I shrug.
“Well, you just look a little overheated. My dad back there did too.”
She brightens.
“Oh, he did?”
I nod.
“Yeah, but maybe it’s my imagination,” I add morosely. “Everything’s changing so fast that maybe I’m just imagining things. I don’t know.”
But Kara looks happy, and a secret smile creeps across her face.
“He did, huh?” she asks herself. “That’s nice to know.”
I stare at her.
“Are you okay?”
That snaps Kara back to the present, and she straightens with a laugh, flipping a lock of hair over her shoulder.
“Ignore me,” she says. “I’m just as confused about the college thing as you. I swore to myself I was going to leave my stuffed animals at home, but instead I brought all three: Mr. Beetle, Jemima Puddleduck, and Rufus will be rooming with us this year.”
With that, I giggle too.
“That’s okay, I brought a couple of my childhood toys as well,” I admit. “But we’re in this together, right?”
Kara turns and smiles at me.
“Of course. I have your back, Bailey. The same way I know you have mine.”
At that moment, we locate the housing office and open the door to step inside. But my thoughts churn: if Kara knew what I was really doing this summer, not to mention whom I was doing it with, would she still want to be my friend?9BaileyI’m sinking into sleep when my phone rings.
“Bails!” Kara sings into my unprepared eardrum. “We’re going out tonight! I’ll be at your room in thirty seconds!”
It turns out that Kara and I aren’t roommates. I thought we were slated to live together, but instead, there was a snafu at the housing office and we were both paired with other girls.
“Oh, no, not tonight,” I groan, holding the phone away from my ear.
“Yes, tonight!” she cajoles gently. “I know you’re sad, but you’ve been sad for a long time now. It’s time to get out of your funk right now!”
I heave a sigh, rubbing my closed eyelids. Kara doesn’t know the full truth of my situation. I told her that I had a summer romance, but stretched the tale by saying it was a guy from out of town. She has no idea that the true object of my affection is Chris. Still, what she does know--what I know most painfully of all--is that I sent my letter proclaiming my love…
… and heard nothing back.
Nothing. Not a word. Not even a “Sorry, but I don’t feel the same way.” I checked my mail every single day for weeks, hoping against hope that something from Christopher arrived for me. I spoke to my dad on the phone, praying that maybe he would say something about his friend that would shed some light on this situation. Nothing. I received no answers, only hurt.
Since then, I’ve existed in a fog. I go to my classes and turn in my homework on time. Other than that, I don’t do much besides take several naps a day, hoping to escape my reality. Sometimes I completely break down in the shower, sobbing into my hands as tears and water rivulet down my face. I’ve never experienced pain like this. Even my parents’ divorce didn’t hit me this hard.
“Kara,” I say finally, forcing myself to come back to the present moment. “I’m sorry, but I’m just not feeling well enough to be social. You should go with Melanie.” Melanie is her roommate and is always ready to party.
“Oh, Melanie’s coming, don’t worry. But I specifically want you! And, spoiler alert…”
I hear a sharp series of knocks on my dorm room door.
“...I’m already here.”
“Damn it, Kara,” I moan halfheartedly, but she’s already hung up. I could be upset at my friend’s persistence, but I know she means it out of love, and probably out of concern as well. In all our years of friendship, I’ve never been this depressed, nor this out of touch with reality. If she were behaving the way I’ve been, I’d be worried, too. I’m just unsure if a college party is the kind of cure I need.
“Bails!” Kara yells from beyond my locked door. “I know you’re inside!”
I slowly climb out of bed, observing the mess that clutters my half of the dorm room. My roommate is obsessively tidy and doesn’t spend much time in our room--I’m sure she disapproves of my lethargy. As I pass the mirror, I recoil, barely recognizing myself. My hair has been an unruly nest of curls for days. I’m still wearing the same pajamas I’ve worn for nearly a week. Great grey-blue bags sag under my eyes, which are dull and bloodshot from crying.
“Kara,” I say as I open my door, “I really don’t think I can do this.”
My best friend recoils at the sight of me. She, of course, looks perfect--blonde hair curling gently past her shoulders, makeup expertly applied to accentuate the blue of her eyes, outfit trendy and revealing enough to entice any collegiate male. She’s armed with a curling iron and her entire makeup kit. The woman means business.