Faith.
Perfect start to my new college life. Whapped in the head by a Frisbee, flung by a drop-dead-gorgeous football player who’s so hot he sizzles. Sexy, charming, and a sense of humor. He’s freaking perfect. But Dimitri taught me attraction isn’t always mutual.
Men are forbidden, but holy cow that one’s pretty. Dark hair, turquoise eyes and a killer smile. Body forged by gods who want to taunt lesser mortals like me with his perfection. I allow myself thirty seconds to drool. It’s better than worrying about meeting my new roommate.
The dorm elevator doors slide open. I wipe my damp hands on my shirt and try to calm my breathing before the hiccups set in. I want to be friends with my roommate. I don’t want to cling, but dear God in heaven, I need someone to hang out with—go to movies with or whatever. It took me almost a full week to fill out the questionnaire. I hope we can depend on each other.
When I step into the corridor on floor three, someone yells, “Listen up, people. Clear the halls. You’re creating a fire hazard.”
This is my first glimpse of our floor resident assistant. We’re eye-to-eye, which means he’s around five-eight. His black hair shines blue in the LED lighting, and his eyes remind me of onyx gemstones. He points at my shirt. His megawatt smile is contagious. “Tell me your name is Jessie.”
“It’s Faith.”
I’m wearing my Toy Story hoodie with Moving Day printed across the front. He knows his Pixar characters.
“Mine is Raja, I’m your R.A. Do you need help finding your room?”
His tone might be mildly flirtatious. I’m still frazzled by the hottie and probably imagining things. Faulty instincts are my specialty. “I’m in lucky three thirteen.”
“Anything you need, I’m your man.” He points left. “You’re that way.” Before I’m able to thank him, he sprints to the right. “Martin, dammit, I asked you to leave my hammer alone.”
Priorities separate us. He needs to protect his tool, and I need to meet my roommate.
I maneuver down a hall littered with discarded moving cartons. The rest of my stuff is with Dad in the car. He dropped me off when he had to abandon the overfull parking lot to circle the area in search of a space. I walk through a haze of pungent clove incense and the sharper, overpowering scent of body odor. Yuck.
The door to three-one-three stands open. I cross the threshold into our shared room.
The first thing I notice is a framed poster hanging over the bed on the right. The guy pictured is a popular life coach with his own reality TV show, but I don’t remember his name. A petite girl with strawberry-blonde hair and fair skin sits cross-legged on the bed to the far right of the room. A quilt patterned with interlocking gold rings blankets the twin-size mattress. Head bent and hands on her knees she chants, “Please Theo, send me a virtuous roommate.”
Theo? Maybe she said Dio and I misunderstood. I hope she means she doesn’t want to live with a thief. If she needs someone chaste, one of us should prepare to get screwed.
“Hey, you must be Charlene.”
She meets my gaze with cornflower blue eyes. “Hello.”
I roll my stuff next to the empty bed and extend a hand to shake hers.
While she takes my hand in her own, she scrutinizes my outfit. “Wow, that’s huge.” She says pointing at my shirt. “Are you wearing a Snuggie? I have no filter. No offense.”
I hate the qualifier. It’s like saying spoiler alert before revealing something the other person doesn’t want to hear.
She claps her hands together. “But now that you’re here, let’s go over the Room Rules.”
Room Rules. What the hell? Charlene stretches to grab a small whiteboard trimmed in gingham plaid from the top of her dresser. The slate is filled with a list that includes: no dancing, no music, no boys, no rated-R movies, and—the ultimate showstopper—no garlic may be brought into our shared room. No. Garlic.
This must be a joke. “Ha! Good one. I knew you’d be hilarious. You had me going for a second.”
She vaults to her feet, her cheeks blotched an angry red. “Theo says, ‘Rules create a foundation for civility and establish order.’”
“Theo?”
Charlene rolls her eyes. “Theo. Celles.” She enunciates for me like my brain is too thick to process. “Life Coach Rules. Season Three changed my life. He graduated from this university.” She points to the poster above her bed.
Awareness pinches me, and my brain goes as sluggish as her tone suggests. This does not sound like the same girl who filled out the dorm questionnaire. The one who checked yes to the question: I hope we’re best friends forever and plan each other’s weddings! And added: I want to learn how to salsa dance on a fill-in bucket list question for college.
She clutches the small whiteboard. “Theo advocates abstinence and community service. Pure energy begets a pure life. He has a satellite group on campus. The first of its kind. That’s why I’m here—I’m going to be a part of this movement from the start. I can get an education anywhere, but this is the only college where I can join his team while I get a degree.”
My heart sinks. “How about learning how to salsa dance? And your text to me about your desire to go mountain biking together someday?”
“What are you talking about?” She points to her Room Rules, which clearly state no dancing. She sits on the edge of her bed. She’s wearing a denim button-down shirt and a white eyelet skirt a fingertip length beyond her knees. Red espadrilles adorn her feet.
“The fill-in question on your roommate questionnaire.”
“Oh that.” She flips her hair. “I wanted to get into Theo’s dorm, Celles Cellars. My friend Stephanie and I were supposed to be roommates. But she failed her final exams and wasn’t accepted. I got stuck in here when Celles Cellars filled up. My dippy cousin filled out the questionnaire with the promise I’d get a great match. My cousin had your contact information. I didn’t.”
I close my eyes. I want to hunt down this cousin and kick her ass. “And garlic… Are you allergic?”
She folds her hands on her lap. “Garlic smells gross.”
Freaking hopeless, but I’ll try one more time to find some kind of middle ground. “And these rules, they’re a hard line for you? No room for compromise?”
“You don’t get it. If you follow these rules, we won’t have any issues between us. Pure energy begets a pure life.”
“Fine. I have one rule to add.” I point to the mirror she’s mounted on the wall above her dresser. “No mirrors.”
“Excuse me?”
“Admire yourself in the bathroom. This is my room, too. Take it down.” I prepared myself to cope with one if necessary, but no more. You don’t make bargains with the unreasonable.
She sputters, “Are you afraid I’ll notice you don’t have a reflection?”
Total pisser. Who wants a nemesis with a sense of humor?
I nod. “I guess this makes you regret your ‘no garlic’ rule, huh?”
She turns her back and props the laws according to Charlene between our beds. “Wow. You sound hostile.”
Me? I take a deep breath and center my emotions. I’m crushed we don’t have anything in common except animosity. “My filter’s broken, too.”
“Hmmm.” She picks up her laptop and focuses on the screen. Awkward. The silence stretches between us. I hear the fan on her computer whir, and my phone trills with a text from Dad. He’s still hunting for a space.
I should fix this, so we’re not at each other’s throats. It’s stupid to be enemies with the person I’ll sleep next to for an entire school year. “Hey, can we pretend we’re meeting for the first time and start over?” I ask.
“Fine. Tell me your greatest regret.”
Right this minute? My assumption that Charlene filled out her own questionnaire. Big picture? Falling for Dimitri, and never questioning his motive for hanging out with me. I’m not going to share something so personal. But she’s making an effort so I’ll answer with another truth. “Not going to senior prom. What’s yours?”
“Going to senior prom.”
Her answer sparks my interest. “What happened?”
“One day I might tell you.” Charlene sets her laptop aside and leans toward a box at the foot of her bed. “In all the commotion, I forgot. A messenger delivered this for you.”
She bobbles the package. I notice it’s not sealed. What the hell?
“Why would Teen Beauty’s Chloe Morgan send you anything?”
My heart rate soars. Mom. I snatch the box from her hands. No one knows about my mother. Except Kirsty, whom I trust with all my secrets.
Mom sent me cash for graduation. I donated it to the shelter and asked that they send the acknowledgment to Mom. Her personal assistant, Nolan, probably intercepted it. He works hard to shield her from me. There is no reason for Mom to send me anything. At the thought of more unexpected packages showing up, I clench my teeth so hard pain radiates through my jaw. For now, Mom can rot. I need to deal with the battle in front of me.
“Do you even realize you’ve crossed a line here?”
She twists a lock of her hair. “Is this a boundary issue for you?” Her expression conveys innocence.
A vein throbs in my temple. “You opened my package!”
“Just a little peek. I’m filled with curiosity.” She gestures toward the box. “But I didn’t open the card. I resisted the urge. My counselor told me I get points for ignoring my impulses.”
“You told your therapist about opening my package?”
“No, silly. My high school counselor. She would praise me for resisting the urge to go through other students’ belongings. Backpacks, purses, things like that. You can learn a lot about someone by going through their things.”
Charlene can’t be serious right now. No filter. No boundaries. I’m forced to worry about privacy in my own room? My breath falters. I wouldn’t unveil anything Mom sends except in private, but Pandora’s box of ill will is open like a grenade with the pin pulled. Along with the latest copy of Teen Beauty, my mom sent a pair of jeans. They’re gorgeous. For once, I wish I could wear them. The pain is sharp—a quick stab to my heart—because I know my ass will never fit in these pants.
The seams are stitched in silver metallic thread while intricate embroidery edges the pockets in front and back. These jeans are made-to-order by the most coveted designer of the year. The zipper placket has the number seventeen detailed to denote the series, which means sixteen pairs were made before mine. Each style is limited to twenty pairs. Even though I don’t wear jeans, the gift is significant.
I scan the card. Faith, every girl needs a fabulous pair of jeans to start college. Congrats on your achievements, and I hope these fit. If not, hold on to them as inspiration and check out the link to Diets Do Work on my website.
My stomach convulses, and I resist the urge to press my hand against my abdomen. She signs all her cards to me with the same quote she uses to close her articles: Ten pounds always makes a difference, whether you’re shopping for jeans or hanging off a cliff. Cheers, Mom.
My mother’s world view in sixteen words.
Don’t spend time beating on a wall, hoping to transform it into a door by Coco Chanel is my closing quote for any cards I send to her. We both use quotes that reveal a personal statement. Opposite viewpoints. No middle ground.
I sink my teeth into my bottom lip. Hard. Charlene catalogs my every move. I shove the card into the kangaroo pocket of my hoodie and almost smell envy oozing from her every pore.
“Bless your heart.” She pats hers. “Those cost a fortune.”
I shove the jeans back into the box. “I’d rather have the cash.” Quicker to distribute.
Girls my age rave over Mom’s column. Her highest rated articles include Trick Your Body into Losing Weight, Be Irresistible in Ten Easy Steps, and The Perfect Seasonal Closet: Donate Everything and Start Fresh.
Her popularity is my cross to bear.
“What’s your connection to her?” Charlene demands.
“My own personal Joan Crawford.”
“I don’t understand you.”
I’ll admit 'Mommie Dearest' might be obscure, but apt if you recognize the movie reference.
Charlene grabs the can of cream soda off her nightstand and stares at me over the top of her A&W while taking a long drink.
My phone rings.
I dig into my pocket and pull it out. It’s Kirsty. “Hiya,” I answer. Going for full-throttle shock value, I ask, “Why do men call them blow jobs? It’s not like the penis is a balloon. You don’t blow into it, so who thought it up as a metaphor for going down on someone?”
Charlene chokes. Her drink sprays out of her mouth. She shoots me a dirty look and wipes her face on her sleeve.
Kirsty laughs. “What are you up to?”
I sit on my bed and face Charlene, examining my non-existent manicure. “Haven’t you ever wondered why the term is so popular?”
Kirsty plays along with me. “No, but you’re right. It’s stupid.”
“Mmhmm. I like the term going down because it’s not gender specific. It allows for the possibility of reciprocation. Unlike giving head or blow job, which is peen specific.”
Charlene grabs her dry erase marker and scribbles, No sex talk, as the next rule on her whiteboard. Bless her heart.
Is it too much to ask to get a roommate I like?
Kirsty asks, “Why are we talking about this?”
I flash Charlene an exaggerated thumbs-up. “What, fellatio?”
“You’re killing me. I know something is up. Call me when you can talk.”
“Sure.” I disconnect the call, cutting off my link to Kirsty.
Charlene asks, “Is promiscuity your sure-fire attempt at popularity?”
Her words cause the ever-present shame inside me to coalesce under my skin. I want to ignore her, but my mouth has other plans. “Are you asking for pointers or is this another filter issue?”
“Curiosity.”
We both retreat to our respective bedsides. Tension in the room swirls between us. Someone knocks on our open door. “Hey, girls. Anything heavy need lifting?”
I glance toward the doorway.
“Dad.” I motion him inside with a smile I hope hides my desperation. “This is Charlene.”
He steps into our room with three boxes tied to a folding luggage carrier and another tucked under his left arm. “Hello, Charlene. I’m Giulio Lacerna, Faith’s dad.”
“Hello,” she says.
“Are you two settling in and getting to know each other?” Dad asks.
“We have so much in common. It’s scary.” Hic. Dammit. Dad knows I hiccup while stressed.
He rolls his lips inward. His tell when he’s trying not to get involved. He unhooks the boxes from the carrier and stacks them on the floor.
I hold my breath and shove the box from Mom underneath my bed. “You were gone for a long time. Did you have to park in San Francisco?” Hic.
He observes me burying the box under my bed and his left eyebrow ascends. “Not quite. Almost.” He stares at the whiteboard and two grooves appear between his eyebrows. “Okay, ladies. Are you hungry?”
“Starved, Daddy.” Hic.
Dad asks Charlene, “Would you like to join us for dinner?”
Her nose wrinkles. “Uh, no thank you, Mr. Lacerna. I need to organize my living space.”
Dad steps out of our room.
I grab my backpack and join Dad in the hall.
He asks, “What happened?”
She lacks boundaries. And her filter broke. Hic. “Nothing.”
“Then why do you have the hiccups?” he asks calmly.
When he stops, I do, too. “She’s not Kirsty.” Hic. “I wish I could stay with you at the condo.”
He kisses the top of my head. “Ditto, honey. Remember, new friendships take time to build.”
“I know. I’m emotional today. I’ll get over myself.”
I don’t want him to worry about me. I use the term as a code word to indicate PMS without saying I’m on my period. Even though I’m not, just the hint of my monthlies makes Dad stop asking questions.
The corridor is commotion-free. Raja must have cleared the hall clutter while I battled with Charlene the Antagonist. Her comment about using sex for popularity still burns me. It’s not as though I don’t have experience dealing with malicious girls, but I’d like a tiny break from them.
We arrive at the elevator. My cell vibrates. Speaking of hostile females—Mom’s calling. Incommunicado for years, and today she reaches out? I can’t talk to her now, maybe ever, and punch the decline button. Dad stands next to me. He glances at the screen then makes eye contact with me. Busted.
I glance away, concentrating on pushing the elevator call button. I won’t tell him about Mom’s gift. “I’ll talk to her. Someday.”
His phone rings. He tips the display toward me. Mom’s phoning him instead. She’s one determined mother.
Dad says, “It’s your choice whether you have a relationship with your mother. But you need to tell her to stay away if that’s your decision. Unless you need me to do it for you.”
I’d love to pawn her off on Dad again, but I’m a damn adult now. I’m in college and everything. “I’ll take care of this.”
He places his ringing phone on my open palm like it’s an explosive device. In some ways, it is. I depress the button to decline the call for him. Problem solved.
“Faith Marie Lacerna, you did not just do that.”
“What? I pushed her to voice mail for you. No need to run interference for me. And please don’t use my full name. You screwed me over at birth by giving me the initials F-M-L.”
He tugs my ear. A sign of affection that never fails to make me feel warm inside. “Your initials weren’t an acronym for something foul when we named you.”
“I like to torture you over it, anyway.”
Dad is quiet, in his heavy-duty-thinking mode. A what-if scenario runs through my head. What if Dad overheard me talking about oral sex? What if he finds out about that night with Dimitri and its ugly aftermath? My pulse elevates. He’s a first-generation son of Italian immigrants and highly protective of me. Dad expects me to be a virgin on my wedding night. Chances are excellent. I can’t imagine getting naked and sweaty with anyone.
Dad drives us to a four-star Chinese restaurant in downtown. There’s nothing to do now except pray he didn’t hear me talk about fellatio with Charlene. We step inside, and I know this place won’t disappoint. The tables and chairs are painted in shiny black lacquer. Glossy red bowls hold pure white orchids. The frosted glass walls are backlit.
The scent of ginger makes my mouth water. We order dim sum as soon as we’re seated. Most people who relocate want to find the right doctor, dentist, and hair stylist. In a new city, I’m all about finding the best pot stickers.
I examine the shiny red chopsticks next to my plate and try to find a safe topic of conversation. Since she’s on my mind, I ask, “What first attracted you to Mom?”
“Why ask now when you haven’t before?”
I move the glass of water closer to me but don’t take a drink. I never wanted to know what drew Dad to her. The most private part of my heart hopes he never really loved my mother. It’s a petty thought, motivated by my belief that she never loved me.
“Curiosity,” I say, and remember Charlene saying the same about my reference to blow jobs. I take a sip of water to ease my dry throat.
“She was a car show model. I saw her across the hall of the convention center, and I was no longer interested in engine performance.”
Eww. “Seriously? Wow, not shallow at all.”
“You asked about attraction. Modeling paid her tuition. She was smart, pursuing her degree in literature, and irresistible.” The waitress brings Dad a glass of red wine. “A gorgeous brunette with eyes the color of chocolate, like you.”
Coloring aside, we don’t look alike. She’s beautiful. I drape my napkin across my lap. I’m certain she didn’t love Dad, but she loved his money. He sold a game concept to Microsoft when he was twenty-five. But attraction doesn’t factor risk. It’s hormonal and elemental. I remember the football player who beaned me with the Frisbee. Like father, like daughter.
“Why is this important?” he asks.
“Interest.” A part of me wants to sever all ties. “I’m undecided about direct contact.”
She left us when I was eight. Dad and I moved back to Newford. She stayed in Manhattan and didn’t fight to keep me. At the time, she was content to spend seven days each year in Boston with me on what she called Girls’ week. Dad put a stop to those four years ago after her Mother’s Day article was published, and I begged him not to force me to spend time with her anymore.
“I’m surprised she’s calling you after all these years. Honey, my offer stands.”
“No.” I have to figure out if I want contact with her after four years of silence between us. “It’s my turn.”
The waitress brings the hot and sour soup we ordered. Dad ladles up the spicy broth and blows on the spoon. “So, how did your roommate set you off?”
My stomach twists. I stir my soup and risk a glance at him to judge his reaction. “She laid down the laws of the land according to Charlene.”
He rests his spoon against his bowl while he spears me with what I call his angry-Italian-dad look. “The whiteboard leaning between your beds, correct? I’d like to understand the need for the admonition No sex talk.” His voice rises with the final three words.
I gather my courage and handle adversity the way I always do. With sarcasm. “That’s the one you have a problem with? Personally, I’m pissed about the garlic ban.”
He latches on to my hand. “Faith, I know something happened. Something hurtful in your final weeks at school. I’ve asked before, and I’d hoped you’d trust me to help you, but you didn’t.”
My pulse scrambles. After hiding what happened with Dimitri from Dad, I’m not about to hurt him or destroy his perception of me by divulging details of the Fellating Faith fiasco. I made a mistake. I live with it. Not talking about it isn’t just about self-protection. I want to insulate him from what happened.
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You’re making it difficult for me to keep my promise to respect your privacy and not google you. We have a deal. I trust you to behave a certain way online and to talk to me about challenges you face. What happened that last month of high school?”
Oh shit! Now I’m forced to weave a believable story about not having a prom date because if he googles me, he’ll find the picture.
The internet is omniscient.