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“It was touch and go for a while, but I think I’ll survive. At least the burning is at a more manageable level.” Then he looks like he wants to say something else, his eyebrows pinching together for a moment. “Thank you,” he finally says, more warmth in his voice now. “I hope I wasn’t too much of a dick. I know it was an accident.”
I wave this off. “Let’s chalk it up to first days and new experiences.”
“I can do that.” He holds up the bag from the dining hall. “And I love cookies too large to conceivably eat in one sitting unless you’re feeling especially ambitious. Which I’m not sure I am tonight. Do you… want some?” There’s an odd expression on his face, like he got trapped halfway to a smile.
“I don’t want to take your apology cookie,” I say, trying for a smile of my own.
We both go silent. My smile has probably turned goofy, or, worse, disingenuous, and Miles is making sustained eye contact with the carpet. But I don’t know how to friend, and if this is an opening, I’ve surely wasted it.
Still, today has to be an improvement over yesterday. I didn’t publicly humiliate myself or insult anyone or burn down a frat. All I did was pepper-spray Miles, but he’s going to be okay. No lasting damage.
“Well. I’m up there.” I point my thumbs toward the ceiling. “Any time you need someone to endanger your life and then heroically attempt to save it, you know where to find me.”
“You’re not going to go back to the party?”
I shake my head. “Nah. I think the partying mood has officially passed.”
“Right.” Another silence as he glances down the hall, in the direction I assume his room is in. I wonder what Disney characters are on the door. “See you later, Barrett. If you decide to stay in physics.”
It’s only when I’m back in my room, white-knuckling my remaining shreds of sanity and focusing all my energy on box-breathing my way into September 22, that something hits me.
I never told him I was planning to switch out.
DAY THREE
Chapter 8
“THIS HAS TO BE A—”
“No no no no no.” I let out the groan to end all groans as I fight with my sheets, kicking until my legs are free.
There’s Lucie in her tracksuit, Paige in a sweatshirt I’m only just now noticing is patterned with tiny lollipops. Both staring at me. Lucie’s jaw is slack, and Paige’s eyes are wide with concern. This must be so far outside the realm of what she thought she’d be doing as an RA. And on her third second first day, too.
“Is everything okay?” Paige asks, and given the way she rubs at the back of her neck, digging her hand into her short dark hair, I get the impression she’s only prepared to deal with one answer.
“Fine!” I squeak, snatching up my cardigan and shower caddy, stumbling forward so suddenly that they have to jump out of the way, Lucie flattening herself against what would have been her bed. I barrel past them and out into the hall. I couldn’t breathe in there. Those rooms weren’t made to hold three people, even if Paige was is about to tell Lucie that she’s lucky she’s not in a triple.
“There was always something a little off about her,” I hear Lucie say.
It shouldn’t hurt, and yet I thought we had a connection last night. Thought we’d made progress. Of course Lucie doesn’t remember any of that. She doesn’t know about the empty pasta bowls on the floor or the outlets she’ll have to stretch an extension cord across the room to use. She doesn’t know that she plans to rush a sorority to get away from Olmsted and/or me.
Holy fucking hell, this cannot be happening.
Again.
A visceral panic twists in my stomach. I’m no longer just a resident of whatthefuckville—I’m the mayor, president, supreme ruler.
The other residents of the ninth floor dart out of my way, give me strange looks, muffle their laughter. I’m still in pajama shorts, my arm through one sleeve of the cardigan, the rest of it trailing behind me. And I must not have put the shampoo cap on all the way because I’m squeezing it too hard and it’s definitely leaking all over my hand, dripping down my fingers and onto the carpet.
Some part of me wants to laugh at this ridiculous image. A very small part.
The rest of me wants to cry.
Once I’m safely locked inside a stall—in a real plot twist, this bathroom has become my safe space—I swipe through my phone, checking all the things I checked yesterday, at least before the shoddy service kills my 5G. I even (finally) check my student email, [email protected], and there’s Dr. Okamoto’s assigned reading waiting for me, chapters 1 and 2 in a textbook I haven’t bought yet.
Still Wednesday. Still September 21. Still a chaotic, inexplicable nightmare.
With trembling fingers, I navigate back to that Reddit thread I found yesterday today, in the r/Glitch_in_the_Matrix subreddit. I left my glasses in my room and have to squint.
