Chapter 1
Rowe
I was feeling brave when I picked McConnell. It was one of those afternoons where everything was suffocating me, and the college packet was just staring me in the face.
Two years of being homeschooled by a woman who taught economics at the state university would prepare anyone for a stellar performance on their SATs. The test was actually easy. I finished quickly and didn’t even spend time checking answers like all of the prep books told me to do. I turned in my booklet to the campus proctor and got the hell out of the testing room. Three weeks later, it showed up in the mail—a 2390, near perfect. That meant scholarships. And scholarships meant options.
For months, I fought the idea of going away to school. I’m not ready to be out, to be on my own. I don’t think I’ll ever be ready. Two years of homeschooling also left me a little out of practice when it comes to social interaction. And college is all about social interaction.
My parents were pushing me. I don’t think they thought I’d call their bluff and pick a school a thousand miles away. But I was hoping they’d call mine when I slid the McConnell acceptance across the table to them.
They didn’t. My dad smiled and looked at my mother, both of them breathing deeply, ready to take this step. I wasn’t. I’m still not. I’m not even remotely close to ready. But I want to be. I’m desperate to be ready. I’ve spent the last seven hundred days of my life seeing everyone else live from my self-imposed bubble. My biggest romance was watching some couple fall in love on a reality TV show, and the only prom I attended was in a movie. It’s like I’m caught in an internal tug-of-war with myself—my heart begging to beat from thrill, but caged by fear.
But somehow I’ve gotten myself this far—a map in my hands leading to my room at Hayden Hall on the McConnell campus. My parents made it a road trip. It takes fifteen hours to drive from Arizona to Oklahoma, and my dad powered through the entire trip—I think worried that I would back out if he stopped. I thought about it. I almost broke down at a gas station in New Mexico, bawling my eyes out in a Texaco bathroom. But as badly as I didn’t want to leave the safety of home, I was more afraid of what would happen to me if I stayed.
It’s clear I was dying there. Well, maybe not dying, but certainly not living. I was crossing off days on my calendar, putting one foot in front of the next, living a routine and getting to the next. How could I? My mind was swarmed with guilt that made living impossible.
Now, standing here, my hand gripping the handle of my giant roller trunk and my parents hauling suitcases behind me, I’m not so sure I chose right.
“Rowe—are we almost there, honey? I think I’ve lost a gallon of sweat. This humidity is brutal,” my mom says, fanning her face with one of the programs they handed out during orientation.
Being from Arizona, I thought the heat would be bearable, but I guess I’d never felt real humidity. My tank top was plastered to my back with sweat, and in front of me, my father’s T-shirt was doing the same to his skin. I’d be embarrassed, but everyone on campus looked exactly the same—like we were all trying to win a game of Survivor.
I finally see the marker for Hayden Hall on the walkway and turn to smile at my mom, nodding my head toward it.
“Thank God!” she says, a bit melodramatically. I let it roll off me. In less than an hour, I know Tom and Karen Stanton will be long gone—and I will be completely alone. So as mental as my mother has made me for the last two years, I hang on to every last drop of her personality, terrified of how I’ll manage when she’s actually gone.
We take a small elevator up two stories and find my room at the end of the hall to the right. Three thirty-three—I remember thinking it felt lucky when I got my boarding placement package in the mail. Lucky. I feel so far from lucky now.
The door is open, and I can see that two of the three beds have already been claimed. The only one left is closest to the door—obviously my last choice, and my mom can see the anxiety attacking my face.
“Maybe you can move the beds, move yours more to the corner,” she says, giving my shoulder a small squeeze and sliding one of the suitcases next to what will be my bed for the next eight and a half months.
All I can do is nod. My dad is sliding the rest of my belongings into the room and lifting the case to my bed so I can start unpacking. I brought everything I own with me. I think somehow I thought surrounding myself with my stuff would make this place feel more like home, and maybe I could just tough it out in my bubble and not have to venture from my room much.
“I haven’t met her yet. God, I hope she’s not a total bitch or something!” one of two blondes says as they enter our room. My mom coughs a little to get their attention, and when they look up, one of them is embarrassed—unfortunately, not the one who wished publicly for me not to be a bitch.