There was a mix-up. There had to be. Granted, this brownstone was on the edge of campus. According to my new living packet, they’d put me in a graduate student dorm.
It had ivy running up the side. The stairs were almost grandiose, in gray bricks. The number of the house was engraved on a sign by the door.4818.
I almost didn’t feel worthy to climb the stone steps to the door. I didn’t have much with me, but what I did have were some of my more precious items. Most of them fit in my backpack. Sad, but true.
I tightened my hold on my bag’s strap, slung over my shoulder, and trudged up the stone steps.
I rang the doorbell, but no one answered. There was a keypad, so I put in the code that was in the packet that the housing office gave me.
The door unlocked, and I stepped inside.
With a staircase in front of me, to the right was a small living room. Beyond that was the kitchen in another room. Behind the living room looked like another room. I could see the corner of a couch. A small hallway was on the left side of the stairs, so I assumed there was a room back there.
Already this place looked like a fun maze. Lots of different rooms.
“Hello?” I called out.
A thud came from upstairs.
I looked up. My heart picked up. I was nervous. I didn’t know why I was nervous, but yeah. Totally a little scared to meet my new roommates.
Here goes nothing.
I went up, the wooden stairs creaking underneath my weight. When I reached the second floor, there was a narrow hallway to my right, and I came to a doorway. Glancing around, I didn’t see another door, so I reached for the doorknob. It turned easily and swung open. Inside was what looked like the entryway to another apartment. A small and quaint-looking room spread out in front of me to the window. Another narrow door was to my immediate left, and if I stepped inside a few more feet, around a corner was a small kitchenette area. There wasn’t a stove, but there was a sink. A microwave. A Keurig along with some cupboards that held dishes, mugs, and plates. It was cute and modern. Chic. All the colors were cream and a slate gray.
I loved it.
On my other side was what looked like a closet. I nudged the door, and it pushed inward. I slid it open, showing a small area for coats. Some snow boots were on the floor. Just inside was another small bench where a couple backpacks were sitting.
The sound of footsteps sounded from on the other side of the closet wall. Approaching.
A clicking sound.
“Oh!”
I stepped back, seeing a girl who had come from a bedroom. As she now stood in another doorway, I saw a bed behind her, and my interest was piqued. How big was this brownstone?
“Hi.” I gave a small wave.
Before I could introduce myself, she said, “I’m hoping you’re my new roommate and not a stranger that Heath and Marshall let in?”
“Who?”
“Oh. Wait. First. You’re . . . ?”
“Blake. Your new roommate.” I held my hand out.
She shook it before stepping back again. “Oh, good. Youarewho I thought. Heath and Marshall are two of our roommates, or housemates, depending on whatever terminology you want to say. We all live in this place together. There’s another roommate on the main floor, but chances of you actually meeting her are slim. Niko. She moved in recently, too, and I’ve only met her once. We had someone else in her room, but Moira suddenly had to go home. Her mom got sick or something. Anyways, Niko’s like a vampire. I swear. I’m Palma Beauregard, and this is our place.” She indicated the room, then gestured to the ceiling. “The guys live on the floor above us. I’m sure you’ll meet them tonight.”
She gave me a rueful grin.
She had hazel eyes. A round, tan face. Reddish hair that could be considered brunette in darker lighting, but burnt-red tints shone from the light she was standing under now. She was pretty in a wholesome, pageanty way. Her hair had some blond highlights in it as well, and her skin could’ve been from a tanning booth or self-tanner. She wore makeup and seemed like the type who put it on as soon as she was awake. It was her armor for the world. Plump pink lips. She was my height, five seven, but she held a little more weight on her frame than myself.
She looked good. Healthy.
She was taking me in as I was doing the same to her.
Her eyes lingered on my bag with the frayed edges. My hand tightened on the strap again, feeling a little self-conscious. It wasn’t fancy. I came from nothing. Had no one at one point. I needed to live in strangers’ homes, made do with hand-me-downs, or what the state gave me, and it was obvious from the name-brand jeans, heels, and off-the-shoulder sweater she was wearing that we weren’t the same. But as soon as that feeling reared, I stuffed it back down because I would not feel bad about where I came from.
