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  “Chair races?” I ask.

  “Pushing rolling chairs down the hall. It was noon and we were bored.” She smiles and I shake my head because This is Treena? She seems so sure of herself, so cool about everything. I love it.

  We get to her door at the end of the hall, where her name is written in her perpetually messy handwriting, all loops and lowercases. Unlike the other rooms, her door has only one name—and I remember her telling me that her roommate dropped out after three weeks.

  “MY ROOM!” she yells, and just as she opens the door, the stairwell door opens.

  “TREENA!” a stocky guy yells. He’s got short, cropped brown hair and is wearing a soccer jersey.

  She turns and smiles. “Hey, Trey,” she says, and when I turn back to her, she’s blushing.

  “Floor party tonight. You better stop by, okay?” he asks, and Treena nods in response.

  “Uh-huh, okay,” she says, grinning.

  “And bring your cute friend,” he says with a wink, then goes into the room across the hall from hers and, with a wave, shuts the door.

  Face blazing red, I push her inside her room, and when the door is closed, I ask, “Okay, who is that?”

  “Oh, that? Ummm.” She blushes more, a full rouge covering her face. “That’s Trey.”

  “The same Trey you were talking to when we were on the phone?” I ask.

  “Uh-huh,” she says casually, smiling guiltily.

  “Ye who rarely talks to guys, can I get some details here?”

  “Okay, okay,” she says, “but first, room!” She gestures toward her room. It looks similar to her bedroom at home—colorful and clean—only about half the size. She wasn’t lying when she said it was tiny. There are two beds in opposite corners, one made with a bright quilt and the other bare, and two desks separating them. Treena’s has a picture of her family on it, her laptop, and a ton of papers and notebooks. There are two dressers across from the beds, and a closet between the dressers. On one dresser is a tiny TV, and next to it are piles of the rest of her bangles. On the wall is a purple-and-pink sari, adding color to the otherwise beige-and-brown room.

  “It’s very you.” I smile.

  “Oh, look!” she says, jumping on her bed to show me a bunch of photos taped to her wall. She must have had them printed out or something. They’re of her turtle from back home, her parents, her sister. And there, in the middle, a bunch of us through the years, hiding, of course, the embarrassing ones.

  “Oh my gosh, tell me you do not have a picture of me in pajamas,” I say, pointing to the picture of us from Pajama Day at school.

  “And Twin Day,” she says, pointing to the one next to it. “We looked nothing alike.”

  “At all. But it was fun.” I look at the other pictures and see some that I took for class and must have put on my blog. It makes me smile again to think she wants them in her room.

  “So Trey,” I say, sitting on the bed with her.

  “I would have told you about him sooner, obviously, if there was a story to tell. But he’s just the guy across the hall, you know? He’s super cute and nice and everyone likes him,” she says, exaggerating everything with her hands.

  “But, okay, so I’ve known him since I moved in, but a couple of weeks ago, I started studying in the common area—it’s down the hall, there’s, like, a little TV and couches, I’ll show you later,” she says, and I signal for her to continue. She has a tendency to ramble sometimes. “Okay, so I was working on a problem with this guy, Bennett, from my biology class, and Trey walked by. Bennett apparently knows him from home or something, so they started talking. And then Bennett went to get a snack downstairs. Oh yeah!” She stops, changing subjects again. “We have a snack shop downstairs if you need anything. Nothing special, but it has subs and stuff.”

  “Okay, but more about Trey,” I say, laughing.

  “Okay, okay. Anyway, when he left, Trey came and sat next to me and we talked for, like, half an hour. I mean, we’ve talked before, of course, but this time it was just me and him, and it was more, I don’t know, different. Personal? Anyway, I started doing homework out there more regularly, and he started coming by and stuff, so we’ve been getting closer. . . .”

  “And?” I push.

  “And that’s it! We’re not, like, engaged or anything!”

  “I can’t believe you have a boyfriend,” I joke, leaning back on her bed.

  “I do not have a boyfriend!”

  “Just promise to invite me to the wedding, if I’m not the maid of honor.”

  “I hate you,” she says, laughing. “But I’m so glad you’re here.”

  “Me too,” I say, and lean on her again. I can’t deny the jealousy creeping inside me—Tree has a guy! But I push it back, because for now she’s all mine.

  “And you can see my room,” she says, gesturing like it’s a mansion worth a million dollars and not the size of a shoe box. Really, though, it’s her first place on her own, without the confines of her parents. I’d feel like it was a palace, too.

  “It’s perfect,” I say, taking everything in in one swoop. I nod toward the empty bed. “Good thing you’re roommateless,” I say. “How is that, by the way?”

  “It was kind of lonely at first,” she admits, “but now it’s okay. The floor is awesome—everyone is friends.”

  “How were the clubs you tried joining?” I ask. Back home she helped with our high school’s newspaper for a bit, but really she stuck to her studies.

  “Eh, I tried joining the Hindu Students Association, but everyone was so . . .” She waves her hand around, trying to pick the right word.

  “Smart? Beautiful? Kind?” I try, describing her.

  “Indian. They were nice enough, but so focused on school and premed, and, you know. It was like they were channeling my parents. I’ve been to so many Indian events growing up, I’m cool just making friends on my floor.”

  “Your floor meaning Trey,” I joke. She used to always complain about going to events with her parents. The festivals were fun—she brought me to a Holi one where we threw powder at one another until we looked like Smurfs—but she didn’t like just hanging out with Indians, as many of the other people did.

  “Ha ha.” She swats me with mock indignation.

  “So, wait, what’d he say about a floor party?”

  “Tonight!” she says excitedly. “There’s a floor party. They’re really fun—we all keep our doors open, and everyone visits each other. Our RA organizes them, so we won’t, like, get in trouble for making noise. She thinks if we have parties like this, there will be less of a suicide risk.”

  “What? Really?” I ask.

  “I guess some people get really depressed their first year, so she keeps us happy. It’s nice.” She shrugs.

  “Jeez,” I murmur.

  “Yeah. So, party tonight. Everyone is excited to meet you!”

  “You told everyone about me?” I ask curiously.

  “Of course! You’re my best friend, why wouldn’t I brag that you’re coming?”

  “Cool,” I say. I’d been kind of hoping we’d have the first night together, and she could show me around and we could plan my week. But floor party sounds fun. Floor party seems like college.

  “Don’t worry, everyone will love you,” she says, giving me a look that makes me believe her. “Hungry?”

  “Starved,” I say with a nod, and we get up and leave for the downstairs snack shop.

  SIX

  Before going into the snack shop, I call my parents to let them know I made it by 4:00 p.m. on the dot. After confirming that yes, I arrived safely and no, we aren’t partying, Treena and I eat some gummy pizza and chat about her classes (English is terrific, anthropology is not) and my project (“You’ll find inspiration here easily,” she says). After, we sit outside on the grassy knoll behind her dorm, leaning back on our arms, and just talk. About everything and nothing. And it’s nice and normal and feels like last year.

  “So you’re looking for informat
ion on your mother tomorrow, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say, “I’m thinking of going first thing in the morning. Can you come?”

  “Ugh, I have a test in the morning. If it wasn’t for that—”

  “No, you’d still go to class,” I laugh.

  “Hush,” she says, even though she knows I’m right. “No, seriously, I feel bad I can’t come. I’m free after the test, so can I help out then?”

  “Of course.” I nod. “I need you, you know that.”

  She looks at me and smiles, then says, “You know, if you enroll here, we could do this every day.”

  “I know, I know.”

  “Have you started applying yet? Last you said you were swimming through the endless pile of information.”

  “Still am, and thanks to my mom, getting more every day. I think she signed me up for every mailing list,” I joke. “I don’t know. I am looking at FSU. Ms. Webber said they have a great photography program.” As if on cue, I spy a student taking pictures of a tree across the field. He crouches down low and angles his camera up, capturing the arc of the branches, I think.

  “Oh my gosh, they do. You need to come here,” she says excitedly. “We can live together. I’ll even let you share my Oreos.”

  “You never let anyone share your Oreos.”

  “But for you living here . . .”

  “I’m thinking about it.” I grin, then nudge her. “It doesn’t seem that scary, college.”

  She shrugs. “It is and isn’t. It is at first, but the people make it better, I guess.”

  “Are any of your friends coming to the party tonight?” I ask curiously. She’s mentioned a few girls she’s friendly with, but it still makes me kind of jealous. She has a whole friendship universe here, and I’m not part of it.

  “A few. I’m excited for you to meet them.” She clears her throat, then asks, “How’s Celine?”

  “Oh, good, you know,” I say, and then realize she doesn’t actually know Celine. She went to school with her, of course, but we never all hung out or anything. “She’s a really good photographer,” I say.

  “You’ve said that before.” She stiffens a little, then looks at her phone. “Floor party starts at eight, in twenty minutes—we should get ready.”

  “Sounds good.” I nod, thinking that maybe how I feel about her friends is how she feels about Celine.

  We walk upstairs, get back to her room, and start the process of getting ready. Treena’s nervously pacing the room, and I smile because that’s how she gets before any event, especially ones that involve boys.

  I open my duffel bag and stare at the assortment of jeans and T-shirts I threw inside. “Um, I didn’t really pack for a party,” I say, wondering what else I should have brought. “I kind of assumed most of the week would be just the two of us hanging out. Plus, I don’t really have a mountain of party clothes at home. When was the last time we went to a party in high school?”

  “Oh, wear whatever,” she says, exchanging her shorts for a pair of jeans and taking out an olive-green tank top. “We all wore pajamas at the last one. That was really comfy.”

  “Pajamas? Your mom would have freaked,” I say. “Didn’t she wear her fancy sari just to pick up schoolwork for you? When you got your wisdom teeth out?”

  “Always dress to impress,” Treena says, quoting her mom with an exaggerated Indian accent and the matching head bob her parents often do. They were born and raised in India, but moved to Florida after getting married. Tree and her sister were pretty much Americanized from birth, but there are still little traditions she holds, like the tiny statue of Shiva on her dresser with a candle next to it.

  “I love your mom. How’re your parents getting along without you?”

  “Apparently Trishna is giving them a hard time.”

  “I haven’t seen her around school a lot,” I say, thinking about her little sister, who used to copy everything we would do when we were all younger.

  “That’s the problem. She has a new friend who’s a bad influence. She skipped class the other day.”

  “No way!”

  “Yeah, so Mom’s convinced she needs to be sent to India or something.”

  “How many times has she threatened that?”

  “Right? And it’s not like it’s a valid threat! I loved my visit! Anyway,” Treena says, putting her bangles back on.

  I copy Treena’s outfit and put on a pair of jeans and a gray tank top, along with bangles. Nice and comfortable, but not quite pajamas.

  Just as Treena turns on her iTunes playlist—indie music I’m not familiar with—there’s a knock at the door.

  “Trey!” she yells, dashing to the door.

  “Oh my god.” I laugh at her excitement. The same guy from earlier steps inside. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a team T-shirt, and it takes me a minute to register that she actually likes this guy. He’s so not the type she usually went for in high school—back then it was more band geek or mathlete.

  “Yo, pregaming in my room. You in?” he asks, then notices me. “Hey again.” He walks toward me and adds, “Trey” with all the self-esteem in the world. He reaches out his hand and I take it.

  “Maude,” I say.

  “Best friend from home?” he asks, and Tree, who has not spoken yet, nods, and I think it’s nice that he knows about me. This isn’t just an infatuation; she really does talk to him. “Cool,” he says, then looks back at me. “Pregaming in my room before the floor party. Makes them more fun,” he adds with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

  “Oh, okay,” I say awkwardly.

  “She’s here for a week.” Treena finally snaps to. “I’m gonna show her around.”

  “Cool,” he says. “Gotta go—I’ll see you two later.” With a cocky grin, he leaves the room. When the door shuts, I turn to her.

  “What’s with the silence? Didn’t you say you talk with him daily?”

  “Shut up,” she says, thawing out. “I just get, ugh, you know.”

  “I know.” I nod. “Pregaming?” I ask, because I can guess what it means, but I’m not entirely sure.

  “Drinking before the party. It’s his thing.”

  “Have you . . . ?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as she innocently leans back on her desk chair. “You have!”

  “Okay, once I had a drink! It kind of tasted like death.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, crossing my arms and staring at her like the time she crossed her arms and stared at me after I admitted to cheating on a test. It was one answer, and it was on my phone, so I kind of looked.

  “Like you’re perfect.” She grins.

  “You’re bringing up the test again,” I deadpan.

  “It’s my one piece of ammo, let me use it,” she laughs, and I shake my head.

  I guess I shouldn’t be surprised—she is in college and all—but I am. Between her new crush and her first taste of alcohol, she’s getting into things I never expected from her. Or maybe it’s me who feels different. Like I’m left behind or something.

  Music from the other side of the door begins to play, and Treena again runs to open it. The other doors start to open, too, with people filing out, leaning against doorways and walls. It’s as if a light was turned on, and everyone was forced to party.

  I follow Treena out, and lean against the wall with her, right outside the door. My heart is thumping because this is it—this is what a college party is like, right? Somehow I feel both old and young at the same time, as if I’m part of it, but also playing the part. I look at Treena for something, and she grins at me, giving my hand a squeeze. “I can’t wait for you to meet everyone,” she says, and I nod, excited too.

  There are two girls in short-shorts down the way doing handstands, with their feet barely touching the wall. Two guys are holding cups and throwing a Ping-Pong ball back and forth from one to the other. One guy has brought out his laptop and is blasting some party music. And I’m here with Treena, in the middle, watching it all unfold. My skin starts to itch, and I feel that awkwardn
ess I usually get at school dances, where everyone is engrossed with one another, and I’m on the side with Treena having a party of our own. We were always both inside and outside the party, so I do what I always do—I reach for my camera. This can definitely convey the first day here.

  I realize absently that my camera is still on the bed, and I don’t want to run in and get it yet, so I use my phone instead. I snap a quick picture of the handstands, the red cups. The revelry, the open look on everyone’s faces. I swing around to Treena and snap a picture of her waving to a few people walking toward us. Trey, I notice, is talking to a girl in pajama pants a few doors down.

  Some girls come over and one yells, “TREENAAAAA” in a deep, sports announcer voice. I raise my eyebrows and Treena laughs. “Guys! This is my friend Maude,” she says, giggly.

  “The friend from back home!” one girl shouts, and gives me a hug. She’s got this wild blond hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed, and rope bracelets piling on her small wrists. I smile and awkwardly hug her back, shooting Treena a confused look, but she just gives me a go-along-with-it nod.

  “That’s me,” I say, hugging her back. When she lets go, she asks how I’m doing, like we’re old friends, and it’s sweet, actually.

  “Oh, good. This is fun,” I say. “It’s my first college party.”

  “Isn’t it great? Our floor is the best.”

  “So you like it here? At FSU?”

  “I mean, it’s fine, I guess,” she says, waving her hands. “The people are great, but I’m only here because my parents said I had to go to school before joining the Peace Corps.”

  “That’s—”

  “They really need help out there, and I know I can do it.” She keeps talking and I nod, impressed that she wants to do something to make the world better, when, personally, I just want to find information about my mother and take some cool pictures along the way. Her views are so much bigger, more meaningful than mine.