keegan, she thought.
Still, all things considered, she wondered if she shouldn’t throw in a load of wash and leave it there, come back in a while to dry it, but quickly realized she couldn’t afford to do things like that now. What if someone stole all the clothes she had left?
She checked for seeds in her teeth, then swiped on some lipstick, the lone pale gloss that had been in her backpack. She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard. She wanted to look cute, yes, but serious and professional. She knew she often looked serious even when she wasn’t, because her whole life, people had been asking her what she was thinking about when she wasn’t even thinking, wasn’t worried. But professional? That was hard to achieve when you were young. When you were young and carrying all your possessions on your back like a snail.
She strode up the stairs to the journalism building, trying to feel confident. She had a story and a purpose and her favorite shirt, if nothing else. Her backpack was heavier than normal with all her clothes in it, but it wasn’t more than she could handle.
When she stepped off the elevator, Jason glanced up from his desk as if he was aware of her. Aware or wary? She didn’t really like the look on his face, the way he wasn’t making clear eye contact when he greeted her. He led her to an empty conference room with only a sliver of a glass panel and shut the door. She remembered, at that precise moment, her father telling her that classroom doors didn’t used to have glass. They used to be solid and stayed open most of the time, but when they were shut, they were shut. If a teacher needed to change clothes or argue with his wife on the phone, he could do it behind that door. But he could also do other things, and that’s why, he told his daughter, when she headed off to seventh grade with her brand-new bra, they mandated the glass. Emma hadn’t parsed his meaning precisely at that moment. But a few stories from older girls, a few slumber parties, a few bad romance novels later, and she understood perfectly.
Jason swallowed hard, a hangover kind of swallow, like there was bile in his throat. She knew that swallow, associated it with alcohol and boys. Still, she didn’t hold it against him. He was human, wasn’t he? But his glasses were smeared, too. His face had a film on it, as if he’d been working too hard in an overheated room. Or as if he’d been up all night and hadn’t bothered to wash his face. He looked beautiful and terrible at the same time.
“Emily,” he sighed.
“It’s Emma,” she said quietly.
“I’m sorry. There are so many Emilys and Emmas and Emmys on campus. Carolines and Carolyns. It’s impossible.”
“Maybe you need a life proofreader.”
He blinked, took a deep breath. “That’s funny.”
“Yeah, well.”
“Anyway, do you have anything yet? Because—”
She interrupted him. She told him breathlessly about Sam Beck and the free shift she offered to work, that she was sure Fiona was recruiting girls, that there were free condoms in the bathroom at London, that they owned a store that gave free clothes to girls, that she was meeting with a former patron that very evening, and that she was certain she’d been followed when she—
He held up a hand. A hand that reminded her of a professor, of a dad. Of every boy and every man who just didn’t want to hear it anymore.
“So you have nothing more.”
“No, I’m meeting the guy, I told you—”
“Former patron? Not current. And you don’t have the hostess job, let alone posing as an escort yourself. And you don’t have a girl on record. You don’t have proof of recruitment. Did you even interview a psychologist? Did you talk to a gynecologist about STDs?”
“Wait, what? No, those would be general, and you told me to be specific—”
“Concrete. You need to be concrete. And you have nothing. So look for another story.”
“No, I—”
“Look for another story, Emma, or get your name off the list for the paper. There are plenty of other girls dying to write for me.”
“Are you hungover?” she blurted out.
“What?”
“You look…like crap,” she said.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’ve been working all night on another story. A story with documented, on-the-record sources and photographs that support it. A real story.”
She blinked. She was trying to decide if she hated him. She was trying to decide if he was a true asshole or just someone who was under a lot of pressure who turned into an asshole when he was hungover and needed Advil and a cheesesteak, like a normal boy. Just go eat some meat, she thought. Call me after you’ve scarfed down a sausage pizza and a Coke.
“You have three days to bring me something different, or you’re off the team.”
“Fine,” she said, standing up and hoisting her backpack against one shoulder. Forget looking cute but serious. No more cute for him. “Maybe the person who’s following me will abduct me. That’ll make a great story. How about that?”
“Emma,” he said, like he’d already known her name and had said it a million times this same way, the way everyone said it when they were disgusted with her, when they were tired of her shit, when they thought they were right and she was wrong, exhaled it with a long, drawn-out sigh—but she was gone by then. His sigh was just a bad, sour breeze, a whiff of beer breath that followed her out.
She was almost at the library when the text came in from Fiona. She had to squint to believe what she was seeing. The photo, a bit blurry and dark but unmistakable. “Whose Future Husband?” it said beneath it.
Well, she thought, look at this. Here’s a photo that supports a story, Jason. A real story, a dark story, if not exactly the one she thought she was chasing.
She put her head in her hands and blinked back the tears. How stupid. How trite. Not that he would act this way. But that she had. Stupid, guileless Emma. What a freshman fucking move. How totally JV could she get, thinking he might actually like her.