Orientation Is a Lie They Tell You
I had a plan.
The plan lived in a laminated folder, color-coded by week, with a fold-out calendar I'd made using a ruler and genuine adult restraint. Move-in day was step one: arrive at nine, unload by ten, unpack by noon, decorate by two, and by three I would be lying on my perfectly made bed, reading the syllabus for a class that hadn't started yet, at peace with the universe and my life choices.
The universe had other ideas. The universe, it turned out, was named Jay.
I knew something was wrong before I even got the door fully open, because there was a smell — not bad, exactly, just deeply unauthorized, like scorched plastic wrapped in cinnamon — drifting into the hallway of Fenwick Hall like a warning flare. I pushed the door open with my hip, both arms full of a labeled bin marked DESK SUPPLIES (DO NOT MIX WITH BATHROOM SUPPLIES), and stopped dead.
There was a kiddie pool in the middle of the room. An actual, inflatable, sun-faded kiddie pool, patterned with cartoon dolphins, half-filled with water and — I looked closer, prayed I was wrong, was not wrong — glow sticks.
"Oh good, you're here," said the boy standing on a desk chair, stringing fairy lights across the…