“This is it,” Francie says brightly.
“Thank God you were here. I would have kept walking.” I shift the weight of the box to my left knee as I try to reach for the door handle, but I lose my grip in the process. The box falls to the sidewalk as the door swings open. The guys coming through it jump out of the way. Cold, gray eyes glare at me.
“Watch it,” a dark-haired guy barks. He’s wearing a worn Ramones t-shirt and jeans I suspect cost more than the total value of the contents of the box at his feet.
Anger bubbles inside me and I open my mouth to release it. Before I can, his friend punches him in the shoulder.
“Don’t be a dick.” He rolls his eyes as he bends to retrieve the fallen box. “Let me help you, man.”
“Thank you.” Francie sounds a bit too enthused and I wonder if its because she expects Southern politeness or because he’s good-looking. I hope the flush on her cheeks has more to do with hauling a box up that hill. Her attitude cools when she glances to the other man even though he’s equally handsome, I guess. Much older men had frozen under that icy stare, but if it bothers him it doesn’t show.
“Money,” the one who picked up the box addresses him with the bizarre nickname, “what have we discussed about being around other humans?”
“Now who’s being a dick, Eaton,” he bites out, but he lifts the box Francie is carrying from her arms.
Eaton. Now that sounds familiar but before I can place the name, Francie says, “There’s the Southern hospitality I expected. Thank you, gentlemen.”
I cringe at Francie’s emphasis on the final word. It’s a typical move on her part. I’ve deemed them calls to action. She doesn’t believe either of these assholes are gentlemen, but that won’t stop her from forcing them to act like ones.
“What room?” The nice one asks, holding open the door.
“226,” I mutter, wishing they wouldn’t accompany us farther. I don’t need Francie trying to impose etiquette lessons on my peers, even if they need them.
He exchanges a look with his friend. “Mystery solved.”
“I tried to tell you,” the other says with bleak amusement as he passes the entrance.
Francie caves to curiosity before I do. “What mystery?”
“I’m in 226, too. We’re roommates. Cyrus,” he says. He sticks his hand out and I carefully shake it around the box.
“Sterling,” I introduce myself. “And this is Francie.”
“That’s Montgomery. We call him Money,” he continues.
I don’t want to know why.
Cyrus studies me with more interest now. I know what he sees: a threadbare t-shirt that was once black, old ripped jeans that are a bit too loose on the hips, and the poor kid wearing them. Francie bought me some new clothes before we left, but she hadn’t been able to afford much. Compared to him, we’re total opposites other than our height. My black hair is an untidy mess from hours in the car. He’s combed his blond hair into artful submission. I hadn’t bothered to shave the last two days and dark stubble itches along my jawline. He’s clean-shaven, highlighting aristocratic cheekbones. His near-onyx eyes are his only dark feature just like my blue eyes are unusually bright. Unlike the rest of us, he isn’t dressed casually. He’s wearing tailored pants and a button-down shirt. He doesn’t look like a college kid. He looks like a CEO.
“You’re staying in the dorms?” Surprise flashes across Francie’s face. I can’t blame her.
“His father is teaching him a lesson,” his friend says and I can hear the sneer in his voice as he leads us toward a stairwell.
“He wants me to have the typical college experience.” If he’s bothered by this teachable moment, he doesn’t show it.
I take the steps two at a time, ready to get this over with. It’s bad enough that my roommate is clearly rich and privileged. Now I’ve inherited his jackass buddy, too. As soon as Francie is gone I can look into a different room.
“He wants to torture you,” Montgomery corrects him.
“It’s no big deal,” Cyrus says. “I’ll probably crash at the house after rush week.”
Yet another reason to avoid Greek row. Cyrus is okay, but I’d bet money most of the frat members are more like his friend. With any luck, they won’t be around much. He might be nice, but if his dad’s idea of a life lesson was doing something average like living in a dorm room, I expected we didn’t have much in common. My own dad didn’t even know I was in another state starting school. He didn’t deserve to know. Yeah, I was nothing like either of these guys.
Our dorm room is the definition of average. Cinder block walls painted a sickly neutral beige and cold tiled floors, probably brimming with asbestos greet me, from under the edges of an expensive rug. One bed is already made up—a bit too neatly—and there are no boxes in sight. Either my new roommate is seriously OCD or his mom has been here.
“Magda chose the bed closer to the window. I hope you don’t mind. She said it was better for circulation.” He shrugs like he doesn’t buy it or care.
“Is Magda your girlfriend?” Francie asks.
He blinks, temporarily confused, but Montgomery laughs, dropping the box carelessly to the hard floor. “Magda is his maid. Daddy might be forcing him to slum it, but even he’s not that cruel.”
Withholding the help is punishment to my new acquaintances. Where has Francie sent me? Hell?
“I hope you don’t mind,” Cyrus looks genuinely concerned and I wonder if it’s because now I know he has a maid or if it’s because he’d
