Page 3 of Come As You Are

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

We walk the rest of the way in silence, and you know? It’s just really nice to make a friend on your first day.

There are already a bunch of legitimate Rumson residents chilling in the lounge by the time Archie and I arrive on Ginger’s heels, and I’m left alone in the doorway so fast I can actually hear the breeze Archie leaves in his wake. A quick scan of the room shows a few guys who look about as fun as Archie does, a few clusters of dudes reconnecting after a summer apart, and exactly one guy sitting solo who looks like I feel, sporting a Nirvana T-shirt and appropriately looking like he’d much rather be hanging out with Kurt Cobain right now.

Ding ding, we have a winner.

I let myself into the room as quietly and unassumingly as I can, heading right for the empty chair next to my grungy new dormmate. But it’s hard to make a subtle entrance when your hair’s the color of corn and requires its own zip code, especially if you’re the only girl in a room full of guys. The whispers and stares follow me all the way over, and I know it’s only a matter of someone deciding he’s funny enough to be the one to fire the opening line.

Thankfully, the hypothetical comedian doesn’t get achance before Ginger declares “Everyone pipe down!” with all the authority of, well, a gym teacher in charge of a bunch of teenage boys. “As you all know by now, I’m your dorm head, Mr. Hoffman. Welcome to Rumson Hall.”

“Yes, welcome to Rumson Hall!” some loser says directly to me with a huge-ass grin on his doofy face. “I see they’ve finally listened to my request to have someone in-house to do our laundry.”

Ugh, there we go—let the assholes begin. “As if I would go within fifty feet of your skid marks.”

“I don’t think she’s here for laundry,” another d-bag says with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

The room erupts before I can get a word in, and while Ginger—Mr. Hoffman, which apparently I should’ve known? How?—quickly tries to regain control, I close my eyes and tune everything out.

This part doesn’t count. This isn’t my dorm, this isn’t my dorm head, these aren’t my dormmates, and this isn’t my new beginning. Whatever happens in the next hour before they figure out where I’ll be staying… it simply doesn’t count. It’s part of the crappy phase one of my high school life, and phase two begins when my rightful housing does, and not a moment sooner.

The thought is… liberating.

“You make friends fast,” Nirvana Boy says, doing some annoying flicking thing with his nails.

“I’ll teach you my secrets if you ask really nicely.”

He emits a choked snort, as if he did not expect me toamuse him. Not on purpose, anyway. Still, of all the guys I’ve spoken to so far today, I guess he qualifies as the nicest. “I’m Evie.”

I’m spared the barest of glances through the longest set of eyelashes I have ever seen. “Salem.”

“Like the Witch Trials?”

“Exactly like the Witch Trials.” He stretches mile-long legs out in front of him, crossing one scribbled-on Van over the other. “The witch being my twin sister, Sabrina, who spent most of our childhood using me as a test project.”

“I take it you’ve been the subject of more than one of her dabbles in the craft.”

“My sister’s never met a ‘shut my brother up’ spell she didn’t like.”

“And I assume your real name is a CIA-level secret.”

“Nah, just an expensive one.” He rubs his fingertips together, and despite myself, I feel a smile ghost over my lips.

“If it helps, my name’s really Everett, which probably answers your next question.”

He raises an eyebrow, and I watch with fascination as it disappears beneath his dark, shaggy bangs. “I didn’t ask you a first question.”

“Well, there are about sixty people in this room and I’m guessing I’m the only one who shaves with a Venus Embrace. Were you really not wondering what I’m doing in an all-boys dorm?”

“I try to mind my own business.”

“Well, you’re the only one. Anyway, my roommate wasn’t terribly happy about my placement.” I nod subtly towardArchie, who’s glaring daggers at me from across the room, clearly having figured out that I’m not keeping our little secret. “Who’s yours?”

No subtlety for Salem; he just waves a hand in the direction of a cute blond guy with biceps to spare peeking out of the sleeves of his Yankees T-shirt. “They put me with Matt fuckin’ Haley, of all people.”

The name means absolutely nothing to me. “What’s the matter with Matt Haley? Are you a Red Sox fan?”

“No, I’m a fan of not having a roommate who screws a new girl every night, six feet away from me.” He pulls one of his Vans up to cross his other knee and picks at the black laces as if they’ll leach some of the annoyance out of his body. “At least three different guys have already made sure to tell me that they hope I like ‘the Matt Haley soundtrack.’” He sighs. “I don’t even understand why a junior who obviously has friends of his own is rooming with a sophomore transfer. I was hopinghe’dask for a switch, but—”

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