We Are Okay(44)

I stepped out of my underwear, unclasped my bra. The girl in the mirror was feral. Puffy face, wild eyes, greasy hair. No wonder Hannah was shocked. I was shocked, too.

But I didn’t have soap or shampoo. It was enough to make me cry. Water could only do so much.

I wanted a room full of steam and the smell of lavender or peach.

There was liquid soap on the wall by the sink. I pumped as much as one hand could hold and then opened the shower door with the other. As if by magic, sitting on a shelf were containers of hotel shampoo, conditioner, and soap. I turned the tap and washed the yellow chemical soap down the drain. As the water warmed, I examined the little hotel bottles. Eucalyptus. I stepped under the water and closed myself into the square, mint-green-tiled space. Its smallness was comforting. All I heard was water falling, water echoing.

Eucalyptus filled the room.

I shampooed and rinsed until the bottle was empty. I washed my face and my body with the soap. I let the conditioner stay in for a very long time. In California, we were always worried about droughts, always conserving water. But I was far away.

“I’m far away,” I whispered.

I stayed longer. The hot water lasted forever. I knew I could wash away the dirt and the grease, but the wildness in my eyes was more difficult, and that was the worst part.

I told myself to just breathe.

I breathed in.

I breathed out.

Over and over. Until I wasn’t aware I was in the shower, in the dorms, in New York. Until I wasn’t aware of anything.



Putting dirty clothes back on was a sacrilege. I chose the least worn of them and stuffed the rest into the washer with detergent from the vending machine. Then I went to find the student store, desperate for something else to wear in the meantime.

The store was chaos. Parents and their kids swarmed through the aisles, admiring knickknacks, complaining over the cost of textbooks. The incoming freshmen whined and fretted; everything was the most important thing ever. I was invisible, moving silently among them toward the clothing section, the only solitary person there.

What I found filled me with awe.

I had no idea such school spirit could exist.

There were Tshirts and polo shirts and sweatshirts and sweatpants and shorts. Panties and boxers and bras. Pajamas and tank tops and socks and flip-flops. Even a dress! All of them emblazoned with the school colors and mascot. All of them so clean.

I bought an armful, over three hundred dollars’ worth of clothes. As I swiped the ATM card, I tamped down the knowledge that my funds would run out. Not soon, but not too long from then either. Unless I found a way to start putting some money back in the account, I would be broke in a year.

I asked to use the dressing room on my way out and pulled on the clean bra and underwear. The panties had a picture of the mascot across the butt. They were fun, even if only I would ever see them. The bra was sportier than any I’d ever had, but it was cute anyway. The day was hot so I chose the terrycloth shorts, grateful that my blondness allowed me to show my legs even when I hadn’t shaved them for a while. Last came a T-shirt, the creases still there from how it was folded.

I looked at myself in the full-length mirror.

My hair was clean and straight, still a little damp. My clothes fit me fine. I smelled like a spa. I looked like any other girl.

I stopped by the laundry room on the way back, but instead of putting my clothes in the dryer, I threw them into the trash.

Hannah was in her room when I showed up again, and this time her parents were there, too. Her mom was putting sheets on her bed. Her stepdad was hanging a framed poster from a Broadway production of Rent.

“Hi,” I said from the doorway.

How many times do you get the chance to do something over again, to do it over right? You only get to make one first impression, unless the person you meet possesses a rare and specific kind of generosity. Not the kind that gives you the benefit of the doubt, not the kind that says, Once I get to know her better she’ll probably be fine, but the kind that says, No. Unacceptable. The kind that says, You can do better. Now show me.

“You must be Marin!” her mom said. “We’ve been dying to meet you!”

“Now tell us,” said her stepdad. “Is it Marin like mariner, or Marin like the county.”

“The county,” I said. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

I shook their hands.

Hannah said, “Nice to meet you, Marin.” We smiled at each other as though the morning had never happened. “I hope you don’t mind that I claimed this side.”

“Not at all.”

“Did your family leave already?” Hannah’s mom asked.

“Actually, they couldn’t make it. I’m getting started with this independence thing a little early.”

Hannah’s stepdad said, “Well, put us to work! We’d love to help.”

“Do you have sheets?” her mom asked, folding Hannah’s bedspread over.

I shook my head no. The bare mattress glared at me. I wondered how many other things I hadn’t planned for.

“My mom packed me way too many sets,” Hannah said.

“Well, good thing!” her mom said.

Soon Hannah’s side of the room looked like she’d already lived there for months and mine was bare except for some red striped sheets, a soft pillow, and a cream-colored blanket.