Page 7 of Roses & Ruin

Dear Rose Shields,

We are writing to inform you that your current roommate, Remy Linklater, has withdrawn from classes and is no longer a student at Payen University.

Due to Coupland Hall’s extensive waiting list, you will be assigned a new roommate, effective immediately.

For any questions or concerns, please refer to Payen University’s Office of Housing website.

Regards,

E. Doddridge

Executive Administrator,

Coupland Hall

“Wow,” I say, blinking down at my phone. I knew Remy was miserable. She made that very clear on her calls to her father. I just figured it was a matter of time before the housing office got sick of fielding Remy’s and her father’s complaints before finding a way to switch her to a single. I look up at the girl, give her a hopeful smile. “So…does that mean you’re—”

“Delia West, your new roommate.” She ticks off her fingers. “I won’t microwave any fish in the room, I make a devastating cup of Earl Grey, and”—her eyes twinkle—“I haven’t murdered anyone. Yet.”

Oh my god, I could hug her. “You’re totally hired.” I wave her in. Delia’s smile goes full Hollywood as she gracefully rolls her suitcases into the small room. I can’t take my eyes off her as she inspects the room with delight, running her fingers over the leather chesterfield against the window, her breath fogging the glass as she presses against it, marveling at the view.

“This room is beautiful.” Delia sighs, drawing a heart on the foggy window. “I’m really happy to be here…” She glances back at me, smirking. “You got a name?”

I jolt. “Oh! My name is Rose.”

Delia flops onto the couch. “I’ve been on the damn waiting list for campus housing for months. They kept giving me the runaround, so I showed up at the Housing Administration Office this morning. First thing. Wasn’t gonna leave until they gave me some answers. I’m at the front of the line, waiting for them to unlock the doors, when this girl pushes past me and starts banging on the glass.” Delia snorts. “Mrs. Dodd-ridge herself poked her head out, and this girl’s all, ‘I swear to god, Edith, if it doesn’t happen today, my father will pull me out. He’ll send me and his money to Harvard!’ And what does our queen, Mrs. Edith Doddridge, say? She looks your old roommate dead in the eye and says, ‘Knock yourself out,’ then turns to me and says, ‘You’re the one who keeps emailing about housing, right? A spot just opened up.’ ” Delia leans back on the couch, smirking. “And now here I am.”

“Wow,” I breathe, grinning like a dope.

She pulls out an orientation packet like mine, starts shuffling through the papers. “So, my schedule’s not quite finalized yet. I can’t figure out which class to take for my humanities requirement.” Delia glances up. “Which one are you taking?”

Oh my god. With everything, I’d totally forgotten.

“A painting class,” I wail, rushing over to my chest of drawers. “And I have to be there in thirty minutes!” Delia chews her lip thoughtfully as she watches me rummage through my clothes. I find my favorite sweater and hug it to my chest, relieved. I duck behind the partition and rip off my sleep clothes, yank on some jeans, and wrestle on the sweater.

“Methodologies and Methods?” Delia says. “Is the class number PRT 1010?”

“Sounds right,” I grunt from inside my sweater. In my rush, I’ve accidentally tried shoving my head through the sweater’s armhole. “I’m not sure if— Crap.”

“Here.” Delia’s voice is next to me. I catch a whiff of perfume, something sophisticated and floral, feel a few tugs on my sweater, and am suddenly face-to-face with Delia. “There you go.” She pats my head. “I love that sweater. Also? I now have my humanities requirement all squared away.”

“You do?” I blink at her as she shrugs on a peacoat and shoulders her messenger bag.

“Yup.” She grins. “Now come on, we gotta go now or we’re gonna be late to class.”

—

Turns out, today really is unseasonably cold. Delia and I huddle close as we make the trek across campus to the arts building. I know there are underground tunnels connecting the buildings on Payen’s campus, but I haven’t figured how to get to them yet, and I can’t afford to be late.

“Brr!” Delia pulls a camel-colored scarf from her bag and wraps it around her neck. “It’s freezing.” She sighs happily. “This is exactly how autumn should feel. I love it.”

“Same,” I say. “California had zero seasons.”

“So you grew up in California?” Delia raises a brow. “Northern or Southern?”

“Southern,” I say. “About two hours south of LA?” I wait for Delia to gush about the glories of Laguna Beach and palm trees. Instead, she groans.

“Man,” she says, “you’ve never had a real autumn in your entire life! It’s hot as balls there.”