Page 3 of Beyond the Lines
“Maybe later?” I eye the mountain of boxes. “I should probably unpack some of my stuff first.”
“Oh! Right!” She springs up. “Want help? I’m excellent at organizing things. Like,reallygood. I have a system.”
I raise an eyebrow. “A system?”
“Mmhmm!” She’s already opening the nearest box. “See, you start with the essentials—bedding, toiletries, clothes you’ll need right away. Then you move on to decorative stuff, then books and school supplies, then everything else. Trust me, I’ve got this down to a science.”
“You’ve moved a lot?”
“Nope! Just obsessively watched dorm room organization videos on YouTube for the past month.” She pulls out my sheets. “These are cute! Very artsy!”
I look at my plain white sheets. “They’re… white?”
“Exactly! Like a blank canvas! Very on-brand for an artist.” She starts making my bed with military precision. “So, tell me more about yourself. Do you have any siblings besides Mike?Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Pet goldfish named Hootie the Goldfish?”
I laugh, helping her with the fitted sheet. “Just Mike. No significant others. And definitely no goldfish, though now I want one.”
“Right? It’s such a good name for a fish!” She smooths out a wrinkle with determination. “What about—oh! Before I forget!”
She darts to the mini-fridge—which I notice is already plugged in and humming—and opens it with a flourish. “Ta-da!”
My jaw drops. The fridge is fully stocked with drinks, including…
“Is that cinnamon cider?” I ask, stunned she’s both figured out my favorite drinkandmanaged to get some in stock.
“Yep!” She grins. “I may have done some light stalking of your Instagram. I hope that’s not too creepy?”
“No, it’s…” Itiskind of creepy, but I don’t want to tell her that, and I’m a little touched, actually. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”
“I figure college is scary enough without having to worry about beverage drama.” She closes the fridge. “Plus, I needed to try my fake ID. It’sterrible.”
I laugh. “How terrible?”
“It says I’m thirty-seven and from Wyoming.” She throws her hands up. “But the guy was like, ‘Trust me, no one checks Wyoming IDs because no one knows what they look like.’ And he was right! I’ve used it three times already, and no one’s questioned it.”
We spend the next hour unpacking, and I learn more about Em than I probably know about some of my high schoolfriends. She talks constantly, but somehow makes it feel like a conversation rather than a monologue.
By the time we finish, I feel like I’ve known her for years. She’s a hurricane of energy and enthusiasm, but there’s something genuine about her that makes it impossible not to like her.
“Oh!” She says suddenly, in the middle of helping me organize my desk. “I almost forgot! I made a map of campus for us!”
“I’ve got a map, Em…” My voice trails off, not wanting to offend her, but confused about why she’d make a wholeothermap.
“Notthismap,” she says as she rushes to her desk and pulls out a folder. “Well, technically I made several maps. One for classes, one for food, one for party locations—very important—and one for emergency awkward social situation exits because youneverknow when you’ll need to make a dramatic escape.”
She spreads the maps out on my newly made bed. They’re incredibly detailed, with color-coding and little annotations in her loopy handwriting. And, true to her word, they contain everything she’s described and more. They arefarmore useful than anything Mike has given me, and she’s been on campus for only a few hours…
“When did you have time to make these?” I ask, amazed. “Didn’t you just get here this morning?”
“Oh, I got here super early. Like, dawn.” She points to various spots on the maps. “So I walked around campus for a few hours. Met some people, learned some things. Like, avoid the breakfast potatoes in East Hall—they’re always undercooked. And the library has a haunted bathroom on the thirdfloor.”
“Is it haunted?”
“Probably not, but I’m not ruling it out.” She grins. “Also, I met just about everyone on our floor. There’s Marnie across the hall—she’s cool, does theater, and has the dramatic attitude to match. And Ping next door. She’s pre-law, and kind of intense, but in a good way, I think. And then?—”
As she rattles off names and brief character assessments of our entire floor, I can’t help but smile. Maybe this isn’texactlywhat I had in mind—sitting cross-legged on a bed while my new roommate shows me detailed maps of escape routes and tells me which dining hall has the best breakfast potatoes.
But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t feel like something good.
