Chapter Five
Chapter Five
R
OOMIE!”
The apartment door flung open and a young twenty-something with a swishy golden ponytail tackle-hugged me. She reminded me of a golden retriever I had dog-walked once. The puppy had the habit of enthusiastically smelling the crotches of anyone we passed on the sidewalk. Fingers crossed my new roommate wouldn’t share this trait.
She loosened her firm grip around my upper torso and took a step back. “You’re very huggable, you know that? Like an adorable poppin’ fresh Pillsbury Doughgirl, but the dough isn’t all over, it’s just in your boobs. They’re great though, your boobs, don’t get me wrong. I mean that in the best way possible, my nana had a nice set too. I’m Beth, but you can call me Roomie, Roomie!”
Holy shit. My roommate was a female Ted Lasso.
So. Much. Energy.
And yes, I had a size D chest, which came with all sorts of problems other than being huggable, such as unwanted
leering stares, ill-fitting tops, and chronic back pain. But I’d never
ever
been told my boobs were poppin’ fresh. This was a first. And hopefully the last.
Mia peeked over my shoulder and whispered into my ear, “Do I need to book us an Airbnb? This could be a disaster. Just say the word and I’ll get it done.”
“It’s fine.” The truth was, I kind of liked her. Aside from Mia, I’d had some terrible roommates; the worst one was from freshman year. Erika, who always set her phone alarm at full blast at 5
A
.
M
. to hit the gym, and then snoozed it a dozen times, and never actually made it to any of her spin classes. Ever.
Beth’s arms wildly gestured as she spoke about the walkability of the neighborhood, like her body created caffeine as a by-product. She was nice though, and that went a long way with me. I didn’t originally plan to have a roommate, but there were no studio apartments available to rent around campus, and one-bedrooms in town were scarce and in high demand. I’d missed the campus housing lottery, which was maybe a blessing—it was far better for me to be a senior living off campus and commuting instead.
Usually people who were in apartments were transfers or those who had been booted out of Res Life for noncompliance, and the thought crossed my mind when she made a distinction between
those dorm kids
and
people off campus
.
Mia had been subliminally following my train of thought about off-campus living, because she asked Beth point-blank, “So what’s your deal? Are you a transfer? Or did you get kicked out of housing?”
Beth didn’t change her puppy-dog eager demeanor one bit. “Well, it depends who you ask. If you ask
me
, I’d say there was a gross misunderstanding and I’m still waiting to clear my name with the Carlthorpe judicial committee. If you ask the director of Residential Life, she might say that someone fitting my description
allegedly
provided prescription drugs as an illegal study aid, but in reality a bunch of floormates broke into my room and stole an old bottle of my expired Adderall last year during finals. It was their word against mine. They were trustee families, if you catch my drift.”
I took her at her word and let it go. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. But I’m happy to meet you, Beth. This is Mia, she’s my good friend, a Carlthorpe alumna helping me move in. She graduated ten years ago.”
“Oh! You don’t look ten years older than us!” Beth maneuvered around me to hug-tackle Mia. “Any friend of Roomie’s is a friend of mine. Nice to meet you! Are you stayin’ long? I’m fixin’ to put a roasted chicken in the oven. Well, it’s not roasted now, it’s uncooked and fleshy pink at the moment, but give me forty-five minutes and I’ll fix that problem!”
My roomie squeezed Mia hard, and I exchanged glances with her over Beth’s head. Mia’s face was priceless. A dead-even mix of expressions: half amusement, half revulsion. “To be clear, I’m ten years older than
you
, not Lily. She’s my age, though she doesn’t look it. There’s the saying ‘Asian don’t raisin’ and she’s living proof of that. And although I do love chicken, I need to help my friend here unload her shit and then I gotta head back to the truck rental before
they charge us an extra day. We’ve got plenty of boxes and containers to unload, like this one.”
My new roomie’s eyes rounded when she noticed one of the clear plastic stackable containers Mia had placed on the floor by her feet, packed with tampons, pads, essential K-beauty products, and, of course, condoms. She’d put the four boxes in plain view.
Thanks for that, Mia.
Mia wheezed in Beth’s arms, “I’ll be visiting often, don’t you worry. So chicken raincheck?”
Beth loosened her grip and Mia took in a deep breath of relief.
“Abso-freakin-lutely! If I know you’re coming, I can make a feast for all of us too. I love cooking for a group! I make a mean bread pudding. I love baking pretty much everything, except for popovers. Or Yorkshire pudding, depending on where you’re from.”
“How can you be anti-popover?” I asked, mildly horrified. Popovers were so crowd-pleasingly simple.
“Well, they’re beige, flavorless, and as boring as my uncle Jude. And, most importantly, they’re too light and airy. I hope you two love butter, it’s a Beth Reynolds staple!” She lightly punched Mia in the upper arm.
Mia looked at me and shrugged. “I mean, seriously, who doesn’t love butter?”
Indeed. God bless butter.
“Alrighty! I have to run to the bookstore real quick to grab a workbook, but holler if you need anything. I can help you unpack when I get back. And by the way, everything of mine is ours to share. Well, except for my boyfriend, who
goes to Georgetown and who I plan to marry, he’s strictly off-limits. But other than him, what’s mine is yours! Mi casa es su casa, literally! Oh, and except for razors, deodorant, and toothbrushes, because sharing those would be downright nasty. Nice to meet ya both!” Beth and her ponytail swished past us, leaving Mia and me standing in the entryway, mouths agape, as the front door closed.
I pointed to the doorway. “It’s going to take me a while to process what just happened there.”
Mia’s eyes bulged. “That was like listening to a podcast at 2X speed.”
I laughed and clapped my hands. “Okay, let’s find my bedroom and start unloading before it gets dark.”
The entire apartment was decorated farmhouse shabby chic, in true Beth Reynolds style, with heavy emphasis on
farm
and
shabby
. Although there was an absence of hay on the floor, the living room and kitchen had a vintage quality that paid homage to an older era. Beth was clearly an aspiring antiques collector or, maybe more accurately, an old junk amasser. Old wooden milk crates were used as bookshelves and side tables. Glass milk bottles and mason jars doubled as drinkware. Cow, pig, and rooster wooden art populated the walls, as did metal John Deere tractor signs. It was more kitschy than tacky, but barely.
This was no time to throw stones at any glass house, even a tacky farm-themed one, because I could relate. In my college days, and even a few years after, I used to browse and buy all of my decor and furniture in thrift shops and consignment stores to save money and to blow off steam through
low-end retail therapy. The thrill of finding my next “trash treasure” was incomparable to any pleasure I derived from grown-up purchases I’d made in my more successful years. I still had my greatest finds somewhere in storage: a vintage Nirvana shirt, a hand-painted porcelain rooster, and a set of cast-iron skillets that were heavy as fuck to lug home but were only ten dollars thanks to a red tag special. These were my most prized possessions.
Mia pursed her lips, like she needed to say something or she’d explode. Then she finally did.
“How in the hell are you supposed to invite anyone over with all that crazy country crap all around? You could hang a box of condoms with a
FREE SEX
! sign around your neck and get them to the door, but they’ll one-hundred-eighty-degree spin when they see all that fucked-up farm fuckery inside. You’re not seriously going to live here, right?”
I shrugged. “I guess I’ll have to cross that bridge later, if it ever comes.” We entered my large square bedroom as she ended her rant. I put down my satchel and phone by the door. “Aha! Now I know why you had me buy all those condoms. You want me to be an STD lure, to which I must say no thank you. But as for your main concern, I think it’ll be fine. Beth’s got a boyfriend, and I can just focus on my studies, get my stupid credits, and get the hell out of here after one semester. I don’t need to invite people over and be social.”
Mia cocked her head. “Seriously? You’re doing this all wrong. That’s why you’re lucky to have me here as your orgasm oracle. The condoms are strictly for just-in-case use, like if you hook up with another student from class or have
a party and want to get all naked with some dude. Maybe this is just the thing to get you to date more and put yourself out there.” She dropped the bags of snacks from the store onto the carpeted floor. “This is your second chance to do college! Surely there are things you’ll want to try again this time around. Or do for the first time. So many of my friends are jealous of this opportunity.”
I pulled the closet door open and flicked on the light. “You’re all jealous of me screwing up my life so badly that I didn’t get enough credits? Jealous of me being in danger of looking like a fraud if anyone exposes me before my next book comes out? My life right now is hardly enviable.”
She took the boxes of condoms from the container and stacked them in the empty dresser’s top drawer, all nice and orderly. “
Noooo, chingoo,
that’s not what I meant. College is the last stage of metamorphosis before becoming a real adult. Then you get burdened by loans and mortgages and 401(k)s. Everyone we know is getting married or is already married. They’re having babies. Some are peaking at work and some are hitting plateaus in their jobs. You’re getting a chance to relive a time when most people have no worries.”
Most people. But you know as well as I do that wasn’t true for me in college.
She patted my arm. “Okay, aside from the fact that you almost failed out of two classes and then messed up the whole major pass/fail thing to graduate, remember some of those fun times we had together? You’d dumped your shitty and boring long-distance high school boyfriend, the guy who would make a stick in the mud look interesting. We went all
Beyoncé ‘Run the World (Girls)’ right after that—we went dancing and had those fake IDs and went to diners on the weekend at one
A
.
M
. to share cheese fries.” She sighed wistfully. “And you even dated that cute guy for a while . . . Jake. Jake Cho from ASA? The guy who always wore summer clothes, even when it was snowing?”
Yes, he was in the Asian Student Association with Mia and me. Jake and I were club officers our sophomore and junior years. We had both broken off long-distance relationships and then we started dating the night we went out of town to attend Columbia’s Korean Student Association culture show. But it was supposed to be just a casual thing, with my friends egging me on to hook up with him because he was available and looking for a good time, and we had both broken up with our high school sweethearts. We actually started dating but things were not perfect, and it led to mutually assured emotional destruction.
Jake Cho. My friend turned friend-with-benefits, turned boyfriend, turned . . . messy. Actually devastating. Not exactly one of those
good ol’ college days
memories. “I looked him up a while back but he’s not online.” His internet existence disappeared a few years ago. The last I’d seen from him was a personal blog of his random musings and carefree drives across the country. After college, I’d moved to a high-rise in NYC with a bunch of friends and never left. I was the opposite of a digital nomad. I was tethered to my job. Shackled, actually, for less pay than I was worth. It wasn’t until I left the company to start consulting and secured a book deal that I had more financial freedom.
Mia pulled out her phone. Type, type, type.
Click. Click. Tap. Tap
. “I’ll be damned. You’re right. Jake Cho went totally off the grid a few years after graduation. But there are a bunch of Jake Chos online, maybe he’s lost in the sea of them. Or maybe he’s in witness protection. Or maybe he died.” Mia tapped on her screen. “Okay, there are no obits for any Jake Chos. But if he was in witness protection, it’s possible he’s not listed in the obituary under his real name—”
“Hey, this conversation has gone noticeably morbid and I don’t really feel like talking about Jake right now. Can we just unpack and not talk about witness protection and dying?” Mia’s conspiracy theories usually ended with murder and death. It wasn’t just Jake.
Seeing my ex now would be mortifying. When you encounter someone after ten years, you hope to God you’re in a better place professionally, socially, emotionally, and mentally since your last encounter. I didn’t want Jake to see me like this. Not when my professional life was in shambles. While jobless. With no husband. No kids. No advanced degrees, or even a college one for that matter. Even my author career was stagnating with a deadline now past due.
Mia knocked on my forehead, pulling me out of my downward spiral of thoughts.
“What the hell?” I asked, swiping her hand away like it was a flurry of spiders.
“I’m trying to crack that hard shell of yours. This isn’t reliving college again exactly as it was. This is giving it another go, on your terms. So yes, please study, but also remember that you know how to prioritize projects now and
get shit done because you kicked ass at work for so many years. Have fun when you’re not studying! You’ve been given an enviable gift!” She nodded her head toward the stack of containers. “Now, let’s move you in so you can get your damn degree.”
“But this time I’m going to be that weird, mysterious mature student who all the regular undergrads notice and silently judge.” My shoulders slumped as I took my toiletry bag out of my roller bag. “Remember when you were twenty-two, thinking that thirty-two was so old? In my previous job we looked at customer preferences by age, so adults would be split up into ranges of eighteen to twenty-four, then twenty-five to thirty-four. I’m in a completely different demographic than everyone here!” I sighed loudly. “Maybe it’s too late to try something exciting and new. Maybe I’ll just take whatever class is the easiest instead of trying to be adventurous.”
“I’m telling you, that would be a shame. You don’t think you can teach an old dog new tricks, is that it? What about the time when we were drunk and I taught you how to properly line a trash can? And didn’t you show me last year that you could burp the alphabet?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Yes to the trash thing, and the alphabet was something I learned in high school, and it doesn’t count. And it should never, ever be mentioned again. Also, remember that over the last decade, I’ve watched, like, a hundred videos on how to fold a fitted bedsheet and I still can’t do it.”
“Okay, fine. But maybe this is all a good thing for you. You were go-go-go for ten years. At the same company and on the same team for most of that time. You never took classes or traveled like you said you would.” Mia wagged her finger at me. “It could be a time for reinvention! Anyway, grab your shit so I can return the truck.” Before I could protest any more, Mia had marched out of my bedroom, swinging the U-Haul keys in circles on her finger.
My first year of college it had been my mom and dad moving me into the dorms. That day was miserable because we argued about every little thing. Which bank to use for opening a checking account. Whether to take the stairs or the elevator. How to organize my dresser and closets. And that was just the first hour. But over the years, Mia had become the person to fill in the emotional cracks and holes that my parents had left gaping and never bothered to mend or repair. I grew into my own person, and Mia was there for that. She had my back and was willing to fight for me no matter what. She was my family, and I was hers, and it was fitting that she was the one with me now. She’d literally fight for me if she had to, like in the olden days when you had a duel with pistols and fought for someone’s honor. Mia would be up for a physical takedown anytime, which was a little scary. But also endearing.
If I was ever accused of a crime, Mia would be my autodial. My mom and dad would be too worried about the word getting out in our gossipy Korean community, more concerned by that than my well-being. It was just how my
relationship with my parents was. We had different priorities and values, and it wasn’t until I was living on my own and had sought out mental health support that I finally came to terms with it.
And maybe Mia was right about getting another shot at college. I’d watched those comedic movies like
Never Been Kissed
and
Life of the Party
, where the main character goes back to school, gets a second chance, and it ends with a happily-ever-after. Maybe when all this college drama finally blew over, that would happen for me too.