Fresh

by Margot Wood

  “You know,” I say while munching on my cereal. “I thought about it, but the way I see it, my current approach will allow me to sample all that this fine institution has to offer. I can take the year to dabble in each department, get to know the faculty, and gain a better sense of the curriculum. It will allow me to test the waters, if you will, to explore my options so that I may be empowered to make an informed decision as to which major I might select.”

  “So that would be a no?”

  “Correct. But I did switch The Culture of Burlesque for a class called Love and Eroticism in Western Culture. I hear there’s going to be a lot of movie watching involved.” Lucy looks up at me from her salad and I give her a big goofy smile, but she’s not taking the bait. She has this serious look about her, the kind of look people who have their shit together, like Lucy, get around people who don’t have their shit together, like me. I know I should say something to ease her mind, and quick, because this could become the thing that drives a wedge between us.

  “Okay, fine,” I say, setting my cereal aside so she knows I’m serious. She folds her hands on the table and listens. “I know I want to do something in entertainment but I don’t really know what that is yet. The classes I’ve chosen sound interesting, meaning I might be able to focus long enough to learn something, which is hard for me. I wish I could have career certainty like you, but figuring out what I want to do with my future while also being away from home for the first time seems like an impossible task. Is that okay?”

  Her stare is intense but then the corners of her eyes crinkle and her mouth turns into the warmest smile I’ve seen from her yet. “Of course it’s okay! It seems like you’ve really thought about this—you know what you’re doing.”

  Whoa. I can’t believe that worked. I didn’t even really think that hard about what I was saying, I was just trying to come up with something that sounded legit. What did I even say? Hold on, let me reread that last paragraph . . .

  . . .

  . . .

  . . .

  Okay, yeah. I agree with all of what I just said! Phew! “What about you? Aren’t you worried about balancing school and life?” I ask her.

  “I can’t afford to worry about it. I’m the first member of my family to go for a bachelor’s degree. I took out over $36,000 in student loans to come here.”

  “Oh, well, that’s not too bad,” I say.

  “That’s just for the first year.”

  “Holy fuck!” I slap the table in shock. “I didn’t realize it was that much.”

  “I know. Emerson gave me some scholarship money, I got a couple of grants, and my family scraped together what they could, but it was only enough to cover room and board. I’ve already applied for a part-time job at the Emerson Fund to help.”

  “Why take on such an enormous amount of debt? You think Emerson will be worth it?”

  “Probably not. I’ll probably be paying off student loans until I’m dead,” Lucy says with a laugh, and thank goodness, because I was starting to feel squirmy like my armpits are getting sweaty. Truth be told, I’m privileged as hell. I didn’t have to take out loans to be here—and talk about money triggers my rich-girl guilt—but Lucy isn’t throwing herself a pity party, so I won’t either. She reaches for her glass of water but it’s empty, so I slide mine over to her. “But the loans don’t matter,” she continues. “It’s always been my dream to come here. The marketing program is top-notch and they have a really good teacher to student ratio.”

  “Plus the abroad program near Amsterdam is in a motherfucking castle,” I add.

  “Ohmygosh, I know, right?”

  “And it’s really progressive and queer-friendly.”

  “Yes! And it has no math classes,” she says.

  “And the school has no policy on students hooking up with faculty.” That last one catches Lucy midsip and she chokes on my water. I reach across the table. “Are you okay? Can I get you something? Do you need a waffle? I think you need a waffle.” Exactly three minutes and fifty-seven seconds later, I’m back at our booth with a freshly made waffle and Lucy has stopped coughing water out of her lungs. We start picking at the waffle with our fingers.

  Lucy shoots me a curious look. “So, about that . . .”

  “What?”

  “Emerson really allows students and faculty to have—to be in a relationship?”

  “Oh, that? I was kidding, they definitely don’t allow it, but it’s cool, I’ll still find a way to check off teacher from my Fuck It List.” Lucy nearly chokes again. I reach out and place my hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry. Is this too much for you? Should I withhold all bombshells until you are at a safe distance from foods and beverages?” I slide the water and waffle far away from her—just in case.

  “I’m good,” Lucy laughs and clears her throat. “I’m afraid to ask, but who is on your list?”

  “Oh, the usual suspects—a firefighter, D-List celebrity, author . . . college roommate.” I wink at Lucy, and she throws the last piece of waffle at me and I catch it in my mouth. “Kidding! It’s not so much a list as it is just a piece of paper with one sentence that reads GET SOME. The Fuck It Lifestyle is part of the Horny On Main family of brands and I have been a proud sponsor for the last year.”

  “Why? What happened last year?” She asks.

  “Oh, you know, a classic hard pivot after a bad breakup.” I try to stall because this will be the first time I talk about my romantic history with someone who wasn’t there to witness it. How far into my backstory should I go? Or can I just hit the lowlights? I opt for the latter. “Here’s the TL;DR version: Right before winter break last year I found out my boyfriend had been cheating on me with a girl from another school because I, quote, wasn’t meeting his needs, and apparently all my friends knew about it but no one told me. I decided to make my list right after that.”

  “Oh, Elliot . . .” Lucy reaches across the table but I evade her touch and wave her off.

  “No, no, it’s cool, I learned three important lessons: I needed better friends, serious relationships aren’t for me, and you can get it on without getting complicated.” I pause as my mind drifts back to four months after the breakup when my ex brought the girl he cheated on me with to prom and I finally met her. I introduced myself when we bumped into each other in the bathroom, we hit it off, and the next morning she woke up in my bed instead of my ex’s. Good times. “But you know what? I’m excited to really live the Fuck It life, especially now that I’m away from all that drama and the people associated with it. So you see, in addition to the whole figuring out my life thing, here at college, I’m mostly looking forward to getting laid.” Lucy laughs as though she thinks I’m kidding—which I most certainly am not. “Lucy, there are no parents, no rules, endless exotic locales for clandestine hookups, and how many people our age living in the Little Building? This place is a bottomless pit of available booty from which I get to call.” I hold my arms out wide and wave them around as other nearby freshmen stare. “How can I possibly care about my education when there is all this fresh ass just waiting to be tapped? How could you?” I thought she was going to laugh, but instead she looks visibly uncomfortable with the question. She shrinks back into the booth and rubs her lips together anxiously. I reach out and quickly try to put her at ease. “I mean, if that’s your thing, of course. If not I can always come up with an appropriately inappropriate list of platonic things to do too if you just give me a moment here . . .”

  “I’m not a-spec,” Lucy says and then pauses, searching for a way to tell me whatever it is she’s about to tell me. “It’s . . . Well—I only have one person on my list, I guess. Sorry, I know that’s not very exciting.”

  “Are you kidding? Now I’m totally intrigued. Who? Who? Who?” I badger her.

  She reaches for her napkin and starts shredding it into tiny pieces. “Well, actually, I guess, it’s just a boyfriend.”

  “Stop, wind it back. You’ve never had a boyfriend? Sorry, let me preface that with
a sincere that’s totally fine too, it’s your choice, hashtag Feminism hashtag Resist, but I am just so surprised! A woman as smart, kind, and banging as you should have dudes lined up around the block.”

  “Oh, they were,” she says and it’s the cockiest thing I’ve ever heard her say, but there isn’t a single hint of arrogance in her tone. “But it was only ever Armenian boys my family tried to set me up with, and let’s just say the pickings were slim and my family does not have the best taste.”

  “What about at school? There had to have been guys in your class you were into.”

  Lucy laughs. “I went to an all-girl Catholic high school! And I worked a lot, my Uncle Lev’s restaurant after school during the week and my mom’s bed and breakfast on the weekends.”

  “Shit. No wonder you’re ready for a boyfriend; you must be horny as hell.” I say it as a joke but when Lucy’s cheeks flare and she gets this crazy guilty look on her face I know it’s for real. “Oh my god, you are horny! Well shit, roomie . . . let’s get you laid!”

  Lucy blushes even harder and hides her face behind both hands. “Nooooo! I’m not ready to get laid! I just said I want a boyfriend!”

  “Does this boyfriend need to be Armenian or can we broaden our search terms?” I ask.

  “God no,” she says. “I mean, sure, my grandma would love it if I married another Armenian but a lot of my cousins have married outside the community and no one has made a fuss about it.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I tell her. “We don’t need to find you a Mr. Forever—just a Mr. For the Next Semester.” I pull out my phone and scroll through the Emerson events calendar checking for any upcoming social events where I might find an acceptable suitor.

  Lucy flops her head back against the booth. “Oh god, what have I done? I have a double course load this semester; this is not what I should be focusing on.”

  “Don’t worry about it! This is going to be the easiest setup ever. We won’t even have to do the whole makeover montage or anything,” I say just as Micah appears in front of our booth holding a tray full of food.

  “What is going to the easiest setup ever?” He asks.

  “We’re going to find Lucy a boyfriend!” I inform him.

  “Oooh, fun!” Micah slides into the booth next to Lucy. I continue to scroll through the Emerson events calendar searching for anything promising.

  “Hey, Micah, does Emerson offer any school-sanctioned mating rituals like formal dances? We need a good social gathering with lots of people for Lucy to choose from.”

  “Why don’t you ladies join me at a party in Allston tomorrow night?”

  “Where’s Allston?” I ask.

  “Off campus, of course. All the best parties are in Allston,” he says as he starts eating his dinner.

  “How the hell did you get an invite to an off-campus party?” I ask him, completely astonished. “We’ve only been at college for a day!”

  Micah flicks his fork at me. “A good journalist never reveals their source.” This time it’s Lucy who gives him the side-eye. He rolls his eyes and says, “Okay fine, I met a guy who lives at the apartment where the party is in the fitness center this morning and we might have made out a little.”

  “Attaboy,” I say and he grins. I love that Micah is one of those people who can make friends with anyone in any situation.8 “So we’re all set then. Well, Lucy? What’ll it be? Are you game?”

  I look to Lucy and watch as her brain processes the decision before her: Will she continue to let her obligations hold her back or will she take a chance, throw caution to the wind, and go get some vitamin D?

  Lucy covers her face in with her hands, which at first I take for her saying no, but then she says, “What the heck, let’s do this. Go find me a boyfriend.”

  Micah throws an arm around Lucy and I raise my glass to them both. “To the hunt!”

  “To the boyfriend hunt!” Micah clinks his glass with mine and hugs her tighter.

  Lucy squeezes her eyes shut and says, “I think I regret this already.”

  * * *

  1 In case you need a little more world building: The third floor holds a kitchen and two common rooms made to look like living rooms with desks and couches, and the fourth floor also has access to the kitchen lounge via a small staircase. It’s pretty awesome.

  2 I will soon learn that not only is there a cereal bar, there is also a motherfucking WAFFLE STATION. I love college.

  3 Jealousy, thy name is Elliot McHugh.

  4 It is. It is absolutely 100 percent true.

  5 It is not. No joke, the class description is basically like “we gonna teach you how to not kill houseplants.” God, I love college.

  6 #Blessed

  7 As far as cereals go, the top five are 1) Cinnamon Toast Crunch, 2) Frosted Flakes, 3) Froot Loops, 4) Cocoa Puffs, 5) Honey Nut Cheerios. Don’t @ me.

  8 And I’m the kind of friend with no qualms about benefiting from her friends’ talents. Especially if those talents land her an invite to her first college party.

  CHAPTER 4

  So here we are: Micah, Lucy, Sasha, and I freezing our asses off outside an ugly two-story house, while we wait for someone to let us into our very first college party. Micah is rapidly texting, Lucy is looking around nervously, and Sasha, the influencer Micah insisted we befriend, is in the back of our little group, livestreaming on Instagram. She ends her livestream and pushes to the front and pokes Micah. “Are you sure this is the right place? It’s pretty quiet.”

  “We’re definitely in the right place. I trust my source completely,” Micah assures her. On cue, the door swings open, spilling heavy bass and smoke out into the otherwise still night. A tall, muscular dude wearing the traditional uniform of a native Bostonian1 opens the door, gives Micah a quick dap, and steps aside to let us all in. Micah winks at me as he slips into the townhouse without making introductions and immediately disappears into the crowd, leaving the rest of us to fend for ourselves. Lucy, Sasha, and I cross the threshold, and in exchange for a five-dollar entry fee, we are handed red plastic cups filled with a mystery liquid that smells like a mixture of Jolly Ranchers and nail polish remover.

  I’ve been inside this house for less than a minute and I can tell you right now that all the parties I went to in high school, all the ones that I thought were so wild and hedonistic, now seem like kids’ birthday parties by comparison. I genuinely thought I was prepared to party in college because I had raged a respectable amount my senior year of high school, but nothing could have possibly prepared me for what I’ve just walked into.

  From where I’m standing, I see a shot luge in one room, three people doing keg stands in the kitchen, and, in the living room, a DJ—an actual motherfucking DJ—spinning on a mini-platform while everyone in the room is either dancing or trying to invent new ways to have sex without taking off any clothes. It sounds as if I’m exaggerating, I know, but from where I’m standing, I am in full view of a gratuitous display of grinding and dry humping. I spy one, two, three . . . nay, five boners standing at various degrees of attention, and just when I think my eyes have been overstimulated, a half-naked gentleman wearing body glitter and feather wings swoops by our group and offers us edibles.

  It’s dark and loud and sweaty and dirty.

  It’s fucking awesome.

  I stand there with Sasha and Lucy, the three of us a herd of deer in headlights. We are too overwhelmed to move or think or blink or drink. The guy who answered the door nudges Sasha in the shoulder.

  “Yo, you guys look like a fuckin’ party pack just standing there like that,” he says over the music in a thick Boston accent. He takes a liberal gulp from his Solo cup.

  “What’s a party pack?” Lucy asks Sasha, but before she can answer, the Boston dude just laughs and shakes his head at us.

  “Party packs are groups of freshmen who go to parties but never leave each other,” he informs us. “You go around looking like a fuckin’ school of fish or some shit because y’all mov
e as a unit. It’s the quickest way to get kicked out of a party, or hazed, so if I was you I’d either toss back that bucket juice I just gave you and disperse—or get the fuck out now. Your choice.” He crushes his cup and walks away from us until I lose sight of him.

  “What’s in bucket juice?” Lucy asks but I shrug because I don’t know either. I’ve been drunk before, but in high school we drank what was available: occasionally a case of cheap, watery beer courtesy of someone’s benevolent older brother or a dusty, half-empty bottle of vodka someone managed to steal from their parents’ liquor cabinet that we’d pass around and take nervous sips from.

  I put one arm around Sasha and the other around Lucy and ask them, “What do you wanna do? Stay or go?” At this very moment, we look like we’re in a soccer team huddle and I think I finally understand what the dude was saying about party packs. I take a step back and try to look cool, casual.

  Lucy hands Sasha her Solo cup. “I’ll stay, but I’ll pass on the bucket juice. I don’t really like to drink.”

  Sasha gives the Solo cup a little shake. “Are you sure you don’t want a little liquid confidence?”

  Lucy nods. “I’m sure. Thanks, though. I need to get to the bookstore early tomorrow to get all my course materials.” For a second I think about making a note to do the same in my phone, but two seconds later I’ve forgotten what I was supposed to remind myself to do. Sasha shrugs and pours half the contents of Lucy’s cup into mine and the rest into her own. I eye it cautiously and sniff it again, just to make sure I really want to do this.

  “Ah, hell,” I say, raising my cup to my girls in salute. Sasha and I clink cups and swallow the entire contents in one go. It tastes easy. The kind of easy that could lead to a morning full of regret. I want more. “All right, ladies. Let’s fucking do this,” I say to my squad because it’s the kind of line I’d want my character to say in the movie version of this moment. And together, we embark on our first college party.