The Lonely

The
front steps of any building you've never been in before, always feel
intimidating and seem larger than they really are. The entrance and steps to Speare
Hall had felt full of inspiration and excitement the first time I saw them. The
stairs were intimidating and exciting.

Orientation
cured that feeling.

The
cinderblock cell-like room was not what I expected. I expected romance and
creativity and downtown Boston. I never expected blazing heat, lack of air
conditioning, humidity and a general sense of sterility. I looked around that
first day for the cameras and guards. I assumed I was on the set of the remake
of 1984. Surely Big Brother was watching me.

Now,
months later, I still can't seem to get back that initial inspiration and
excitement as I cross the threshold to start the year. I am stuck in the
sterility and 1984.

The
school is alive with people and energy, but the building is strange and smells
like prison. I know about the industrial smell of prison, all too well.

My
excitement about being a freshman is long gone. Instead, I'm climbing the
stairs, gripping to my belongings and trying not to make eye contact. I don’t
want my fellow students to see it. See the fact I don’t belong there, with
them.

I
glance at my watch and count the minutes until my saving grace arrives. I wish
we'd managed to get flights together. But we did not and so I am stuck with the
responsibility of walking through the front door of our room alone.

I
enter the grey dank room and dump my crap on the bed. The mattress is
frightening with its plastic cover and the wooden desk in the corner is old and
industrial looking. Everything about the small room is functional and wipe-able.

I
do like that, it feels like home.

The
floor is shiny like a hospital and the walls are white and stark. They close in
around me. I almost bolt from the room, leaving my things and running the
entire way home. The entire two thousand miles home.

Instead,
I close my eyes and let Dr. Bradley's words fill my head.
'Deep breaths in
and out. Eyes closed. Body numb. You're at the beach and the sand is soft. The
waves are small and make little noise. Slowly come back to the room you are in.
Let the light of the room feel like it's blessing you. You are safe. You are
grateful for the safety and the air and the roof over your head.'

I
open my eyes and try desperately to let the light of the wide window bless me.

My
heart is slowing and my mouth isn't as dry.

I've
grown fond of Dr. Bradley's affirmations.

I
look around and decide to focus on the room instead of my insanity. The room is
blank. I need things, which means I need him.

I
hate needing him. I dread sending him texts asking for things, but I don’t have
any other way of buying things. Besides, he wants us in as much contact as
possible. It's his rule. Well, one of them.

I
pull my phone out and sigh.

'Can
I go to the store?'

'Why
do you insist on asking? Of course you may go to the store. I told you about
this already. What do you need?'

'Bedding
and stuff. Remember I asked you before?'

'Right,
but I told you to stop asking. I gave you the account. Spend it how you want.
The car will be there in 20.'

'KK.'
I don’t mean it. I won't ever use
the account without asking first. I don’t like the fact he gives me money. It
won't ever feel like it's mine.

'KK
is a typo, not a send off. Please speak like an adult'
He's so snarky.

I
sigh, and look around the room. I can't unpack anything. I just can't. I need
everything there to be able to do it and I feel like I have nothing. No
control. No peace. The room isn't clean, not like it should be.

I
don't move. I just stand there and take it all in. I can't sit on the bed or
touch anything. I never realized how bad it would be. The new place syndrome is
almost physically painful.

I
grab the wipes from the bag I carried up and I start.

It's
a frenzy when it starts. OCD isn't just a sickness, it's a way of life. I
should have gone to school to be in forensics, instead of wanting to be in
journalism. I'm sweating and moving in a way that would frighten a normal
person. Fortunately, the person who walks through the door understands. Her
green eyes lift. They're not surprised at the state of me, at all.

"Em,
did you do my side already?" Her voice is dripping with sarcasm when she
asks.

I
glance back at her, snapping out of my attack mode. I stop moving and look
around. I barely remember entering the room. The room that now glistens far
more than it did before.

"You
know his car is sitting at the curb. His hottie, naughty driver saw me and
asked if you were ever coming down."

It
takes me a second to come back to the real world. I put the used wipe in the
bin and dump pumpkin-spice hand sanitizer in my palm. She watches my face as
she dumps her bags down on the shiny mattress, which no doubt reeks of bleach.

I
frown at the plastic mattress and our few belongings, "Don’t unpack. Let's
go to the store first. I forgot I asked him to let me get bedding."

She
shrugs, "K."

When
we leave, I lock the door and walk away from the unfinished job. It's a step in
the right direction for me to leave something before I've finished it. It will
plague me, but at least I've done it.

His
driver is playing with his phone when we walk up. He raises an eyebrow at me
when I open the door. He jumps out and grabs it. I don’t notice the way the
people stare at the man in the black suit opening my door, or the fact I am
leaving in a black Lincoln Town Car. I do notice the way Shell beams and tosses
her hair about.

"Try
not to be too obvious." I whisper, as Stuart gets into the front seat.

"He's
just so hot." She leans in and whispers back. Her lips smell like berry
gloss. She always smells nice. Sometimes her clothes smell like food her mom
cooked. That’s my favorite. At least it was when we were in New Mexico. Now she
smells like me. Lost smells of the many airports and taxi's we've been in.

Stuart
watches her in the rearview. I don’t blame him. I doubted my hetero-ness until
I realized I wasn’t attracted to her, but attracted to the smell and the feel
of her. Her clothes are always soft from fabric softener and her hair smells
like garlicky Italian food. Her green eyes sparkle in a way I love, in a
sisterly sort of way.

I
want my eyes to sparkle like hers. I want my lips to glisten and smell like
lipgloss. I want long, shiny dark-chestnut hair and a long, lean body. I want
to be her most days. I'm not entirely sure if I'm her friend because I like
her, or if it's that I want to be her?

Her
nails are always long and polished. Her lips stick out from her face just
enough that you can't help but want to kiss them. Even as a girl, I always
wanted to kiss them. We tried it once. It felt wrong in my soul, but I liked
the feel of her berry gloss against my mouth. Well, for all of six seconds.
Then I needed it off of me.

She
flutters her eyelashes at me, "You think he'd go out with me?"

I
almost laugh at the question, "Do bears poop in the woods?"

Stuart
looks at us in the rearview, "They do and I'll pick you up from dorms
tomorrow night at seven." He grins. I can't fight the grin that crosses my
lips seeing his.

Her
face flushes, "Okay."

She
is ballsy. She always has been ballsy.

"You
like Chinese?" Stuart is barely watching the road. It doesn't make me
nervous like it should. He's an excellent driver.

Shell
wrinkles her nose, "No. I like everything but. You're not Chinese are
you?"

He
snorts.
"I'm American. Born in
Wichita, but my grandma was Japanese. I'm a quarter I guess." His Kansas
accent is so obvious it isn’t even funny. Not to mention, he only slightly
looks like he might have a touch of something exotic in his bloodline. He looks
like every other Heinz 57 American. Only he manages to look exactly like an
Abercrombie model while doing it. I give her a horrified look.

She
grins, "I love Japanese food." I am dying inside.

"I
know a place." He doesn’t seem to mind she is insanely rude.

I
sit in the awkward silence of their rearview mirror planned date and try to
think of things to say. My filter denies every one of them. There is no
recovering from the humiliation flamed across my cheeks.

He
pulls up in front of the outlet store.

"Thanks
Stuart." I say and grab the handle, but he's out of the car lightning fast
and opening the door.

"I
can get it."

He
looks unimpressed, "I can get fired." His tone mimics my own.

I
nod, "Sorry."

He
shakes his head and climbs back in.

I
elbow Shell on the way into the store, "Ass. Don’t date his driver and
don't ask people what nationality they are. It's embarrassing. He's born in
Wichita. He sounds like he's from Kansas. You're a moron."

She
isn’t fazed, "He's nummy hot and I get to see him naked tomorrow. I don’t
care if he's related to me. It's on." She smiles her disgustingly naughty
grin.

She
pushes the cart and puts things we need in. I put them back. "I don’t want
to spend too much." She rolls her eyes and puts them back in.

She
snatches my phone from me and texts from it. I try to get it back but it rings.
She passes me the phone with a smug grin.