1
Violet
The end of summer has announced itself with scorching temperatures and a thunderstorm. The temperatures I knew about and dreaded because it’s been in the 90’s all week. But the storm, as they tend to do, comes as an unwelcome surprise.
Clad in shorts, flip flops, and a tank top, I’m more than a little unprepared for the deluge that comes pouring down as I’m walking to my dorm. “Ugh!” I cry as the first fat droplets hit my face. A flurry of them follow, and soon, I’m soaked to the bone, running towards my building with my arms flung fruitlessly over my head. My curly hair is definitely not going to recover well from this.
At least I’m comforted by the sight of dozens of other students running in the rain as well. At a school as large as NYU, you’re never really alone.
When I get to the dorm, I stand for a minute just inside the doorway, dripping onto the building’s welcome mat. I scrub at my eyes with my hands, thankful that I haven’t been wearing makeup lately. Summer classes aren’t very well attended, so I haven’t had to worry about impressing anyone. The first semester of my sophomore year begins tomorrow, though, so I’ll have to start upping my game a little.
I frown at myself in my phone camera, examining the frizzy disaster that is my hair. This “drowned rat” look definitely isn’t pleasing, that’s for sure. I try fluffing it up somewhat, but it’s hopeless. The strands stay stuck to my cheeks and forehead, and I give up.
As I slink towards my dorm room, my feet making awful squelching sounds in my soggy flip flops, I try to muster up some kind of excitement for my sophomore year. I’m not very successful. Last year was fun, and I did relatively well in my Gen Ed classes, but I’m stressed about not declaring a major yet. I just can’t decide what I want to study. Why, at twenty years old, am I supposed to know what I want to do for the rest of my life? I rarely know what I want to do with my upcoming week. Choosing a major feels like a huge weight on my shoulders, one that I’m still not able to shrug off.
I arrive at my dorm room and dig in my backpack for my keys. As I do, my eyes dart to a pile of packages on the floor, all of them with my name on them. I can’t help but smile. Did my family send me some care packages?
As I pick one up and inspect the label, my heart sinks. Great. My family sent me some packages, alright, but none that I’m happy to see. Orgo Weight Loss, the white-and-green labels read. My mom signed me up for the Orgo Weight Loss program despite my protests. I’m a curvier girl but have always been happy with my body. My parents, however, seem to think there’s something wrong with me. Worse still, they entertain the outdated notion that women only go to college to find a husband. They regularly insist that if I just lost some weight, I’d be great wife material for one of the male students here.
With a heavy sigh, I bring the armload of boxes into my dorm room and lock the door behind me. My roommate and best friend Kristy is out, so it’s just me alone with my diet supplements. I tear open the boxes and stare at the contents with a frown. I’ve been trying them for about a month now, and they universally--protein bars, protein shakes, and “desserts”--taste like chalk. Worse, they’re supposed to completely replace my normal meals. The cafeteria food may not be great, but it’s definitely better than this stuff.
My stomach rumbles and I dutifully grab one of the meal replacement bars. The wrapper says “salted caramel,” but it will probably taste more like concrete. I eye it with distaste. Maybe I could just have a sandwich, or a bowl of mac and cheese, just this once. No one would ever know…
At that moment, my phone rings, and I jump. It’s the jaunty tune reserved for my mother’s calls. I blanch. How did she somehow sense that I was thinking about straying from my meal plan?!
I answer the phone and try to make my voice as guileless as possible. “Hello?”
“Hi, honey!” my mom crows. “How are you?” Rose insists on calling every couple of days. It’s at least an improvement from her calling every single day my freshman year. My parents live in Wisconsin, and me attending NYU is the farthest away from home I’ve ever been.
I sit down on my extra-long twin bed, hugging a pillow to me with my free hand. “I’m fine!” I say, trying to match her level of cheer. “What’s up with you?”