Excerpt of Been There, Done That by Carol Snow

Chapter Thirteen

Clay Aiken got to the room before I did. He was
everywhere: on the walls, on the dresser, on the ceiling
over Tiffany’s pink bed. There were pictures cut from
newspapers, magazine covers, and posters purchased from God-
knows-where. Clay, Clay, Clay: there was no escaping
him. He made me long for the unicorns and rainbows I’d
imagined Tiffany would favor. I dropped my suitcase and
laundry bag, stuffed with linens, on the gray industrial
carpet, sat on my bare mattress, and gawked at the room.

On the far wall, built-in brown laminate desks spanned the
length of the aluminum-rimmed windows. Tiffany had claimed
the desk near her window: it held an 8X10 framed
photograph of a collie and a closed laptop computer. On
the opposite wall were our built-in bureaus, also of brown
laminate. The beds, which ran along either side wall, were
the only pieces not bolted-down – not that there was any
place else to put them.

Richard refused to spring for a new wardrobe, so I brought
along a bunch of jeans and T-shirts, some of which I’d
owned since my (real) college days. I also packed my down
pillow and 500 thread count sheets because I didn’t think
I’d be able to sleep without them. I was tucking the too-
big sheets around my lumpy twin mattress when I heard a
voice.

“You settling in okay?” I jumped. I’d forgotten the door
was open. Peering in was a beautiful boy with sparkling
teeth and greenish gold eyes. He sported the kind of tan
that you abandon forever once you join the world of nine-to-
five. His wavy brown hair, tinged with blond, was about an
inch too long for Wall Street. His gray T-shirt and black
gym shorts didn’t do much to cover a lean, muscled body.
He left Clay Aiken in the dust.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just trying to adjust.”

He scanned the walls. “You like that guy? What’s his
name?”

“Clay.” I scrunched up my face. “I have nothing against
him. He has a very nice voice. I just never imagined
myself living with him.”

He laughed. “Not an American Idol fan, huh? I’m Jeremy Dunbar. The Resident Assistant. I’m in room 322 if you need anything.”

When I was in college, all the boys were named Jeff or John
or Steve: nothing cute like Jeremy. Then again, I didn’t
have to put up with girls named Tiffany, so times weren’t
all bad.

She wasn’t anything like I’d pictured. No poofy blond hair
or fuzzy sweaters. She giggled, sure, but in a breathy,
nervous way – not from an irrepressibly bubbly nature. She
held her hands together as if hoping to build strength and
smiled too wide with a naked need for acceptance. Her
loose clothes were meant to hide a body that she probably
considered obese but that, in reality, was only ten or
fifteen pounds too heavy. She was the kind of girl who
suffered the ironic self-consciousness of those who are
rarely noticed. Her eyes were small and of an
indiscriminate color. A plain elastic pulled her medium
brown hair back from a round, pinkish face. Only her mouth
was beautiful, full and red.

“Tiffany?” I asked, just to be sure. She had been
misnamed. She would have had better luck trying to live up
a plain, strong name: Joan, maybe, or Ruth.

She nodded. “I hope it’s okay that I took a bed. I was
going to wait, didn’t want to be all, you know, grabby –
not that the side I took is any better, I don’t think --
but my mother said that was silly and you wouldn’t care and
we should just get settled. Mothers!” She smiled.

I rolled my eyes. “Tell me about it.” Too late I had
realized I was the only freshman moving in without
assistance. Where was my father, hauling crates? Where
was my mother, fighting back tears and admonishing me not
to stay up too late? Fortunately, my hallmates seemed too
intent on their own boxes, posters and looming independence
to sniff out imposters. I hoped Tiffany would assume my
parents had already come and gone.

She motioned to her pink bed. “If you want, we can
change.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. Both beds were pushed
against scratched, yellowed walls. Apparently, the paint
crews had never made it this far. Of course, paint
wouldn’t have added much thickness, which I already
realized was desperately lacking. In the room next door, I
could hear parents offering to take their daughter to a
nice restaurant. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” the girl
replied. “But you always tell me to be honest. And I
just, like, really want you to leave.”

“Okay, then, honey.” Her mother was trying to sound
upbeat, but I could hear her open a zipper: probably
getting a tissue out of her purse to surreptitiously wipe
away tiny tears. I felt like knocking on the door and
offering to go in the daughter’s place. I could help
buffer the parents’ loneliness while sparing myself from
whatever institutional atrocity the cafeteria was planning
to serve. That’s my idea of making good while doing good.

A skinny girl, her arms full of neon yellow flyers, knocked
on our open door. She had long blond hair and a nose that
turned up just a notch beyond cute. She wore one of those
tiny tank tops with straps that can’t possibly accommodate
a bra, assuming a person wore a bra, which, apparently, she
did not. She looked like a Tiffany.

“I’m Amber,” she chirped. (I’d been close.) “Your R.A.”

“I thought Jeremy was our R.A.” As the very
personification of a lie, I could only assume those around
me were similarly disposed.

“You get both of us! Lucky you!” She thrust a yellow
sheet in our direction. I stepped forward and took
it. “This is the orientation week schedule. See you both
at dinner!”