Nina LaCour - We Are Okay

Did I see relief pass over her? I hoped so. I went to unzip my duffel but thought of all the dirty clothes stuffed inside, of the smell they’d emit, and thought better.

“I’m going to find the laundry, too,” I said.

“Second floor,” Hannah told me. “And the bathrooms are right around the corner. We did the family tour this morning.”

I smiled again.

“Thanks,” I said.

Most of the showers were in a row, locker-room style, but I found one full bathroom with a door that locked. I pulled off my shirt and my pants, let them drop to the floor. This place was so much cleaner than where I’d been.

I stepped out of my underwear, unclasped my bra. The girl in the mirror was feral. Puffy face, wild eyes, greasy hair. No wonder Hannah was shocked. I was shocked, too.

But I didn’t have soap or shampoo. It was enough to make me cry. Water could only do so much.

I wanted a room full of steam and the smell of lavender or peach.

There was liquid soap on the wall by the sink. I pumped as much as one hand could hold and then opened the shower door with the other. As if by magic, sitting on a shelf were containers of hotel shampoo, conditioner, and soap. I turned the tap and washed the yellow chemical soap down the drain. As the water warmed, I examined the little hotel bottles. Eucalyptus. I stepped under the water and closed myself into the square, mint-green-tiled space. Its smallness was comforting. All I heard was water falling, water echoing.

Eucalyptus filled the room.

I shampooed and rinsed until the bottle was empty. I washed my face and my body with the soap. I let the conditioner stay in for a very long time. In California, we were always worried about droughts, always conserving water. But I was far away.

“ I’m far away ,” I whispered.

I stayed longer. The hot water lasted forever. I knew I could wash away the dirt and the grease, but the wildness in my eyes was more difficult, and that was the worst part.

I told myself to just breathe.

I breathed in.

I breathed out.

Over and over. Until I wasn’t aware I was in the shower, in the dorms, in New York. Until I wasn’t aware of anything.

Putting dirty clothes back on was a sacrilege. I chose the least worn of them and stuffed the rest into the washer with detergent from the vending machine. Then I went to find the student store, desperate for something else to wear in the meantime.

The store was chaos. Parents and their kids swarmed through the aisles, admiring knickknacks, complaining over the cost of textbooks. The incoming freshmen whined and fretted; everything was the most important thing ever. I was invisible, moving silently among them toward the clothing section, the only solitary person there.

What I found filled me with awe.

I had no idea such school spirit could exist.

There were T-shirts and polo shirts and sweatshirts and sweatpants and shorts. Panties and boxers and bras. Pajamas and tank tops and socks and flip-flops. Even a dress! All of them emblazoned with the school colors and mascot. All of them so clean.

I bought an armful, over three hundred dollars’ worth of clothes. As I swiped the ATM card, I tamped down the knowledge that my funds would run out. Not soon, but not too long from then either. Unless I found a way to start putting some money back in the account, I would be broke in a year.

I asked to use the dressing room on my way out and pulled on the clean bra and underwear. The panties had a picture of the mascot across the butt. They were fun, even if only I would ever see them. The bra was sportier than any I’d ever had, but it was cute anyway. The day was hot so I chose the terrycloth shorts, grateful that my blondness allowed me to show my legs even when I hadn’t shaved them for a while. Last came a T-shirt, the creases still there from how it was folded.

I looked at myself in the full-length mirror.

My hair was clean and straight, still a little damp. My clothes fit me fine. I smelled like a spa. I looked like any other girl.

I stopped by the laundry room on the way back, but instead of putting my clothes in the dryer, I threw them into the trash.

Hannah was in her room when I showed up again, and this time her parents were there, too. Her mom was putting sheets on her bed. Her stepdad was hanging a framed poster from a Broadway production of Rent .

“Hi,” I said from the doorway.

How many times do you get the chance to do something over again, to do it over right? You only get to make one first impression, unless the person you meet possesses a rare and specific kind of generosity. Not the kind that gives you the benefit of the doubt, not the kind that says, Once I get to know her better she’ll probably be fine, but the kind that says, No. Unacceptable. The kind that says, You can do better. Now show me.

“You must be Marin!” her mom said. “We’ve been dying to meet you!”

“Now tell us,” said her stepdad. “Is it Ma rin like ma riner, or Ma rin like the county.”

“The county,” I said. “It’s so nice to meet you.”

I shook their hands.

Hannah said, “Nice to meet you, Marin.” We smiled at each other as though the morning had never happened. “I hope you don’t mind that I claimed this side.”

“Not at all.”

“Did your family leave already?” Hannah’s mom asked.

“Actually, they couldn’t make it. I’m getting started with this independence thing a little early.”

Hannah’s stepdad said, “Well, put us to work! We’d love to help.”

“Do you have sheets?” her mom asked, folding Hannah’s bedspread over.

I shook my head no. The bare mattress glared at me. I wondered how many other things I hadn’t planned for.

“My mom packed me way too many sets,” Hannah said.

“Well, good thing!” her mom said.

Soon Hannah’s side of the room looked like she’d already lived there for months and mine was bare except for some red striped sheets, a soft pillow, and a cream-colored blanket.

“Thanks so much,” I told her parents as they left. I tried to sound casually grateful and not how I really felt—as though they had saved my life.

And Hannah kept saving me. She saved me with never asking questions, with instead reading to me about bees and botany and evolution. She saved me with clothes she loaned me and never took back. She saved me with seats next to her in the dining hall, with quick evasions when people asked me questions I couldn’t answer, with chapters read aloud and forced trips off campus and rides to the grocery store and a pair of winter boots.

I TAKE A COUPLE PUSHPINSout of the jar on Hannah’s desk and approach my empty bulletin board. I pin the snowflake chain along the top of it and then text Hannah a picture. She texts back right away, two high fives with a heart between them.

It feels so good. I want to do more. I take my new pot out of its bag and set it on my desk. My peperomia is thriving, each leaf full and luminous. Carefully, I ease its roots out of the plastic cup it came in. I pour the leftover dirt into Claudia’s pot, and then place the roots in the middle, pressing the soil around it. I pour in some leftover water from a cup Mabel was using. I’ll need to get more soil when I can, but it’s enough for now.

I cross the room and turn to look at my desk. Two yellow bowls, a pink pot with a green leafy plant, a strand of paper snowflakes.

It’s pretty, but it needs something more.