Page 6 of Come As You Are

“My mom says it’s not polite to comment on others’ food,” he informs me, taking a big bite of apple that sprays juice squarely on my cheek.

“Yeah, clearly your mom raises charmers.” I wipe off my face and return my gaze to Farmboy’s table. French Braid is practically in his lap, which I’msuredoesn’t mean anything. They’re probably cousins, or even siblings. They kind of look alike, if you squint hard enough until all you can see is that they’re both white.

“You’re pretty superior for someone who gave my roommate the green light to hang a sex ladder from our window.”

“As if you won’t find any way to benefit from that.” I roll my eyes away from Farmboy and dig in to my baked potato.Mmm, the ultimate comfort food. “You’re living on a campus full of horny teenagers with minimal supervision. Go wild.”

“Oh yeah? Is that what you plan to do here? Go wild?”

“Oh no, Evie Riley does not go wild,” I tell him, gesturing with my fork. “My sister does that enough for the both of us. I am the one who behaves and then gets treated like shit as a result.” Whoops, maybe a little too much information there. Thankfully, I’m talking to someone who definitely does not care and will not be internalizing any of it. “But I’m not gonna begrudge Matt enjoying himself. Unless I have to listen to squeaky springs through the ceiling. Then I may have to get him expelled.”

Salem eyes me like he’s not sure I’m kidding, and I just shrug and take another bite. Farmboy is a nice fantasy, but when it comes down to it, what am I really gonna do—make an excuse to talk to him, maybe exchange names, and thenwhat? I was with Craig for six months, and most of that time was spent holding hands at school and hanging out with his friends in his basement while they played video games. I wouldn’t know how to “go wild” even if I wanted to.

People would probably be so disappointed in the Rumson Girl if they knew.

I spend the rest of the afternoon buying my books and meeting with my academic advisor, and after, I have just enough time before our individual grade activities start to let myself into Lockwood to catch a glimpse of where I was supposed to be, and hopefully meet some of the girls I was supposed to be living with.

It’s a twin building to Rumson, so the blueprint is the same in mirror image, but it’s easy to see little differences right off the bat—a vase of fresh flowers in the entryway where Rumson has nothing, cute signs on the doors as opposed to hastily scrawled names on whiteboards, the smells of scented candles and hair products rather than sweat and cheap cologne… This is definitely where I was supposed to be.

I try to ignore the slowly building ache in my heart that feels like envy and nostalgia had a really ugly baby.

Scanning the door signs, I murmur the names of the girls who’ll be my classmates (and hopefully eventually dormmates, if I have my way) for the next three years—Cassie and Emmy and Mika and—

A yelp, followed by “Whatisthat?”

Well, sounds like someone might be having a worse first day than I am. I don’t wanna be nosy, but, well, I could stand to feel a little better about myself right now, so I shuffle back through the hall until I find the room I’m looking for (“Heather” and “Sabrina”), which is pretty easy to do since one girl looks like she’s gonna pass out and the other one is holding something furry and black and almost definitely not dorm-sanctioned.

But is it alive? That much I can’t tell, although the goth girl is holding it like a precious baby.

“It’s my familiar,” she says in a hurt voice, petting the Thing, and it hits me in a rush of coal-black hair and milk-white skin that this absolutely has to be Salem’s twin. “His name is Checkers. And he’s only the stuffed-animal version of the real Checkers, who’s home with my parents, so chill out.”

Heather breathes a sigh of relief, and I guess I do too, because she turns to me suddenly, her neat French braid swinging against her shoulder. Which is when I realize that it’s the same girl from the Beast—the one who was sitting with Farmboy. She immediately breaks into a warm, welcoming smile, a glaring contrast to Sabrina’s resting witch face.

“Hi! I’m Heather. This is Sabrina. Are you on the first floor too?”

“Yes, but different dorm.” Might as well test the waters for how this is gonna go over. “There was a whole screwup with my name—I go by Evie, but my name is Everett—and now I’m in Rumson. I have my own room and bathroom, so at least I don’t have to deal with pee all over the seat and whatever other grossness I’m about to learn boys do.”

“Oh, the limit does not exist,” Sabrina says dryly, and as she rolls her eyes, I see they’re exactly the same stormy gray as Salem’s.

“You’re Salem’s twin, right?”

If I hadn’t been sure before, the identical way her eyebrow rises a thousand feet in the air answers my question before the words “How the hell do you know my brother?” can even leave her mouth.

Oh, how to even begin answering that… “We met at dorm orientation. He seems like a nice guy. Sort of.” Nice enough, anyway. “We just had lunch together, too. Also sort of.”

She snorts. “If he was nice to you, he must think you’ve got decent weed.”

Ah, someday I think Sabrina and I are gonna have a lot of lovely talks about siblings who suck.

“So they put you in a boys’ dorm?” Heather furrows her neat brows. “That’s a pretty nerve-racking first day, isn’t it?” Then I guess she realizes I’m still standing in the doorway, looking like a creeper. “Come in, come in.”

I do, and immediately take in the way their room looks as if each half is in a different universe. There’s no confusion over whose half is whose, either, unless Heather is way more into pentagrams than she lets on. “It was not a great start!” I concede, grabbing Heather’s desk chair for myself.

“What’s the deal with your hair?” Sabrina asks, eyeing me like an exhibit at the clown museum. “It’s fascinating.”

“Sabrina!”

“No, no, it’s fine,” I assure Heather, tugging on a springyblond curl. “No one’s ever that direct about it. I mostly get a lot of staring and an occasional ‘Is that real?’ It is, for the record—not just me going wild with a curling iron.”

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