There are times when I can slip into the past. It's like peeling a photograph off my wall, the tape on the back making it gummy and difficult, but it's still possible. I hold it just so in the light, and a tear appears on the edge. It's just the right dimensions for me to slide into the memory seamlessly.
This time, the photo I pluck was from before her. I'm grateful because I'm not sure I can bear thinking about Clair right now. (To be fair though, I'm also not sure if I can bear to not think about her. It's a painful game of Catch Twenty-two.)
So, there you are.
The first day of college was a pain in the ass for you. Your mom goes crazy over these things. (Who's your roommate, who are her parents, do you need a rug for your room...?) And besides the onslaught of questions, she sizzles with nervousness. It rolls off of her, and all you and your dad can do is wait it out.
So she's in charge. Mom helps you set up the room (desk and dresser under your loft, here's your underwear drawer...). You're used to it, but your cheeks still flush as your roommate and her family witness your quiet argument about where your bras should go.
Your dad, having had more experience in escapes, has exited stage left and down the hall. You make excuses to your mom before trailing after him.
"You made it, huh?" he asks, his mustache twitching with his smile.
"Barely," you say. It comes out a little snottier than you intended. To get past it, you ask, "Where are we going?"
"I forgot an Allen wrench. Need it to set up your futon, so I'm looking to see if anyone else's got one." He points to a likely looking room with its door ajar.
"Right," you say. You can vaguely picture the wrench but also not really.
Your dad takes initiative, knocking on the open door. A pair of heads pop up from configuring an oversized TV. You try and work out if the TV is so massive or if it's just that the dorm room is so small. Verdict: hard to tell.
Anyway, you've mostly missed your dad's inquiries (although you tune in briefly when he reminisces about nailing up a dead fish on a tree outside this very dorm when he went here).
"You like it?" the smaller, stockier guy asks. He's referencing the TV, but it's taken you a moment to figure that out. You make a non-committal noise in the back of your throat. Apparently this isn't good enough, though, because your dad elbows you in the ribs.
"Ow, uh, yeah."
The taller guy seems unperturbed by your impoliteness. "We're having a movie night tonight. You and your roomie should come."
Shorter Guy nods enthusiastically.
"Sure, sure," you say, mimicking the nod. "See you...?"
"Seven." A pair of identical grins are flashed your way.
The conversation over and Allen wrench obtained, you and Dad meander back to your room. You're relieved; it almost feels like safety with your pictures and posters tacked to the wall. Almost like your own home. You decide, despite the close quarters, that you like it. It's yours.
Well, not quite.
Your roommate has introduced herself ("Lacy Loveless. A cosmic irony." You forget to ask what that is supposed to mean). Mom tears up while you and Lacy chat, and has to turn away from the pair of you and dab at her eyes. Really, you're lucky. She was so much worse when your brother, Tyler, moved out.
Dad puts his arm around her and pulls her in tight. You like them like that, side by side, united. The moment is snapped though when Mom needs to get in a few more jabs.
(Yes, you have your toothbrush. No, you don't need a rug. Yes, you can find the cafeteria.)
"M., we're only a phone call away. I can always come down if you forgot something."
"I'm fine, really, Mom." You pull her in so close that her hair brushes against your nose and you have to stifle a sneeze.
"I know. I know." But she draws you farther into a rib-cracking hug, and your dad joins in. He gives you a quick peck on the forehead, and then they disappear out the door.
Miracle of miracles.
Lacy and you then spend the next hour un-arranging the parental-designed room. She's got more opinions on this than you do, so you've just turned into the muscle of the operation. Fine by you. During that time you managed to bring up movie night, and she agrees to go with you. Room properly arranged and friendship (or something akin to it) formed, you collapse onto the futon and wait for seven o'clock to arrive.
A hair or two past the hour, the pair of you slip out of the room. There's no issue with you being late because you and Lacy have no intention of appearing desperate for friends, although in point of fact, you are desperate for friendship. For connection. It almost makes you sick, the way your heart is jumping in your chest. Nerves, of course.
Lacy's got her chin up though, her back ramrod straight. You copy her and feel better. Less afraid. And when you knock on the door, the worry you felt has almost dissipated.
Besides the two guys you met earlier, there are several others in the room you don't recognize. You don't even remember introducing yourself earlier in the day, or getting the names of either of the guys you sort of, kind of, know.
(You learn that the tall, dark guy is Jay. He flashes grins and jokes and is good at making everyone feel welcome. You're impressed by his hosting skills because he's basically holding an event in a cubicle and manages to make it inviting.
The smaller, stocky guy is Sam. He's less charming than Jay but has better jokes. They complement each other, you think.)
You promptly forget everyone else's name.
The room buzzes with tension. No one really knows anyone else, and there's the bit of jockeying to impress everyone. To say I am friend material but at the same time I am not desperate. You and Lacy, awkward in the doorway, are invited onto the futon. A few of the guys jostle each other out of the way, but you and Lacy end up perched on the very end for lack of room.
"Okay, what movie?" This is Jay, his voice rising over the nervous chatter. Of course, this starts another stream of discussion, where cult classics and superhero movies and Disney movies are all brought up, and no one is making a decision. Lacy, like you, grows bored from the argument quickly.
Unlike you, though, she's a planner. Knowing exactly how she wanted the floor-plan of your room and, even better, thinking to bring popcorn to movie night. You wish you had that kind of forethought.
Amid the discussion, she weaves through the clumps of people who are sprawled over the floor. She manages to make it to the microwave the boys have and starts popping the popcorn. A few minutes later, the pair of you are snacking on it while everyone is still arguing about the pros of a heist movie.
"What's that smell?" Sam asks. "It's amazing."
You hold the bag of popcorn up, shaking it so Sam can see it. His eyes light up, and he's no longer supporting his side in the debate (heist movies are all the same. He'll know what's going to happen five minutes in. He wants something with more explosions.)
"M., pass it here."
It crosses your mind to do just that, but while the movie snobs are talking, you might as well make your own entertainment.
"Open up," you say.
His jaws open, tongue wagging back and forth. You and Lacy giggle before you toss a piece of popcorn his way. Sam lunges, trying to catch it with his mouth, but comes up short.
"Here. I'll give you another chance." Lacy throws a second piece at him. The arc it makes is nearly perfect. Time slows for you to watch that tiny piece of popcorn sail over the heads of the movie debaters and into Sam's open mouth. Sam whoops in victory, calling the attention away from the other chatter.
Your actions had mostly gone unnoticed before this. Now, though, people crane their neck towards you and Lacy and then to Sam on the far side of the room. Their lips quirk up for a second, before they let their jaws drop open, making your target easier.
The movie is forgotten.
You and Lacy are the center of the fray. Your hands get greasy from the fake-butter flavoring, but that's okay. You're a major league pitcher. Strike one: you and Sam fist bump when he catches another. Whirling to your left, you throw another strike to a red-headed girl who proves to be the best at this game by the end of the night.
Somewhere along the line, this became less a game of skill. You aren't sure who, though you suspect Sam, grabbed a whole handful of popcorn and started a war. Popcorn flies everywhere and you duck behind Lacy, shrieking. She's taking the fire, pretending they're bullets and rolls off the futon in dramatic fashion. Her acting is superb. She flops a little and pretends to cough up blood and holds her chest where popcorn-bullets hit her. The war is still raging around you (in fact you've been hit several times), while she grips your hand.
"M.," she struggles to say your name. Her eyes go a little cross-eyed before she snaps them shut, apparently dead.
It only takes her a few seconds to open them again. "How was that?"
You grin. "I'm impressed, Lacy." You untangle a piece of popcorn from her hair. "You'd probably be dead from the head-shot though."
"Thanks. You've just ruined my best performance." She rolls her eyes.
"M. and Lacy, get down. Get down!" Jay, gestures wildly before throwing a handful of popcorn at the enemy. A brunette makes explosion noises as they land, giving Jay a high five.
"What's going on in here?" The scene freezes, half the group laying on the floor, clutching imaginary wounds, the other half looking sheepishly to the figures in the door frame. Two students clad in maroon polos and holding walkie-talkies peer into the room. The Community Advisers must've had a noise complaint. Not shocking, really; war is quite loud.
They start in on a lecture about community and being respectful and so forth. You appear attentive, but your eyes begin to glaze.
"... Understand?" Lecture over. You, along with everyone else in the room, nod demurely. Satisfied, the CAs leave to harass other freshmen.
"Fuck the police," someone says after they're out of earshot, but no one throws any more popcorn.
The moment is shattered, so Jay closes the door and Sam riffles around in the closet.
"Plan B." The pair grin as Sam's pulled out a bottle, and Jay clicks the lock shut. The room is hot and everything feels close, like it's pressing in. You aren't claustrophobic though. You no longer worry about your arm brushing against someone you don't know, or leaning against someone else. The war has brought you closer, and the liquor makes the lot of you unafraid and peels apart your self-consciousness.
The night is hot with life and promise, and that's how it should've been.
But, the memory shifts, and I am no longer in it. Everything is translucent and the edges of everything take on a blurry quality. I can see it, but it's fragile and barely there, like a soap bubble. It pales to how things were; there is no emotion. I can see myself, but I can't feel the laughter in my chest or the heat of leaning against someone else or the salty popcorn on my tongue. It's there and it's not.
And come to think of it, so am I.
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