Weekend Friend

02.

I'VE TRAGICALLY OVERESTIMATED my arm strength.

I'm a devout runner, not bodybuilder.

Perhaps the thud the box had made when Parker dropped it onto the floor of the balcony should've served as a red flag that Morgan Whitman's crap isn't exactly lightweight, but whatever.

The Pinot Grigio probably skewed that particular assessment, but my determination to drop off the box at 3B remains steadfast.

Thankfully, there aren't many witnesses to my box-carrying struggle. Autumn Quarter at Claremont University doesn't start until the first week of October, so the streets surrounding campus are relatively quiet. Besides, I'm just a girl carrying a cardboard box. This isn't a remotely intriguing sight on a Sunday night in the University District.

My route to 3B takes me along the outskirts of Greek Row, the impressively manicured houses quiet in the days leading up to formal recruitment. The mix of Collegiate Gothic and Georgian Revival architecture give them a regal edge that only heightens the illusion of prestige that the Greek letters mounted on the exteriors seek to establish. 

I'd lived in the Kappa Delta sorority house during my first two years at Claremont, and met Parker James on Bid Day. It's wholeheartedly cliché of me to credit the sorority for bringing her into my life, but I can't imagine college without her by my side. Unlike me, however, Parker remains an active member of Kappa Delta and will partake in the lengthy formal recruitment process. She'll spend at least a week preparing for recruitment, and then another week participating in it. The days are long, and almost every smile is artificial. Last year, I took no joy in ranking starry-eyed potential new members on a scale of 1–5 before they'd even attended their first day of classes.

Truth is, I never thought I was cut out to be a sorority girl. It's not because I think myself to be above it all, but rather that I wasn't sure if the introverted side of my personality could keep up with the demands of that fast-paced lifestyle. But at a mid-sized university like Claremont, joining a sorority is an easy way to make friends and have a social calendar that includes philanthropic activities with partying. It's also a great way to network with alumni.

And so when I joined Kappa Delta as a freshman, I'd almost tricked myself into thinking I could conform—become a chameleon with the college-verse. I even let myself get caught up in the riptide of parties and tailgates for Claremont's legendary game days, and take advantage of the inflated social status that my sisterhood provided on campus. And I enjoyed it because it was almost too straightforward to be that girl.

But that conformity came to an end when I realised that I couldn't be a chameleon anymore. Couldn't stomach pretending to be someone I'm not. I made that decision shortly after my breakup last spring, a time that Parker affectionately refers to as my villain era. The ripple effect of said villain era has been extensive...and is quite possibly ongoing.

It's part of the reason why I'm motivated to make my mission as efficient and clandestine as possible. Because tonight's about Parker, and it would be self-centred of me to dwell on my misadventures with a certain striker who also lives in 3B and might be back from the European continent.

He'd enrolled in one of Claremont's summer study abroad programmes—it's what most athletes did due to their rigorous training schedules during the academic year. The programme would've ended by now, but most students tend to stay longer to do more travelling.

So I might be in the clear. But even if I'm not, tonight's still not about me. It's really not. I'm not that conniving.

I repeatedly remind myself of this as I continue my journey, my arms aching like they're on the verge of falling off. When I arrive a few minutes later, I find the front porch of the Craftsman-style house illuminated by a singular lantern mounted beside the dark wooden door. The house looks how it has always looked during my time at Claremont: too damn nice for a brood of soccer players. Not a single red solo cup litters the freshly mowed lawn, and the flowers in the window boxes could pass as fake.