Page 5 of Under His Protection
We step inside and find the room currently unoccupied, but obviously, Haley’s roommate has already been here. She claimed the far side of the room.
Each side of the room is a perfect mirror image of the other. Each roommate gets a twin bed set against the outside wall, and next to each bed is a nightstand with a reading lamp. Between the nightstands are two very utilitarian desks, each with an office chair on wheels. There’s one mini-fridge separating the desks, so I guess they have to share that.
Above each desk is a window that overlooks the green space.
On the opposite wall are two small walk-in closets—one for each student—and two dressers.
The room is bare bones, but it’s clean and functional. It’ll look homier once they decorate it.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I ask as I look around for another door. There isn’t one.
Haley grins. “We have to use communal facilities. There are bathrooms on each floor. The odd number floors are for the girls. The even number floors are for the guys.”
“Wait! There areguysin your dorm building? Are you serious?” I think my eyebrows have climbed into my hairline.
Haley laughs. “It’s not uncommon for universities to have co-ed dorms.”
I’m still having trouble understanding. “There areguysliving in this building?”
Haley reaches for my hand. “It’s okay, Philip. It’s not a big deal.”
“Seriously?” I shake my head in disbelief. “How is that not a problem?”
Jason pats my back. “It’s okay, big guy. Let’s get Haley unpacked and go grab some lunch.” He frowns as he consults an app on his phone. Jason reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out what looks like a protein bar. Without a word, he opens oneend of it and hands it to Layla, who takes a bite. “Her sugar’s low,” he explains when he notices me watching.
As the girls unpack the boxes, the guys and I break them down.
“Where do you want these?” I ask Haley.
“I guess we can put them under my bed for now.”
It’s not long before Haley’s clothes are hanging in her closet, her laptop is on her desk, and her personal items are tucked away in her dresser drawers.
She puts the pillow she brought from home on her bed, along with her favorite stuffed animal, a floppy elephant named Ellie—she calls it heremotional support elephant.
On our way out, we lock the door and head for the stairs.
As we’re walking through the downstairs lobby, we come across a room with a plaque above the doorway that says STUDENT MAILBOXES. We make a brief detour into the room so Haley can locate hers. There’s a large wall with row after row of open cubbies, each one labeled with a student’s name. They’re in alphabetical order, so we quickly locate DONOVAN, H. Her mailbox is already cram packed with what looks like junk mail.
Haley pulls the items out and quickly flips through them. “All junk,” she says as she drops the items one by one into a recycling bin.
We exit her building and turn right to head to that little shopping district we passed through on the drive in.
Now that Haley’s officially settled into her dorm, I can finally relax a bit. We hold hands on the walk, leisurely taking in the sights. The ivy-covered brick buildings are very old-school, with classic architecture. Students mill around the grounds, sitting on park benches in the green spaces or in groups on the well-manicured lawns.
I squeeze Haley’s hand. “Are you excited about classes starting Monday?” I know she’s been eager for this day to come. She’s talked about it all year long.
“I’m getting there.” As she smiles up at me, her dark eyes are bright, and the tears are gone. She’s not fooling me—she’s excited.
When we reach Lafayette Street, we survey our numerous options for lunch and end up choosing an independent little pizzeria that looks good. When we step inside, we realize we made the right choice. It smells even better than it looks.
The restaurant isn’t very busy at the moment, so we’re seated right away. After we order our food, Haley texts her parents—all four of them—to let them know her stuff has been moved into the dorm and she’s doing fine.
While we’re sitting in the restaurant eating and chatting, I notice Layla zoning out. She seems distracted as she stares off into space. Jason’s watching her closely, so I’m guessing he’s concerned.
This is nothing new for Layla, unfortunately. She experiences frequent auditory hallucinations. She calls themmean girl voices. Mean girls trash talk her—at least in her head—putting her down, ridiculing her, tormenting her.
Jason pulls a pair of wired earbuds out of his pocket and taps her shoulder gently to get her attention. She turns to him, her gaze a bit distant, but when she notices the earbuds in his palm, she nods as she connects them to her phone and slips the buds into her ears. Listening to music is the only thing that effectively drowns out the hateful voices in her head.
