Molly

1

Certain things I knew for sure when I started graduate school. I wanted to be a writer. My roommate's name was Molly, and Molly was way too cool for a quiet girl like me.

When I first arrived at our dorm, she threw the door open and I got to see her in all her glory for the first time. Her bouncy, golden-brown hair would curl back just right to frame her face, and her deep brown eyes stared at me with anticipation. It was certainly a moment to remember, just her staring at me like I was up for auction, giving me a toothy smile. I wasn't sure how to take it all in at first, but there wasn't any time to do so after she had begun talking.

"I'm so happy you're here!" she squealed, stepping to the side so I could shuffle myself and my things inside.

Molly effortlessly pulled her hair up into a ponytail before grabbing things sitting outside the door. She carried in boxes and bins like they were weightless, despite the skinny appearance of her arms.

"Wow. That wasn't a greeting, that was a claim," I replied, trying to decide if I should laugh or be worried about how direct she was.

I looked around our plain apartment, white walls and windows with uneven blinds, faux-wood plank floor, two couches, a generic blue rug, and a coffee table. I took everything in, even the smell of what I could only assume was an intoxicating cherry perfume. I figured that was Molly's doing, and not a default of our home. Molly and I brought in my things, the two of us, one by one.

I eventually asked, "How long have you been home?"

Molly shrugged, hauling more boxes into her freckled arms. "Weeks. Years."

That response made my already tired brain spiral, trying to decipher what she was going on about. I could tell it was a sarcastic response, as it was the first day, but I couldn't wrap my head around her unserious personality.

"Okay, I've been home for 45 minutes," she admitted. Surprisingly, she took me by the hand for a moment, patting it like a mother trying to break bad news to me. "But it was a horrible day that lasted for centuries. All I could think was that after a day like this, we deserve a happy hour," Molly continued, wasting no time to shoot more toothy smiles at me.

"Molly, it was the first day," I reminded her as I began to unpack.

Molly's side of our room was already a pink extravaganza. A bulletin board displayed selfies with her and various people, a dreamcatcher, and an old playbill of a production of Wicked. A string of lights already framed her bed, even more pictures clipped to it. Her bed had at least ten fluffy stuffed toys, all sitting atop her pastel pink duvet.

"Don't remind me," Molly replied with a groan, kicking off fuzzy slippers I hadn't even noticed she had been wearing. "Now go put on some cha-cha heels 'cause there is a party uptown with our name on it."

I looked up at her, confused to say the least that she was so eager to invite me to party plans after just meeting me. "But I—" I tried to interject before she put a finger up, interrupting me.

"No! I will not hear any excuses. C'mon Charlotte, we've got stories to write."

And just like that, our friendship was there, huge and permanent. In the beginning, neither of us were in love with graduate school, but I hardly noticed. With Molly as my guide, that mysterious "grown-up" thing was less like a wall to climb over and more like a door to a different world.