I see the problem, but I can’t help typing: I mean . . . do you have to?
Yes. The reply pops up immediately.
Okay.
Xiumiao spends a couple minutes typing and then sends, Are you suddenly going to go home and tell your dad about your gender questions? Or that his ignorance of his own privilege means he’s tacitly upholding the patriarchy and white supremacy? Or are you going to say, “Thanks for tuition” and eat your white people food?
I fumble for my ID to enter the dorm as I consider. I am trying to be more honest with Dad, but . . .
Yeah, okay, fair. We’ll hang out a bunch. You can help me paint the new room.
Thanks. Tell Melissa hi this weekend. And good luck.
* * *
• • •
In the afternoon, I procrastinate my sociology work by looking over Chris’s college essay. UT is his first choice, and he seems to think that current students possess magical admissions knowledge when actually I can barely remember filling out the applications. His essay is good, though, a funny but thoughtful narrative about what he learned from playing quidditch. I’m pretty sure he’s going to be fine.
I get distracted for a few hours with food and S.P.I.F. discussions, and then I have an interest meeting for a campus environmental club I’m thinking of joining, so pretty soon it’s late afternoon and I’m agonizing in front of my laptop.
“Just send it,” Laiba advises, standing over my shoulder eating (my) peanut butter with a spoon and watching me stress about submitting my sociology blog post. “You worry too much. Also you have to finish, because isn’t your friend staying here tonight?”
I click, sending my 650 words about the devaluation of low-wage work in American society into the harsh light of our half-hearted class message board.
“You didn’t sleep for three days finishing your self-portrait,” I remind her.
Laiba grimaces, her eyes still shadowed from that stunt. “Yeah, but art students are supposed to be malnourished and overcaffeinated wrecks. It’s part of our aesthetic. You are supposed to be the chill liberal arts slacker.”
I’m still deciding whether Laiba’s jabs about my (as-yet-undeclared) major are friendly or annoying, so I stick out my tongue and steal back the peanut butter. We settle at our desks on opposite sides of the (small) room and plug in our headphones.
My phone buzzes, and I read Melissa’s text with a grin.
So the bus is definitely delayed, she writes, but just aim to be here to pick me up at the normal time, and it should be perfect. Get it? Because you are always late.
* * *
• • •
Melissa hops off the bus with her new asymmetrical bob, dressed head to toe (actually clip-on bow to ruffled socks) in A&M maroon, which I guess is her idea of a joke, since her school is my school’s rival. She politely oohs and aahs as I walk her around campus, though, and claps when she sees the new Little Shop of Horrors poster hanging in its place of honor over my bed.
“You’re a lot taller than you look on Ellen’s phone,” Laiba notes with a wry smile and a wave.
She has a point. After more than a month, it’s weird to have Melissa actually standing here in the middle of my college life. She doesn’t quite fit in the room, or in my head. Weird.
“Thanks for letting me stay,” Melissa says for probably the third time, eyes betraying the awkwardness behind her smile.
“No problem.” Laiba shrugs. “I’ve resigned myself to Ellen’s popularity. If you weren’t here it would be Nico.” She pulls the half smile that might mean she’s kidding or might mean her passive-aggressive jab is deadly serious.
“Oh really?” Melissa’s eyes sparkle, and she finally drops her overstuffed backpack on the ground and hops up onto my bed. “Ellen, you are supposed to keep me updated!”
“It’s not a big deal,” I say, shaking my head while Laiba nods vehemently. “Really! I am still figuring out how to find my classes. I’m not trying to date anyone right now.”
“Sure.” Laiba rolls her eyes and leans in to fake-whisper in Melissa’s ear, “I had to enforce a ‘No Nico after Midnight’ rule just to make sure I got any sleep.”
“Oh my God, you make it sound like we’re—” I flush and make a mental note to spend more time in Nico’s room or any of the dorm common areas. “We just talk.”
“Yeah, you talk forever,” Laiba complains cheerfully. “Other people get ‘sexiled’; I get ‘that issue is philosophically complex’-iled.”
Melissa raises an eyebrow at me, and I blush less at Laiba’s pun than at Melissa’s (correct) assumption that Nico and I aren’t quite strictly philosophical.
Teasing me breaks the ice, and Melissa and Laiba make small talk for a while. Part of me listens, but mostly I soak in Melissa’s presence. I reacclimate to the cadence of her voice, noticing the slight perky A&M Aggie twang she’s picked up already. I adjust to her moving and talking in real time, with no lagging or pixelated screen limiting our communication, and notice how her wardrobe has shifted to include shoulder-baring tank tops. When Laiba launches into a rant about her painting style being misunderstood, Melissa shoots me a look that I only take a few seconds to decipher: I see what you meant about the temperamental artist thing.
“So you’re here to hang out for the weekend?” Laiba asks. “Go to Sixth Street? Hit up some clubs? I think there’s a public TGIF party tomorrow night.”
“We’ll have to miss it.” Melissa shrugs. “We’ve got the tournament starting Saturday morning. But I came a little early so we could do some partying tonight.” She winks at me, because we know that by “partying” she means Disney sing-alongs.
“Tournament?” Laiba asks.
“Yeah, for quidditch,” I explain. “We’re totally going to wreck A&M.”
“You wish,” Melissa mutters.
“Quidditch?” Laiba tilts her head. “That Harry Potter fan club you and Nico do? There are tournaments for that?”
Melissa and I exchange a quick eye roll, but my mood is too good to take offense.
“Yeah, it’s a sport. You know, all the early-morning runs with Alice and Gabby? We’re all on the team. It’s sort of intense; we tackle and stuff.”
“That . . . sounds awesome.” Laiba flicks hair away from her face. “Can I watch you play?”
“Totally! Come out this weekend.” Melissa beams at me. I approve of your new roommate. “You should try playing, too.”