Page 2 of Salem’s Rise

“You sure? Those stairs are brutal.” He flashes me an easy smile that says he’s hoping I’ll change my mind.

“I’ve carried heavier,” I say, grabbing my suitcase and duffel in one hand and a cardboard box in the other before he can reach for anything.

“Well, welcome to SFU.” He laughs, clearly unconvinced, before giving me a little salute. “If you decide you need a tour guide, I’d be happy to show you around.”

“Thanks. I’m good,” I say dismissively. He’s cute, but I don’t have time for whatever… this is.

Still, as he walks away frowning, I immediately regret not accepting his offer because a normal woman, new in town, would’ve said yes to a handsome guy offering help and maybe even a date or two. And I desperately need to appear normal at SFU. Nonthreatening. Unassuming. I need to blend, even if it’s something I’ve never been particularly good at.

Josh always used to say that one day I’d let someone in—that living all alone in the world gets exhausting. But I’d never needed anyone else because I always had him.

Except I don’t have him.

Not anymore.

My forearms are already burning by the time I reach the front steps of my new dorm. Hallowell Hall is just as intimidating as the rest of campus.

Massive oak doors open into a lobby that looks more like the entrance to an old manor than a residence hall. Dark wood paneling climbs the walls beneath vaulted ceilings crossed with thick beams, while portraits of long-dead university presidents stare down at me. Everything here feels expensive and timeless.

I suddenly become very aware of my faded leather bomber jacket and jeans. Most of the women passing me look like they just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren catalog. Tailored wool skirts. Crisp white button-downs. Riding boots that probably cost more than our monthly mortgage back home. Even the guys manage to look effortlessly polished, laughing as they greet one another by name like they’ve all known each other forever.

And this isn’t even the nicest dorm on campus.

I know from the SFU pamphlet that Hallowell Hall is the “most economical,” with Wintermere Hall the most expensive option for the truly blessed. Students there even have their own suites. There isn’t a lot of student housing in Salem’s Fall, so the students here are all required to live on campus. Apparently, that means giving the super-rich ones somewhere suitably luxurious to do it.

I shift my box higher against my hip and continue down the hallway toward Room 321, wondering if my roommate has already arrived.

Eleanor Graves.

We emailed a few times over the summer after I pulled her name off the roommate exchange letter the school sent me. She seemed excited to meet me, sending messages with smiley faces and emojis and telling me how much she was looking forward to having me as a roommate. Definitely friendlier than I am.

I’m halfway down the hall when I notice a young woman in a white housekeeping polo standing outside the women’s restroom, clutching a plunger with both hands. She’s trying very hard not to cry as a small puddle of water creeps out from beneath the bathroom door. Students weave around her without slowing down, some wrinkling their noses as they pass.

I shift the box in my arms and keep going for another few steps.

Not your problem, Jack, I tell myself. Just keep moving. Stick to the plan. Blend in. Keep distance. Befriending the school janitor isn’t going to earn you any points.

But her quiet sobbing follows me down the hall, and I can’t shut it out, no matter how much I want to. I sigh and set my box against the wall, then turn around.

“Overflowing toilet?” I ask.

“I… yeah.” She startles, pushing a strand of frizzy dark hair behind her ear and hurriedly wiping at her eyes. “I’m supposed to know how to fix this, but I kind of lied on my student work application about having janitorial experience. I just really needed the money.” She gives a miserable laugh. “Somehow, I’ve already flooded the bathroom on my first day. I’m going to lose my job and get kicked out of school and⁠—”

“Hey, take a deep breath,” I say, interrupting her meltdown. “This is fixable. We got this.” I hold out my hand. “Give me the plunger.”

She blinks. “You know how?”

“I spent the summer cleaning locker rooms at a gym.” I shrug. “Trust me. I’m sure this isn’t even close to the worst thing I’ve had to unclog.”

A minute later, I’ve already finished with the bathroom and am washing my hands in the sink, listening to the water disappear into the toilet behind me with a satisfying gurgle.

“How’d you do that?” she asks, staring at me like I just performed open-heart surgery.

“Trade secret.”

“No, really.”

I grin. “Most people start plunging too soon. You have to let the bowl refill first so there’s enough water to make a good seal. Then use slow pushes and hard pulls.”