Fresh

by Margot Wood

  I poked her with my elbow and smiled. “Hey. We’re the McHughs. And what does that mean?”

  “That we’re competitive and quick-tempered?” Remy suggests.

  “No, that’s not—”

  “That we suck at cooking and can’t digest dairy?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “That we need to wear sunscreen with a higher SPF because we’re so pale and have a higher risk of getting skin cancer?”

  “Dammit, Remy!”

  “Don’t say dammit.”

  “Being a McHugh means we’re resilient. It means when things fall apart, we put them back together. When the going gets tough, we get tougher. When the shit hits the fan, we pop open an umbrella.”

  “You need to work on your metaphors,” Remy said.

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “And you shouldn’t say shit.”

  December 24

  Dad and I spent the majority of the day locked in a Ping-Pong battle in the basement. After my epic loss to Rose at the beginning of the semester, I spent a significant amount of time practicing in the student rec center and as a result, I only lost to my dad 50 percent of the time.4

  December 25

  We exchanged gifts in the morning and I tried to show appreciation for the weird thing Remy got me this year.5 In the afternoon, everyone in the family went for a five-mile jog—except for me and Nana. We stayed back to bake some key lime pies and while I did all the work, Nana sipped on Manhattans and told stories about the time the nuns caught her making out with an altar boy in the confessional booth.

  December 26–December 30

  Family dinners, a James Bond movie marathon, more family dinners, sledding, bickering with Izzy, more Ping-Pong, sleep.

  December 31

  My family went to some fancy New Year’s Eve party my dad’s hospital was hosting downtown but I stayed home instead. Alone for the first time in a week, I finally had time to torture myself by replaying every single event of my first semester over and over in my head. I tried calling Lucy again to wish her a happy new year but she didn’t pick up. This was the first night I cried myself to sleep.

  January 1–4

  I caught Izzy’s flu and stayed in bed for days. On the plus side, I managed to crank my way through a shitload of new TV shows I had missed last semester.

  January 5

  Finally feeling less like death and more like myself, I decided it was time. Time to put my shitty little life back together.

  So I did two things. First, I made a plan. On a piece of paper, I made two columns. On one side, I listed every single mistake I made last semester—at least the ones I was currently aware of. And on the other side, I listed every single thing I needed to do to make things right. And second, I changed my flight so I could get back to Boston a day early and get a head start on said plan. And you know what? I think there’s a chance that maybe, possibly, potentially . . .

  I can do this.

  ELLIOT MCHUGH’S 7 STEP PLAN TO GETTING HER SHIT TOGETHER

  1 PICK A FUCKING MAJOR.

  2 Study my motherfucking ass off.

  3 Call Remy more often.

  4 Eat 40 percent less waffles and 60 percent more vegetables.

  5 Take my ADHD medication instead of selling it.

  6 Find a way to forgive Micah.

  7 Accept that Lucy may never forgive me even though it’s not my fault.6

  But before you go and queue up the Confidence Boost playlist on Spotify, let me warn you. I don’t expect this to be one of those redemption arcs where I come out of this better off than where I started, I’m just trying to get back to neutral. When you start your freshman year, your slate is clean. Whoever you were in high school, whatever drama you were caught up in—none of that matters. You can reset, if you want to. New school, new friends, new attitudes, new life. You get the chance to choose who you want to be and then you have the opportunity to become that person. It’s a moment with weight. It’s a moment that demands reflection. But I got so caught up in the newness of it all that I completely forgot to take the time to figure out who the hell I want to be. Looking back on that first month here . . . shit . . . I experienced so many firsts. My first time away from home. My first time living with someone. My first time living in close proximity to booty calls. My first time having to make my own decisions regarding my health and well-being. My first time being responsible for setting my own schedule and studying on my own.

  And the truly shameful part of all those firsts is that I was so goddamn lucky to get them. Everything Lucy said the last time we spoke was 1,000,000 percent correct. I am lucky to have a family to go home to. I am lucky to even be able to attend the school of my choice. And what have I done with all that privilege? Lucy was exactly right. I took it all for granted. I took an opportunity so few get and I pissed all over it. I haven’t taken any of it seriously. My friendships, my education, my relationships. I went through life as though none of my actions had any consequences.

  I wasted my fresh start, so now I don’t get a do-over. Instead, I have to dig myself out.

  And I think I am finally ready.

  * * *

  1 It all started in 1975 when my grandfather bought this radio station—ahhhh fuck it. That story is way too long. Yes, yes, my family’s weird. We do shit like cremate our loved ones and turn them into fireworks. The end.

  2 Fucking Izzy.

  3 Dammit, how does Remy always know my thoughts?

  4 But then he switched the paddle to his dominant hand and I swiftly went back to losing 100 percent of the time.

  5 It was a used squirt gun in the shape of a hand and a plastic bag full of tiny green army men. And dryer sheets, of course.

  6 That last one is... I feel that last one deeply. I think I have to prepare myself for a future reality in which Lucy and I are no longer friends. That future may already be here. I don’t know.

  CHAPTER 12

  It’s weird being in the dorms with no one else around. I’ve already unpacked all my clothes and roamed the empty halls of every single floor in the Little Building. I even discovered and made friends with the new family of mice that have taken up residence in our common room because someone left a pizza box under a couch. I’ve had plenty of time to emotionally prepare for everyone’s return tomorrow, but I don’t know if I am ready to face Lucy. Every time I think about it, I start to panic. So I’m gonna go do the one thing that truly relaxes me—the one thing I know I can do when I’m the only one on campus.

  Masturbate.

  Kidding! It’s laundry, I’m gonna do my laundry.

  “Have you forgotten this already? We talked about it last week. You should really handwash your unmentionables, but if you’re going to put them in the washer, use the delicate spin cycle,” I tell Remy over the phone as I transfer my wet bedsheets into the dryer.

  “Can bras go in the dryer?” she asks and I nearly drop the sheets on the floor. My little sister is asking about bras?!?!?!?!??! I steady my voice and try to play it cool.

  “You should just hang dry bras. Unless they are sports bras, those can go in the dryer.” I fiddle with the box of pine-scented dryer sheets Remy got me for Christmas, stalling for time as I come up with a thoughtful, sensitive way to ask my next question. “Remy, I think it’s so amazing you are old enough now to experience the joys of womanhood, but locking your melons in a boob prison all day isn’t exactly the most comfortable experience. Until those little honeydonts develop into some honeydews, why not save yourself some money and pain and just go braless?”

  “Because!” Remy blurts so loud I have to hold the phone away from my ear, and I almost miss her saying, “Some girls at gym class saw that I didn’t wear one when we were changing in the locker rooms and then they told these boys who then made fun of me.”

  I ball my hands into fists and slam the dryer lid shut. “Give me the names of every single boy and girl who made fun of you and find out if they’ve seen Taken because if not, I have the perfec
t monologue to use when I find them.”

  “No, Elliot! I don’t need you to fight my battles,” she scolds me from nine hundred miles away. “I just need to tell them they hurt my feelings and they should be more mindful of how they treat others.” Whoa. For a little kid who is six years younger than I am, she’s a lot more mature. I set the dryer to permanent press, load the quarters, and hit start. Seems like no one has bothered getting the dryers fixed because they are still loud as hell.

  “Hey, Elliot, I gotta go. Mom is calling me down to dinner,” Remy says.

  “Okay, talk to you tomorrow—but wait! For reals though, don’t wash your bras in a machine. I know it’s a chore, but wash those titty shields by hand, okay?”

  “Okay!” She says and hangs up. I stuff my phone in my pocket and go to my other basket and start filling the washing machine with another load.

  “So what’s a titty shield?” a voice asks from behind me and I jump out of my skin.

  “JESUS H. FUCK!” I screech as I age about ten years. I turn around to see Rose standing in the doorway. “Christ on a cracker, Rose. You scared me.” I rest my hand on my chest, trying to steady my defibrillated heart.

  “Sorry about that,” she says as she drags in one of those blue IKEA bags absolutely stuffed to the brim with clothes. On laundry day, most normal shlubs wear sweatpants and a ratty-ass T-shirt, but not Rose. Her laundry-day outfit consists of a floor-length red silk robe and a black and white old-timey hair wrap. The whole getup makes her look like she’s on the set of a 1930s movie. All she’s missing is a long cigarette holder and a Judy Garland accent.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “RAs have to be back from winter and spring breaks at least one day before everyone else. That and I have an interview tomorrow morning for a summer internship in New York with the costume department for Law & Order.” She pauses to cross her arms. “But the bigger mystery is why are you back so early? The dorms don’t open until tomorrow; I’m surprised the security guards let you in.”

  “Bob and Earl? Yeah, I bribed them with whoopie pies from Mike’s Pastry.”

  “Smart, those are the best ones in town, but that still doesn’t explain the why part, though.”

  “I guess I wanted to give myself some time to readjust. It’s jarring going home for two weeks, falling back into old routines, and then coming right back here. Plus, it’s a great time to do some laundry before everyone gets back.”

  She kicks at her IKEA bag and I notice there’s no detergent on top of that mountain of clothes. “I see you’ve got a few loads going already,” she says and I catch her eyeing my brand-new box of detergent.

  I rest my hand on my detergent, pull it close, and very reluctantly ask her, “Do you need to borrow some detergent or something?” Please say no please say no please say no please say no.

  She reaches deep into the bowels of her blue bag and pulls out a little bottle of the cheapest detergent ever. “I swear, I’m not here to steal your bougie detergent again. I’m just here to wash some clothes.” She bends over and starts overstuffing the washing machine, then dumps in way too much detergent. She slams the lid and turns the dial to the boil-all-of-my-belongings setting.

  I take a seat in my favorite spot on the windowsill. “For a person who wants to work with clothes for a living, you really don’t know how to care for them.”

  “Oh, I know how to care for them,” she says as she reaches up and pulls on her hair wrap. Frizzy curls cascade over her shoulders. “I just choose not to.”

  I narrow my eyes at her. “That is—deeply frustrating.”

  “Yeah, you and Monica have that in common. She is always on my ass about laundry.” She jumps up to sit on top of the washer in one slick movement that makes me think she’s one of the more athletically gifted students here at Emerson.

  “So, how was your holiday?” she asks me.

  “It was . . .” I shrug. “I dunno, it was weird. Good; it was nice to be away, but it was weird. Sorry, I know that’s not a real answer.”

  “Did you get a chance to talk to Lucy?”

  I look away from her and focus my gaze out the window. “I tried.”

  “I’m sorry, Elliot.” She pauses. “Do you want to talk about what happened?” I don’t know if she means the fight with Lucy or what happened with Kenton, but I’m not really in the state of mind that’s prepared to talk about either. So I shake my head.

  “Did you get to spend time with your family over the break?” she asks, and I am so grateful she’s changing the subject.

  “Yeah, it was good, cathartic even.” I perk up. “I learned a new spin move in Ping-Pong I want to try out on you sometime, got yelled at by my mom, set off some of my grandfather’s ashes, ate a lot of spiraled ham . . . You know, the usual holiday traditions.”

  “Wait, wait, wait.” She waves her hands in front of her confused face. “Did you just say you set off your grandfather’s ashes?”

  “And if you think that’s weird, you should come out to the family’s Halloween celebration where we get the biggest pumpkin Ohio has to offer. . . and then blow it the hell up. I’ve heard talk from my cousin Sadie that next year Uncle Bo wants to drop it out of a helicopter and blast it midair.”1 I pull out my phone and start typing a note to myself. “This reminds me, I need to learn how to fly a drone by next fall so I can record the whole thing on a GoPro.” When I finish saving my note, I set my phone aside and look up at Rose. She’s giving me a look I can’t interpret. It’s either a smiley-smirk, like she’s entertained by me, or the smirky-smile, like she’s judging me. Sometimes there’s a fine line between patronization and appreciation.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says.

  “What?!?” I ask again. Her smirk slips away and now it’s just a full-blown smile, but she doesn’t say anything, and I need to change the subject because people who are comfortable with awkward silences make me so damn nervous, so I go with the first thought that pops into my head.

  “So have you met Neo, Trinity, Morpheus, and Agent Smith yet?” I ask and immediately cringe.2

  “Who?”

  “The family of mice living in the common room.”

  She stares at me. Her expression is blank. “There’s a family of mice . . . in the common room. . .”

  “. . . Yes . . .”

  “. . . And you gave them names . . . ?”

  “. . . Yes . . . ?”

  Rose tilts her head back and groans. “Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh, gross! Why does no one here clean up after themselves? Dammit, now I’m going to have to get pest control in here before everyone gets back and freaks out—”

  “Awww, can’t you just release them in the alleyway by the Majestic Theatre or something? They don’t need to die.” I pout.

  “Fine, but I’m not going anywhere near them. I’ll see if Bob and Earl can help us get them out.” She shakes her whole body and her hair twirls all around her. “Ick, ick, ick! I hate mice!”

  “Aww, they’re not so bad, they’re pretty cute. I think Trinity must have given birth in the last few days or so because Neo, Morpheus, and Agent Smith still look quite fresh.”

  “What’s up with those weird names?”

  “I know, you’re thinking I should have gone with names from something classic like The Great Mouse Detective or Ratatouille, and I hear you, but I had to honor my fave, so I went with The Matrix.”

  She squints her eyes at me. “Isn’t that, like, twenty years old?”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “I haven’t seen it,” she says.

  “Whoa, what?” I hop off the window ledge and power walk over to her because this conversation just took a very serious turn, and I can’t tell if she’s just fucking with me. Whenever my mom catches me in a lie, it’s when she’s looking at me directly in the eyes, so I get up close to Rose and look at her straight on. “Are you joking right now? Tell me the truth.”

  “Nope, sorry. Never seen it,” she says calmly, like this
isn’t a big deal. I take a step back while my brain explodes. I am trying my very best to keep my face calm, so I take a deep breath and ask my next question very slowly.

  “Are you seriously telling me that you—a human person—have not seen The Matrix before?”

  “I’m seriously telling you I have not,” she says and I immediately lose my cool.

  “NEVER?!?!?!?!” I screech.

  “Uh, no,” she says, looking a bit startled. “Should I have?” She leans away from me a little, like I might get screechy again.

  “YES!” I yell as I smack her arm. I start pacing the little laundry room, hands in the air, completely appalled that someone my age with readily available Internet access hasn’t seen the greatest cinematic achievement of all time. “How is this even possible? You want to be a costume designer for movies and you haven’t seen the greatest cinematic achievement of all time? I am shocked, Rose—SHOCKED! I mean for goodness sake, Rose, Lilly Wachowski, one of the directors, WENT TO EMERSON. It stars my boy Keanu Reeves as Neo, Carrie-Anne Moss as Trinity, Laurence Fishburne as Morpheus, and a bunch of other actors whose names I can’t remember because they’re Canadian and never really had careers after the franchise, except for that one guy who plays Agent Smith, he went on to be in Lord of the Rings, but none of this matters because I cannot believe you haven’t seen The Matrix! This is unacceptable.” I shake my head at her as I keep pacing.

  “What’s it about?” she asks and suddenly, I get an idea. I can’t let her keep living without having seen this movie. It is my duty to be the one to usher her into the world of The Matrix.

  “Unfortunately, no one can be told what The Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself,” I say, so proud of the way I seamlessly worked a quote from the movie into our conversation, but the moment is completely wasted on her because the damn woman has never seen it. Without a word, I turn on my heel and march out of the laundry room.

  “Hey! Where are you going?” Rose calls after me.

  I backpedal into the doorway. “Stay right there for a minute, I’ll be right back.” I sprint down the hall and bust into my empty room. I grab my laptop, two pairs of headphones, and a headphone splitter and power walk back to the laundry room. When I get back, Rose has moved from her perch atop the washer and is inspecting my box of detergent. “Is this stuff really all that good? It just seems like good branding—” she starts to comment but I cut her off.