Some might say I created a bit of a scene, but I was too busy panicking to care. I finally chose half of a two-person suite that at least afforded me a private bedroom, along with a common room. I’d have to come in and out through that small shared common area, but I could probably keep to myself easily enough. In more positive moments, part of me dared to hope that this mystery roommate and I might hit it off. Wonders could happen. Still, today I am anxious about meeting her.
It only takes a few minutes to sign in at the dorm and get my key. Then, with significant trepidation, I enter my basement suite.
Simon laughs when I audibly exhale. “Relieved she’s not here yet?”
I roll my suitcase into one of the barren bedrooms and then plunk down on the rock-hard, hideous orange sofa in the lounge. Simon takes a swivel chair from my room and slides it in front of me, where he then plants himself. “Why are you so worried?”
I cross my arms and look around the concrete room. “I’m not worried at all. She’s probably very nice. I’m sure we’ll become soul mates, and she’ll braid my hair, and we’ll have pillow fights while scantily clad and fall into a deep lesbian love affair.” I squint my eyes at a cobweb and assume there are spider eggs preparing to hatch and invade the room.
“Allison?” Simon waits until I look at him. “You can’t do that. You can’t become a lesbian.”
“Why not?”
“Because then everyone will say that your adoptive gay father magically made you gay, and it’ll be a big thing, and we’ll have to hear about nature versus nurture, and it’ll be soooooo boring.”
“You have a point.” I wait for spider eggs to fall from the sky. “Then I’ll go with assuming she’s just a really sweet, normal person with whom I do not want to engage in sexual relations.”
“Better,” he concedes. “I’m sure she’ll be nice. This kind of strong liberal arts college attracts quality students. There’re good people here.” He’s trying to reassure me, but it’s not working.
“Totally,” I say. My fingers run across the nubby burned-orange fabric covering the couch, which is clearly composed of rock slabs. “Simon?”
“Yes, Allison?”
I sigh and take a few breaths while I play with the hideous couch threads. “She probably has horns.”
He shrugged. “I think that’s unlikely.” Simon pauses. “Although . . .”
“Although what?” I ask with horror.
There’s a long silence that makes me nervous. Finally, he says very slowly, “She might have one horn.”
I jerk my head and stare at him.
Simon claps his hands together and tries to coax a smile out of me. “Like a unicorn! Ohmigod! Your roommate might be a unicorn!”
“Or a rhinoceros,” I point out. “A beastly, murderous rhino.”
“There is that,” he concedes.
I sigh. “In good news, if I ever need a back scratcher, I have this entire couch.” I slump back against the rough fabric and hold out my hands before he can protest. “I know. I’m a beacon of positivity.”
“That’s not news to me.” Simon’s blue eyes meet mine. His skin is tan and weathered from a summer spent sailing off the coast of Massachusetts, his brown hair lightened in places where the gray has not taken over. I should have joined him on these excursions more than the few times I did. Next summer, maybe next summer . . .
“I think a back scratcher is a great luxury provided to you by Andrews College,” he says. “Enjoy.”
As I look around the concrete room, I make a resolution: I am going to give this unknown roommate a chance. I will push myself to be open and friendly. We might be very compatible. There’s no need for this collegiate relationship to become a be-all, end-all friendship, because I already have that with my one true friend, Steffi, and my heart has no room for more than one. But a good, working relationship with a roommate? That could actually be enjoyable.
Well, enjoyable might be pushing it. I’d shoot for tolerable.
There is a loud knock on the door, and it swings open as a tall boy with a scraggly beard and rows of beads dangling around his neck pokes his head into the room. “Yo, are you Allison?”
I nod.
He beams. “Hey! Great to meet you! I’m Brian, your RA. Listen, my friend, welcome. We’re so happy you’re in Kirk Hall. Gonna be a rockin’ year.” He makes a little fist pump in the air, and I try not to recoil. “So, dude, one thing? Your roommate? Small hitch with her.”
“What do you mean by hitch?” I ask.
“Yeesh, she sorta isn’t going to be coming to school this year. Something about an Antarctic trip and a sea leopard.” His face contorts. “Sounds unappealing to me, but she’s gonna be holed up in a lab studying this creature for a few months before she takes off to see ’em in person.”
Simon wrinkles his face. “Sea leopards?”
“Dude, yeah.” The boy with the necklaces pinches the bridge of his nose. “I bet they smell. Guess you’ll be flying solo this year, little bird.” Suddenly he brightens. “But hey! We’ve got a killer welcome-back party here in this very dorm tonight! Third-floor lounge! See you there!” He points a finger at me and then vanishes, letting the door slam behind him.
While Simon looks stricken that I will not have a roommate, my spirits are undeniably lifted. I’m a little bird who is going to be flying solo this year! “Let’s go get some baklava,” I say with too much enthusiasm.
“Allison . . .”
“What? Oh.” I force myself to look forlorn and try to hide that I actually find a degree of comfort in this turn of events. “I mean, it would have been nice to live with someone, I guess, but it’s all right. I’m sure this girl will have a unique year. So, good for her, right? Did you know that sea leopards are also called leopard seals? I like that name better.”
Simon tosses his hands in the air. “I didn’t.” He searches for something appropriate to say. “Look, I know you don’t like people, but that doesn’t mean you should be happy if—”
“If someone chose a year of living in a lab and then in the frozen tundra, studying a vicious and creepy animal, over living with me?”
He looks sad. “Yes. But it’s not as though she knew you and . . . rejected you. She’s just following some dream of hers or whatnot.”
We sit without speaking, and eventually my butt hurts enough from the scratchy couch that I stand and walk the few steps to what would have been my roommate’s bedroom. I lean my head against the doorjamb and look at the floor. “I’m sorry that I don’t like people. I’m sorry that I look clearly relieved that I’ll be living alone.”
“It’s okay,” he replies gently. “I get it.”
“And I’m sorry I’m pessimistic.”
“I get that, too.”
“And I’m sorry . . .” I can’t find the words. “I’m just sorry. I think you made a mistake. A mistake with me.” This is the first time I say what I have been thinking for years. I’m not sure why it comes out now, but, generally speaking, I’m not sure of much.
From the corner of my eye, I see Simon rise from the chair and turn my way. Softly, but very assuredly, he says, “No. I definitely did not make a mistake with you.”
Because he knows me well enough, he doesn’t step toward me expecting an embrace or some other emotional or physical display. Simon gets a lot of credit for respecting my boundaries. He knows that connection is not my thing.