I'm back!

The cross-country team went to Orem, Utah (about thirty minutes outside Salt Lake City) for the last meet of the year. And oh, oh, my stars, it was beautiful. I mean, the trees there? Get this - they turn colors in fall. In Houston? The trees do this painful molt of leaves that go straight from green to brown. And when they're piled on the ground, they don't make that beautiful papery whisper when the wind blows or crunch under your feet. No. It's humid here. The soggy leaves cling to the ground. And that's not accounting for the pine trees, which are green year-round.

And the sky...yes, there were mountains, but I could see so much sky. The buildings/trees suppress it here. Clouds rolled across the sky. Cumulus clouds, and then over the mountains, some of those amazing pancake-flat clouds I don't get to see very often. The breeze this morning made me shiver, but what a wonderful shiver!

Enough raving about the beautifulness. (Or beauty, if I must be grammatically correct). The race was 6k (almost four miles), I'm only used to 5Ks (a tad over three miles), Houston is at 279.4 feet altitude (approximation), and Orem is 4500. I'm okay with how I did, but it hurt so badly to finish that race. Enough said. It's over. Next year the conference meet is in New Jersey. Not sure about the elevation there.

So, this is all I have written on Moonlight. Please be satisfied. I haven't had doodly-squat time to write this last week. Maybe tomorrow...

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I run into the building, the main hall ceiling stretching two stories above me. The hall itself is ominously empty, with muffled sounds seeping through the theatre doors to the left. My backpack jounces my spine as I tug at one of the doors. My watch’s tiny electric soul chose today to depart its metal body. Hence, my nap intended for a half-hour tripled. And now I’m late for convocation, which I must attend for my freshman orientation class.

The door gives, and I slide into a dimly lit passageway that runs along the left side of the theatre. People stand on the stage, dressed in floor-length robes like something out of a Presbyterian choir. One that can’t afford matching robes. Not sure what that’s about. In the back row, a flash of red fabric catches my eye amidst various colors of T-shirt backs. An empty seat. I force a smile and slip into the aisle, murmuring apologies as I try not to break any toes. If you’re short and want to be tall, let me warn you, size ten feet are curses.

I let my backpack hit the floor as I turn and sit. And now I feel paranoid that everyone is looking at me. No one is, actually. At least, not on this level. I’m sure the people in the upper level enjoyed my fumbling. Yawning, I slouch in my seat. Bad habit, but this is a new building, and these are – I snuggle a little deeper – oh yes, nice seats. The only thing keeping me awake is the air conditioning. September in Houston is just an extension of summer, and it is hot outside. The cold air on my face keeps me from nodding off.

A guy starts on the piano, playing some funky piece I’ve never heard before. I nod, eyelids drooping. Not my favorite kind of music, but better than the organ I could hear through the –

A scream blasts through the speakers, and I sit bolt upright. My heart slams against my chest, and it takes me a minute to realize the sound comes from the woman standing center stage. Her periwinkle robe ends a few inches above her ample ankles, and her mouth forms an O. I suck in a breath. Apparently the opera woman of last week has returned. “Oh my God,” I mutter.

Some guy to my right glances my way and whispers. “I don’t think you’re supposed to say that in church.”

The Hispanic voice catches my interest just as much as the comment. I send my gaze his direction. He has a half-smirk, but the rest of his expression says he’s also recovering from the operatic shock. I roll my eyes, and he returns his attention back to his Bible. Oh. My bad. To the
Sports Illustrated in his hands.

I endure the performance by glancing around. Most people look befuddled, as if they aren’t sure whether to be awed or laugh. I’m frankly bewildered as to why anyone thinks opera would interest college students. And the speakers are cranked so high my head is beginning to throb.

As the singer holds onto one last high note, I hear someone cuss further down the row. I tilt my head to the right. The Hispanic guy has one hand on his head, or, rather, the flat-brimmed gangsta hat on his head, and one clutching a tennis ball. “What the hell?” He twists in his seat and glares at the upper seats, searching each row. His eyes narrow on a particular point.

I can’t help it. I lean that way and whisper, “I know you’re not supposed to say that in church.”
By the time he looks my way, I’m focused on the speaker, my eyes wide. I didn’t realize convo could be this entertaining.

When the service ends, I file out and walk diagonally across the parking lot to The Lake House. Don’t get any ideas. This sounds like a high-class blue-blood dorm, or the name of some MTV series that involves a wealthy private school and rich demoralized students. Sorry to get your hopes up, people, but this is a Baptist school. (Or Babtist, as some call it.) My guess is I just haven’t heard about the stuff that goes on past midnight. No one’s gotten busted for having alcohol on campus – yet.

Anyway, The Lake House is the newest dorm. My home now. I walk through two sets of glass doors, which appear to be working today, and to the elevators, both of which also appear to be functioning. A miracle. For a new building, The Lake House has some reoccurring technical issues. They must still be working the kinks out. I join the edge of the little crowd waiting to board the next elevator. The red arrow flashes, something dings, and the doors slide open. I shuffle in, placing myself in the right corner near the control panel. Someone’s already punched six, so I check to see if I know anyone here.

A male voice outside the elevators sounds as the doors slide shut. “Hold it!”

I thrust my hand between the doors, which shudder and reverse course. Through the widening gap, I see dark jeans and a white polo shirt. Ironed, if I’m not mistaken. Some of these guys know how to dress themselves and oh, how I appreciate the effort.

He jerks his head in a nod as he slides in. “Thanks.” He presses two.

I cough as the doors clang shut. “Second floor? I risked amputation so you could go up one lousy floor?” I get a good look at the ungrateful wretch.

Wowza. A hot ungrateful wretch. I know others who would think he just looked pale. But the whole combination of white skin, dark hair, and dark blue eyes I personally find attractive. (You. The ones who got stuck on ‘hot’ and ‘pale skin’. Get your minds out of the best-seller list and quit thinking about the hot vampire. I refuse to mention his name, because every teenage female in the United States knows it. Many of them dream about that name, often attached to their own.)

Now that I look, he totally spent some quality time and gel on that hair. I’m interested. Unfortunately, he looks like an upperclassman. Maybe I look like a sophomore. I could. If I’d bothered to put on a speck of makeup this morning. I curse my broken alarm.

The doors opened on the second floor as he answers, with zero interest in the aforementioned dark blue eyes. “Not when I have shoes.”

I frown and glance at his socked feet. Real black socks, not athletic socks. (Confession: I wear athletic socks with nice shoes when I’m wearing pants and boots. It drives my mother crazy.) “Why don’t you have-”

The doors close before he can answer.

“Shoes,” I say, feeling like I’m delivering the punch line to a lame joke.

The girl on my left catches my eyes and laughs. “Okay, so that wasn’t weird.”

I shake my head. “Who knows?" I would like to find out.

Okay, Part Two

Now just remember: This is first-draft material. There will be errors. There will be boring sentences (hopefully not too many). And this is all copyright. And my poster just fell off the wall. Hold on.

Okay. The poster is temporarily reattached to the wall with the weirdest sticky putty stuff, which only works if applied in vast quantities. I'll tape it later. So anyway, here it is.



Beginning where this left off...if you're new, scroll down a few posts for the beginning.

Kyle holds out my keys to me. “Because I’m your friend.”

But why? I close my eyes for a moment. Part of me keeps waiting for him to get mad. Oddly, I don’t think he will. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

A few minutes later, when I’ve decided I’m sane enough to drive, and we’re rolling down the road, Kyle shifts in his seat. “If you don’t mind me asking-”

I manage a dry laugh. “Remember what I said? You can ask about anything.”

He considers that and nods. “What happened? The Melissa I remembered was a quiet good girl. I think I was really surprised that time you said you got a ticket for going twenty miles over the speed limit, because that seemed so reckless for you.”

I shake my head, feeling a humorless smile pull my lips. “It’s a long story.”

“It takes an hour to get home.”

“Alright, then.”

____________

Fourteen months earlier

I wake long before my alarm and roll onto my back, tucking my hands under my head. They slide against my sheets, so apparently I exiled my pillow to the floor in my sleep. I pick a spot on the shadowed ceiling to look at and release a slow breath. Finally. The day of my liberation.

It sounds like I’m one of those high school seniors who hates her parents and can’t wait to go wild at college. First of all, I’m on scholarship to play volleyball, and Coach won’t put up with crap. Second, going wild just isn’t my thing. My first drink at a friend’s party made me sick. So I’m sensitive to booze, and it makes me feel horrible. Fun? I think not. Third: I don’t hate my parents. I’m not going so far as to say I’m best buds with them. But we get along pleasantly enough. Most of the time.

My current town is a dead zone. I’ve lived here for two years and have a (singular) handful of friends. I stretch, pushing my feet away until my heels scrape over the footboard and hang off the end. That’s one consequence of pushing 5’10”. That, and having difficulty finding jeans that fit. I slide my left arm off the bed and drag the ground with my fingers until they brush over a mess of thin plastic. Picking up the earbud cords, I lift my silver iPod, dangling it upside down over my chest. I scroll through a playlist and select Life in Technicolor by Coldplay. It’s the first song in the album – the beginning.

I like that. It fits. The beginning of Melissa’s era, in which I become totally me, and less what everyone else expects me to be. I feel like myself today.

I also feel like I should go for a short run. Something to work off the excess energy. Or maybe it’s the jitters. I’ve packed about all my belongings in the past week, and loaded most of it into the cars yesterday. I just know I’m going to get there with the most crap and look like a spoiled white kid. Ugh. It’s a kitchen-equipped suite, though, so I need stuff the average freshman won’t.

Tuning out for the next hour helps me calm down. Around eight, I slouch downstairs, the hems of my blue plaid pajamas flirting with the wood floor. “Morning.”

Mom looks up from a bowl of cereal, her hair in a haphazard bun. “Morning, Mel.”

I yawn and shuffle into the kitchen, grabbing a bagel from a plastic bag on the counter. The strawberry cream cheese from Einstein’s Bagels sits a few inches away, and a knife covered with pale pink stuff next to it. Yum. I smear the bagel and slink back upstairs. Usually Dad’s weird about having food upstairs on the carpet, but I can get away with anything today.

At nine-thirty I throw my backpack into the side of my pale blue Rav4 and slam the door in case the toaster box tumbles out. Dad pulls the Expedition out of the driveway. I slip into the driver’s seat, close the doors, take another deep breath, and start the engine. A few minutes later when we’ve hit the freeway, I punch the radio button. Viva La Vida pours from the speakers.
I smile, note that Dad’s picked up speed, and egg the accelerator. It’s a good day.

A couple hours later, Dad sticks his head into my little room. “Go ahead and start putting your computer together. I’ll head back down and get the last boxes.

I grind my teeth together for a millisecond before turning my voice into cotton candy. “Okay.” As soon as the door closes, I look at the computer desk, and then at the laundry basket next to it. An edge of grey plastic pokes out from under a crimson towel. I mentally growl. I hate putting computer systems together. This cord, that port, this hole, that power strip. I’ll figure it out eventually. But seriously, this is the age of technology. Why isn’t all this stuff wireless?

When the door opens next, I’m staring at the underside of the desk, one hand between the desk and wall. I clutch the end of the printer cord and randomly jam the connector forward at the printer, which is on top of the desk. It would be smarter to scoot the desk out so I could see what I was doing, but if I fumble long enough, I’ll get it into the right port.

A female voice. “Mel?”

Ack, that’s not Dad. I mutter under my breath and jab the connector again. It clicks into place. Well, whaddya know? I scramble out and to my feet, dizzy for an instant.

Kara stands in the doorway, huge brown eyes lit with her smile. She extends her arms and hugs me, and I hug her back. We met a couple months ago at orientation, and some kind woman in the housing department told me she was one of my suitemates. “Hey, how are you?”

I step back, catching a whiff of some flowery scent. “Good, just trying to get this computer set up. I hate plugging in computers.”

She wrinkles her nose and laughs. “Yeah, all those cords are kind of annoying.” Something beeps, and she opens the huge maroon purse on her arm and pulls out a phone. Flipping it open, she reads the text before rolling her eyes. “My boyfriend is so clueless.”

“Mike, right?” I think that’s his name. I remember meeting him too.

“Yes, he’s asking what time the opening convocation is.”

“Five, right?” I think it’s pointless to ask if I’m correct, because it’s almost a mandatory event, and everyone knows when it is. Except Mike, apparently.

“Yes, everyone keeps telling me that I should go, but I heard opening convo is always really old school.” She finishes texting and drops the phone into the bottomless purse with a husky laugh. “I think the main music person is an opera singer.”

I quail at the very word. “I hate opera.” My parents dragged me to Le Nozze di Figaro when I was ten. I slept through it. I’ve always been bad about nodding off when I’m bored.

Kara’s eyes widen as she nods. “It’s definitely not my style of music.” She chuckles again. It’s one of the things I think makes her interesting. She always laughs.

Dad re-enters, I make introductions, and we carry on the unloading. Everything must be accomplished in an orderly fashion, with each task being completed before beginning the next. I like to bounce around from project to project. Keeps things interesting. Or if I really don’t want to do something, that way I can stall and still get things done. But this is Dad. He does things A-B-C-D-E. It’s one of our irritation points, because I like Q-J-A-D-Z.

When I am straining to find a happy voice, we get the last box in. I pretend to do things for a couple minutes as Mom chats with Kara’s mom, who is absolutely tiny compared to Kara. And when Kara’s parents leave, I continue feigning to work. They have to go soon, and I’m fiddling with my nightstand so it doesn’t become the three of us standing around, hands in pockets, staring at the walls. Hopefully without tears. I dread the thought of tears.

Dad glances at his watch and grimaces. “We’d better get going so we can make it to church on time.”

I hide a little laugh of glee. I get freshman privileges and hence may skip church today. “Okay.” I hug Mom. “Thanks for helping move all this stuff up here.” The sixth floor will be quieter, but the first floor would have been nice for unloading.

She hugs me and steps back, face perfectly composed. She looks happy that I’m ready to be here. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” I turn and hug Dad, scolding myself for being so hard on him. He’s a good dad, and I can overreact. I do overreact. “See you soon.”

When the door closes, I release a deep breath. “Thank you God.”

Kara pokes her head out of her room. We each have tiny little separate rooms, two on each side of the suite, split by a common room. “What’s up?”

“I was really hoping no one would start crying or anything, and no one did.” I’ve heard all the horror stories about parents falling apart on the first day and refusing to let their children stay at the school. I would burrow into the couch in the living room and tie myself to the coffee table. Bring on the stormtroopers.

Kara nods. “Yeah, that’s the way it was for me too.” She laughs. “I did all my freaking out a couple days ago.”

From her room at the opposite end of the hall, Nicole steps into the hallway. She redefines perfectly petite. Okay, so she’s 5’4”, but she’s so slender, has perfect bone structure in her face and beautiful ivory skin. I’d love to be that proportionately slim. I’m not gawky, but I’m thin for a volleyball player.

She tucks a wing of black hair behind her ear. “Yeah, me too. I was totally fine today, and my mom was weepy, but yesterday night she was the steady one and I was a wreck.”

She has the cutest drawl. It’s not a stereotypical Texas twang, so I’m not sure what to call it. I shrugged. “No one was weepy, but the last few days have been awful. Everyone was just acting really weird.” Maybe none of us knew how we should act.

But I do know one thing.

I am free.

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Phew. I'm not sure how I feel about posting this. Irritated, maybe, that there are errors. Hey, y'all can buy the book when it gets published. Or if it does well enough, I'll just give you copies :-)