Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 116898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116898 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 584(@200wpm)___ 468(@250wpm)___ 390(@300wpm)
“Oh wow, that’s great.” He nods a bunch of times, like Lovey has just told him he’s won an award of excellence.
I raise my hand. “I’m Lavender.”
“Right. Cool name. Let me check on that.” He flashes a wide grin and shifts so he’s facing the computer. After tapping a few buttons, his grin drops and his expression turns into more of a grimace. “Uh, okay. I found it. You’re in a double.” He smiles stiffly. “Your roommate is Beth Gull. She’s a sophomore.”
“Okay. Great. Thanks.”
He makes a brief phone call and sets me up with my keys. Two minutes later, a girl named Sydney introduces herself as the RA on my floor and gives me a quick rundown of all the rules. I introduce her to Lovey and Lacey and tell her they’re helping me move my stuff in.
“You have to register guests with the front desk. Sometimes people try to sneak them in.” Her expression turns disapproving. “But you can get written up for that.”
I exchange a look with Lovey and Lacey. “Okay, register guests.” Geez, this sounds a lot like a less-fun version of summer camp. Not that I’ve ever been to summer camp, but my brothers used to go. River loved it until he got into a huge fight with another kid and got sent home for breaking his nose. At least that was the story we got.
The hallways are bland, the doors the same, although some of them are decorated with nameplates, and a few have those whiteboard things fixed to them where people can leave messages. When we get to room 414, Sydney mutters something under her breath and swipes her hand across the whiteboard, erasing whatever was written there.
She knocks and waits a good fifteen seconds before she tries again. More muttering follows and Lovey elbows me, giving me her wide, what-the-hell eyes. I shrug. I don’t know if this RA is a weirdo, or we interrupted her Vampire Diaries marathon or what, but she’s definitely in a mood.
She opens the door and peeks inside, shoulders sagging as she blows out what seems like a relieved breath. “Beth must be out.” She motions to the space in front of us. “This is your common room. You have a TV, a couch, chair, coffee table, bar fridge, microwave, and coffee maker. You’re not allowed to have a hotplate because it’s against code. Also, no smoking.”
“No smoking and no hotplate, got it,” I echo.
The common space is a sty. There are empty food boxes littering pretty much every surface, and used tissues all over the floor. I also think there might be a few condom wrappers under the coffee table, but I’m afraid to look too closely.
“And we routinely do room checks for alcohol. You can get kicked out for that too,” Sydney says.
“Right. No booze.” I nod my agreement. We’re all still holding our boxes, and there’s no spot to put them down.
“That’s Beth’s room.” Sydney motions to the door with the KEEP OUT BITCHES sign stuck to it. “And that’s yours.”
“Cool.”
“Do you have any questions?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“Okay, well, I’m in room 420 if you need anything. Good luck.” And with that, she spins on her heel and busts it down the hall.
I awkwardly prop my box on my hip so I can unlock my room. The door swings open with a creak. I feel around for the light switch and flick it on. Then I drop my box on the desk with a groan. Lacey and Lovey do the same, and we stand there for a few long, quiet seconds, taking in my new bedroom.
“It’s . . .” Lovey doesn’t seem to be able to find words to finish that statement.
“It looks like a glorified prison cell,” Lacey says.
She’s not wrong. The walls are cinderblock, painted off-white. There’s a basic wardrobe, a dresser, and a single bed, plus a desk and a computer chair that looks far from ergonomic.
“It’s cozy.” My closet in Lake Geneva is probably the same size as this entire room.
“That’s one way to describe it,” Lacey mutters.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” Lovey asks.
The answer is no. I’m not sure at all. As I stand here, staring at this tiny, ugly room, I come to the conclusion that I’m ridiculously pampered. Growing up with a dad who makes ridiculous amounts of money means we’ve lived in nice houses and had nicer-than-average things.
I still had a part-time job as soon as I turned fifteen, because my parents wanted me to have the responsibility and to learn how to save money. They also wanted me to be able to handle social situations without having an anxiety attack. Granted, I’ve always worked in libraries, where quiet is key, and most of the time I’m either shelving or checking out books, but it was still a job and still some forced, controlled social interaction.