Five Steps | Chaelisa

Chapter 2

Roseanne's POV

Oof.

I wake up struggling for breath as my dog hurls himself onto my bed, his big yellow paw jabbing me right in the kidney.

"Hank, get down!" I try to lower my voice a few octaves, but it's no use. He only ever listens to my dad. For the next five minutes he attacks me with kisses and steps on every single one of my organs, until he finally hops down, satisfied with his work.

I will not miss waking up to that. Well, at least not too much.

As I wipe the slobber off my face, I feel around on my side table for my phone, but my hand lands on the pile of five freshly labeled binders I finished preparing last night, ready for the upcoming school year. Nothing quite compares to a peaceful night, just me and my label maker.

I reach past them to tug my phone off the charging cord. And then for the ten thousandth time this summer, I search for Suzy Bae's Twitter profile, careful not to accidentally tap the follow button.

I fell asleep at nine thirty yesterday just like I always do, so I missed her tweet from late last night: Tomorrow I officially become a panther! #hail2pitt.

A wave of nausea rolls over me, but a grin breaks out across my face too as I press the phone against my chest.

Today.

It's been three months since we graduated from high school. Eighty-seven days since I've seen her.

Just to be clear. I am not following her to college. About half my high school gets funneled into Pitt. We both just happen to be part of that half.

And... if you ask me, it feels an awful lot like fate. Like the universe is finally doing me a solid after such a crappy four years.

I've really tried to keep my mind occupied with other things this summer, but when you meet a girl like Suzy Bae, it becomes impossible to think about anything else.

Well, maybe "meet" is the wrong word, but I haven't been able to get her out of my head since she walked into ninth-grade homeroom wearing a vintage red velvet coat and a pair of oversize yellow combat boots that didn't match at all.

But I liked them anyway. And I wasn't the only one.

Her energy was magnetic. People naturally gravitated toward her at the beginning of every class, in the hallways, and after school, but the attention never seemed to go to her head. She was never mean, never exclusive, and she was always exactly herself no matter who was around. It seemed like she could talk to anyone about anything.

Not that she ever talked to me, but you can hear a lot from two desks over.

It's not that I didn't want to talk to her. I'm just not good at opening myself up to people. I'm not good at making friends. When you spend as much time as I have worrying about what to say and how to say it and it still comes out wrong, it just becomes easier to not say anything at all.

This year, though, I don't have to be quiet Roseanne Park with the crippling social anxiety. Things can be different at Pitt.

This is college. It's a fresh start, a chance to rewrite myself. People are always saying that things get better in college, and I have to believe that. This can't be all there is.

It has to get better.

I don't think I can make it through another four years of—

Crash.

A big box of something hits the kitchen tile downstairs, the sound carrying up through my floorboards.

Mom.