Dreamland City. Larina Lavergne
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but it apparently violates some kind of health code and they have to relocate all the students in Randolph (my dorm) to temporary housing immediately while they deal with the problem. I lucked out this semester with a single, so the prospect of moving into someone else’s room is particularly undesirable.
I delete the email, as if that will make the situation go away. Then I shut my laptop and go outside.
The main quad is eerily quiet, and it’s getting dark. A couple sits on the far side making out. Odd infrequent light flickers in the massive buildings surrounding the quad. I stand, looking up at the shadowy sky. Then I lie back on the grass, relishing the feel of the pokey blades against my bare skin. Soon, it is completely dark.
I wonder where Tommy is and if he’s looking at the same stars.
I wonder where my mother is, and if she still looks at stars.
6
It doesn’t take me that long to move rooms since I barely have anything. My new roommate isn’t in, so she doesn’t see the face I make when I enter. Everything in there is surreal, from the Fortitude posters to the pictures of a blond girl with big boobs in a cheerleading outfit—I guess that’s her—hugging her friends in a fancy high school. The same perfect blond girl with her perfect parents in front of a perfect big mansion.
Fuck.
She’s even put up college photos already, and I recognize David in a tight group photo where he’s standing with his arm around her as she leans into him amidst other tall blond laughing people. Great. Maybe she’s the famous girlfriend. I sigh.
I dump the contents of my duffel bag and backpack on the rollaway they’ve hastily brought in and squeezed against the opposite wall to her bed.
The room smells of some kind of citrus shampoo and a light perfume, and yet I hate it more than the constant smell of sweat and booze of my old dorm, or even Dreamland on a bad night.
I look at the “Paris, J’adore!” clock on the wall. I have to get to class.
+++
I’m starting an advanced senior-level thermodynamics lab section today. When I walk in late, everyone turns to stare. I scrunch into the last table in the row by myself, but the Professor in the front points to an empty seat in the middle. I sit without a word. Already there are little high-school type cliques forming. The black kids are at a table by the side, with the one enlightened white guy who will no doubt be able to quote Public Enemy and do slam rap poetry. The Asians are grouped in the front, typing away furiously at their laptops even though class hasn’t even started yet. Three jock-types are near the back, talking about some kind of training session and game stats.
And then there’s me.
Grad-level, Senior, Freshman or otherwise, college isn’t that different from high school, I don’t think. I was bused to one of the richest schools in North Carolina because of the state’s diversity initiative, and I spent half my time in school being called into the principal’s office because they always wanted to talk to me about “realizing my potential” or “showing more effort,” or some other crap like that. Tommy said at the school he went to, they forgot he was enrolled, and when he told them he was dropping out, they couldn’t even find his records.
I can feel the girl next to me staring, and I finally turn to meet her gaze. With shock, I realize it’s my roommate. She’s much prettier in person, and her eyes aren’t blue like I’d thought—they’re more greenish hazel than anything.
“Hi,” she says, giving me the non-committal half-smile that girls like her give girls like me when forced into close proximity.
Her voice doesn’t match her face. It’s soft, husky, and almost gravelly, like Aretha Franklin.
I ignore her and turn to the teacher, who’s outlining the lab syllabus. It’s an accelerated course (half the semester’s already gone) but even so, the workload seems minimal. Roommate has whipped out her laptop now and is making notes. I doodle and my attention drifts.
I remember the day last year, around this exact same time or maybe a couple of months earlier, when my high school principal called me into his office.
“How are you doing, Lily? How are things?”
“Very well, Sir,” I say. “Things are going well.”
“They just gave us the results of the national aptitude tests from last month,” he said. The look he gave me was studied and careful.
I remember thinking I must have skipped out on those, and that he wanted me to retake them.
“Yes Sir, I’m sorry I wasn’t in school during the tests. I was sick.”
“No, no, Lily. You took them. That’s why we want to talk to your mother,” he said.
“I’m sorry,” I said again automatically, as he took off his glasses and began to polish them on his shirt. “I’ll try and do better.”
That’s when he made a weird screeching exclamation, “Oh no, there’s nothing to be sorry about, Lily!” There was a warm, unfamiliar glint in his eye, and I suddenly realized then that this look, plus the screeching exclamation must be his version of encouragement.
“OK. Can I go now?”
“Lily, you scored the highest scores in the state,” he said as I got up.
That’s when I froze. Well, good for me, I guess. “Thank you.” I nodded and turn to leave. He was up in a flash then, coming around the table.
I had my hand on the doorknob but he held his hand against the frame, blocking my way. “Wait. Do you know what this means, Lily?” he asked.
“I don’t know, Sir,” I told him tightly.
“Well,” he said after a short pause. “I know you have many things on your mind. But Lily, you need to start thinking about college applications. I’ve talked to your teachers, and they don’t think you’ve applied to any?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“It’s not too late. In fact, we’ll help you with your applications.”
“I can’t afford college.”
“There are scholarships, Lily. Look, I’m going to make you a mandatory appointment with the guidance counselor, and she’s going to steer you through this whole process, OK?”
“So can I go now?”
“Yes, but I do want you to think about your future. It’s not often that someone can score the highest scores in the state just like that. Your teachers are planning to speak to you about it too.”
I nodded and raced out of his office, the first thought reverberating: Highest scores in the state?
And then: Damn, we must be a real stupid state.
So here I am now, at Duke University, sitting next to my pretty blond roommate in a thermodynamics lab. Unlike me, girls like her have never expected to be anywhere else.
I doodle some more.
+++
Lab isn’t over quickly enough. What I got out of it was that 1) The coursework is a joke, 2) we have to do a lab project that will essentially be super time consuming and 3) Our Professor is a weirdo.
I’m sitting alone outside eating more bread and Nutella (I swear they must make a fortune off me) when a shadow falls over me. It’s between classes and the walkway is packed with kids rushing to and fro, like little ants when you disturb their neat slow line.
Suddenly, people walking by are pausing in mid-step to gape. I lick my fingers clean. Of course. Besides the God-anointed basketball team, only one person at Duke causes this much excitement. It’s my library bud, David Morgan.
Instinctively, I stand up, my mouth still full.
“Wait,”