Autofocus (4 page)

“But, okay, so I've known him since I moved in, but a couple of weeks ago, I started studying in the common area—it's down the hall, there's, like, a little TV and couches, I'll show you later,” she says, and I signal for her to continue. She has a tendency to ramble sometimes. “Okay, so I was working on a problem with this guy, Bennett, from my biology class, and Trey walked by. Bennett apparently knows him from home or something, so they started talking. And then Bennett went to get a snack downstairs. Oh yeah!” She stops, changing subjects again. “We have a snack shop downstairs if you need anything. Nothing special, but it has subs and stuff.”

“Okay, but more about Trey,” I say, laughing.

“Okay, okay. Anyway, when he left, Trey came and sat next to me and we talked for, like, half an hour. I mean, we've talked before, of course, but this time it was just me and him, and it was more, I don't know, different. Personal? Anyway, I started doing homework out there more regularly, and he started coming by and stuff, so we've been getting closer. . . .”

“And?” I push.

“And that's it! We're not, like, engaged or anything!”

“I can't believe you have a boyfriend,” I joke, leaning back on her bed.

“I do not have a boyfriend!”

“Just promise to invite me to the wedding, if I'm not the maid of honor.”

“I hate you,” she says, laughing. “But I'm so glad you're here.”

“Me too,” I say, and lean on her again. I can't deny the jealousy creeping inside me—Tree has a guy! But I push it back, because for now she's all mine.

“And you can see my room,” she says, gesturing like it's a mansion worth a million dollars and not the size of a shoe box. Really, though, it's her first place on her own, without the confines of her parents. I'd feel like it was a palace, too.

“It's perfect,” I say, taking everything in in one swoop. I nod toward the empty bed. “Good thing you're roommateless,” I say. “How is that, by the way?”

“It was kind of lonely at first,” she admits, “but now it's okay. The floor is awesome—everyone is friends.”

“How were the clubs you tried joining?” I ask. Back home she helped with our high school's newspaper for a bit, but really she stuck to her studies.

“Eh, I tried joining the Hindu Students Association, but everyone was so . . .” She waves her hand around, trying to pick the right word.

“Smart? Beautiful? Kind?” I try, describing her.

“
Indian
. They were nice enough, but so focused on school and premed, and, you know. It was like they were channeling my parents. I've been to so many Indian events growing up, I'm cool just making friends on my floor.”

“Your floor meaning Trey,” I joke. She used to always complain about going to events with her parents. The festivals were fun—she brought me to a Holi one where we threw powder at one another until we looked like Smurfs—but she didn't like
just
hanging out with Indians,
as many of the other people did.

“Ha ha.” She swats me with mock indignation.

“So, wait, what'd he say about a floor party?”

“Tonight!” she says excitedly. “There's a floor party. They're really fun—we all keep our doors open, and everyone visits each other. Our RA organizes them, so we won't, like, get in trouble for making noise. She thinks if we have parties like this, there will be less of a suicide risk.”

“What? Really?” I ask.

“I guess some people get really depressed their first year, so she keeps us happy. It's nice.” She shrugs.

“Jeez,” I murmur.

“Yeah. So, party tonight. Everyone is excited to meet you!”

“You told everyone about me?” I ask curiously.

“Of course! You're my best friend, why wouldn't I brag that you're coming?”

“Cool,” I say. I'd been kind of hoping we'd have the first night together, and she could show me around and we could plan my week. But floor party sounds fun. Floor party seems like college.

“Don't worry, everyone will love you,” she says, giving me a look that makes me believe her. “Hungry?”

“Starved,” I say with a nod, and we get up and leave for the downstairs snack shop.

Before going into the snack shop, I call my parents to let them know I made it by 4:00 p.m. on the dot. After confirming that yes, I arrived safely and no, we aren't partying, Treena and I eat some gummy pizza and chat about her classes (English is terrific, anthropology is not) and my project (“You'll find inspiration here easily,” she says). After, we sit outside on the grassy knoll behind her dorm, leaning back on our arms, and just talk. About everything and nothing. And it's nice and normal and feels like last year.

“So you're looking for information on your mother tomorrow, right?”

“Yeah,” I say, “I'm thinking of going first thing in the morning. Can you come?”

“Ugh, I have a test in the morning. If it wasn't for that—”

“No, you'd still go to class,” I laugh.

“Hush,” she says, even though she knows I'm right. “No, seriously, I feel bad I can't come. I'm free after the test, so can I help out then?”

“Of course.” I nod. “I need you, you know that.”

She looks at me and smiles, then says, “You know, if you enroll here, we could do this every day.”

“I know, I know.”

“Have you started applying yet? Last you said you were swimming through the endless pile of information.”

“Still am, and thanks to my mom, getting more every day. I think she signed me up for every mailing list,” I joke. “I don't know. I am looking at FSU. Ms. Webber said they have a great photography program.” As if on cue, I spy a student taking pictures of a tree across the field. He crouches down low and angles his camera up, capturing the arc of the branches, I think.

“Oh my gosh, they do. You need to come here,” she says excitedly. “We can live together. I'll even let you share my Oreos.”

“You
never
let
anyone
share your Oreos.”

“But for you living here . . .”

“I'm thinking about it.” I grin, then nudge her. “It doesn't seem that scary, college.”

She shrugs. “It is and isn't. It is at first, but the people make it better, I guess.”

“Are any of your friends coming to the party tonight?” I
ask curiously. She's mentioned a few girls she's friendly with, but it still makes me kind of jealous. She has a whole friendship universe here, and I'm not part of it.

“A few. I'm excited for you to meet them.” She clears her throat, then asks, “How's Celine?”

“Oh, good, you know,” I say, and then realize she doesn't actually know Celine. She went to school with her, of course, but we never all hung out or anything. “She's a really good photographer,” I say.

“You've said that before.” She stiffens a little, then looks at her phone. “Floor party starts at eight, in twenty minutes—we should get ready.”

“Sounds good.” I nod, thinking that maybe how I feel about her friends is how she feels about Celine.

We walk upstairs, get back to her room, and start the process of getting ready. Treena's nervously pacing the room, and I smile because that's how she gets before any event, especially ones that involve boys.

I open my duffel bag and stare at the assortment of jeans and T-shirts I threw inside. “Um, I didn't really pack for a party,” I say, wondering what else I should have brought. “I kind of assumed most of the week would be just the two of us hanging out. Plus, I don't really have a mountain of party clothes at home. When was the last time we went to a party in high school?”

“Oh, wear whatever,” she says, exchanging her shorts for a pair of jeans and taking out an olive-green tank top. “We
all wore pajamas at the last one. That was really comfy.”

“Pajamas? Your mom would have freaked,” I say. “Didn't she wear her fancy sari just to pick up schoolwork for you? When you got your wisdom teeth out?”

“Always dress to impress,” Treena says, quoting her mom with an exaggerated Indian accent and the matching head bob her parents often do. They were born and raised in India, but moved to Florida after getting married. Tree and her sister were pretty much Americanized from birth, but there are still little traditions she holds, like the tiny statue of Shiva on her dresser with a candle next to it.

“I love your mom. How're your parents getting along without you?”

“Apparently Trishna is giving them a hard time.”

“I haven't seen her around school a lot,” I say, thinking about her little sister, who used to copy everything we would do when we were all younger.

“That's the problem. She has a new friend who's a bad influence. She skipped class the other day.”

“No way!”

“Yeah, so Mom's convinced she needs to be sent to India or something.”

“How many times has she threatened that?”

“Right? And it's not like it's a valid threat! I loved my visit! Anyway,” Treena says, putting her bangles back on.

I copy Treena's outfit and put on a pair of jeans and a gray tank top, along with bangles. Nice and comfortable, but not quite pajamas.

Just as Treena turns on her iTunes playlist—indie music I'm not familiar with—there's a knock at the door.

“Trey!” she yells, dashing to the door.

“Oh my god.” I laugh at her excitement. The same guy from earlier steps inside. He's wearing khaki shorts and a team T-shirt, and it takes me a minute to register that she actually likes this guy. He's so not the type she usually went for in high school—back then it was more band geek or mathlete.

“Yo, pregaming in my room. You in?” he asks, then notices me. “Hey again.” He walks toward me and adds, “Trey” with all the self-esteem in the world. He reaches out his hand and I take it.

“Maude,” I say.

“Best friend from home?” he asks, and Tree, who has not spoken yet, nods, and I think it's nice that he knows about me. This isn't just an infatuation; she really does talk to him. “Cool,” he says, then looks back at me. “Pregaming in my room before the floor party. Makes them more fun,” he adds with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

“Oh, okay,” I say awkwardly.

“She's here for a week.” Treena finally snaps to. “I'm gonna show her around.”

“Cool,” he says. “Gotta go—I'll see you two later.” With a cocky grin, he leaves the room. When the door shuts, I turn to her.

“What's with the silence? Didn't you say you talk with him daily?”

“Shut up,” she says, thawing out. “I just get, ugh, you know.”

“I know.” I nod. “Pregaming?” I ask, because I can guess what it means, but I'm not entirely sure.

“Drinking before the party. It's his thing.”

“Have you . . . ?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as she innocently leans back on her desk chair. “
You have!
”

“Okay, once I had a drink! It kind of tasted like death.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, crossing my arms and staring at her like the time she crossed her arms and stared at me after I admitted to cheating on a test. It was
one
answer, and it was on my phone, so I kind of looked.

“Like you're perfect.” She grins.

“You're bringing up the test again,” I deadpan.

“It's my one piece of ammo, let me use it,” she laughs, and I shake my head.

I guess I shouldn't be surprised—she is in college and all—but I am. Between her new crush and her first taste of alcohol, she's getting into things I never expected from her. Or maybe it's me who feels different. Like I'm left behind or something.

Music from the other side of the door begins to play, and Treena again runs to open it. The other doors start to open, too, with people filing out, leaning against doorways and walls. It's as if a light was turned on, and everyone was forced to party.

I follow Treena out, and lean against the wall with her,
right outside the door. My heart is thumping because this is it—this is what a college party is like, right? Somehow I feel both old and young at the same time, as if I'm part of it, but also playing the part. I look at Treena for something, and she grins at me, giving my hand a squeeze. “I can't wait for you to meet everyone,” she says, and I nod, excited too.

There are two girls in short-shorts down the way doing handstands, with their feet barely touching the wall. Two guys are holding cups and throwing a Ping-Pong ball back and forth from one to the other. One guy has brought out his laptop and is blasting some party music. And I'm here with Treena, in the middle, watching it all unfold. My skin starts to itch, and I feel that awkwardness I usually get at school dances, where everyone is engrossed with one another, and I'm on the side with Treena having a party of our own. We were always both inside and outside the party, so I do what I always do—I reach for my camera. This can definitely convey the first day here.

I realize absently that my camera is still on the bed, and I don't want to run in and get it yet, so I use my phone instead. I snap a quick picture of the handstands, the red cups. The revelry, the open look on everyone's faces. I swing around to Treena and snap a picture of her waving to a few people walking toward us. Trey, I notice, is talking to a girl in pajama pants a few doors down.

Some girls come over and one yells, “TREENAAAAA” in a deep, sports announcer voice. I raise my eyebrows and
Treena laughs. “Guys! This is my friend Maude,” she says, giggly.

“The friend from back home!” one girl shouts, and gives me a hug. She's got this wild blond hair that looks like it hasn't been washed, and rope bracelets piling on her small wrists. I smile and awkwardly hug her back, shooting Treena a confused look, but she just gives me a go-along-with-it nod.

“That's me,” I say, hugging her back. When she lets go, she asks how I'm doing, like we're old friends, and it's sweet, actually.

“Oh, good. This is fun,” I say. “It's my first college party.”

“Isn't it great? Our floor is the best.”

“So you like it here? At FSU?”

“I mean, it's fine, I guess,” she says, waving her hands. “The people are great, but I'm only here because my parents said I had to go to school before joining the Peace Corps.”

“That's—”

“They really need help out there, and I know I can do it.” She keeps talking and I nod, impressed that she wants to do something to make the world better, when, personally, I just want to find information about my mother and take some cool pictures along the way. Her views are so much bigger, more meaningful than mine.

“I'm sure you're going to make a difference,” I say, nodding my head, and kind of at a loss for what to say.

“I hope so. Hey, if you come here, you should think about joining Amnesty International. It's an amazing experience.”

“Amnesty International?” I ask.

“It's this organization that fights for human rights. Like last week, we protested in front of the capitol, trying to get more financial aid to Africa's crappy schools. It's really awesome; I mean, when you go to the meetings, you meet people who are just so connected, and so passionate. It makes college worth it.”

I nod, envying her knowing, her assured way with what she wants, and her future.

“That's awesome. I'll totally look it up when I start school,” I say, not sure if I'll follow up on that offer, but it feels like the right thing to say.

“Great,” she says, then turns around quickly when a girl with long, dark hair pulls on her arm.

“Oh! Sorry, gotta run, girl thing,” she says with a wink, then takes the girl's hand and walks down the hall.

“See ya,” I say, and both girls turn back to wave.

“So you're Treena's friend?” I turn abruptly to see a guy to my right. I step back, uncomfortable with his proximity. He's leaning against the wall close to me. He's got black hair and a crooked nose, and is wearing a T-shirt that simply says
COLLEGE
on it.

“Yeah, I'm Maude,” I say, looking behind him for Treena. She's animatedly talking to a few other girls, so I look back at College guy.

“Hi,” he says, grinning. “Are you here for a while?”

“Just the week. Checking out the campus . . .” I can feel
him next to me, despite us not touching, and it's making me feel awkward. I take another step back toward Treena's direction.

“I can show you around, if you'd like. I'm a tour guide.”

“Oh, cool,” I say, wondering if he's simply a close talker, or something more. “I might need that. I need to go to the stadium tomorrow. . . .”

“I've got a map in my room. Let's go get it. I'll show you the route,” he says, touching my shoulder and leading me away. I walk automatically, until I feel someone tug on my hand.

“Um. No,” Treena says, holding on to me. She turns to me. “Did he ask you to go to his room?”

“Um, yeah, a map,” I admit, eyeing her questioningly. And then I get that, yeah, he wasn't just a close talker. “Ah.”

“He does this to every girl,” she says, throwing her arm around me and pushing me into the conversation she's having. “Just ignore him.”

“Did he . . . with you?” I ask.

“Ugh, tried, but Jill here saved
me
.”

“Happy to do it,” a short girl with short blond hair says. “He's, like, the worst kind of guy there is—I hate that he lives on our floor. He's just always trying to make out with girls, using stupid lines like that.”

“He sounds delightful,” I say, shaking my head.

“Yeah, he's mostly harmless. But still, what a skeez,” Treena says. “He tried it with me, offering cookies. And I love cookies.”

“You do love cookies,” I say, thinking about the secret
supply she used to keep hidden in her old room. The old memory brings me comfort—some things don't change, thankfully. “Well, thanks for . . . that,” I say, shrugging.