In The Backseat

Chapter 1: My Face-Down-in-a-Drool-Pool Roommate

You know, I didn't expect my first day at university to start like this. I had visions of neatly organized dorm rooms, polite introductions, maybe some awkward but well-meaning small talk with my new roommate. Instead, I got... chaos. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let me rewind a bit.

I arrived in style, as one does when your family insists on hiring a personal driver to take you everywhere. Mr. Lawrence, bless his heart, is the epitome of British punctuality and formality. I could barely breathe under the weight of the concerned look he gave me when we pulled up in front of the dorms, as if he were leaving me to fend for myself in a warzone. This is college, not the Hunger Games, but try telling that to Mr. Lawrence.

"Miss Venici, are you quite sure you'll be alright?" he asked for the fifth time, while I struggled with an enormous suitcase that could probably double as a small car.

I smiled, waving him off. "Yes, Mr. Lawrence. I'll be fine. It's just university, not a battle to the death."

He didn't look convinced. But after some reassurances and a hug that lasted a little too long, I finally made it up to my dorm room on the third floor. Room 8. The door wasn't locked, which should have been my first clue that this was not going to be a normal roommate situation. Should have been.

Naturally, I assumed my mysterious roommate had already arrived. She wasn't in the room at the time, though, so I figured she was probably off doing something "college-y"—you know, parties, meeting new people, or joining some ridiculous club that promises "free pizza" but is actually about debating the morality of artificial intelligence or something. (Not that I've done extensive research on clubs. Nope. Not me.)

Anyway, I spent half a day unpacking my stuff, organizing my side of the room with all the precision and care of someone who spent far too many years under the watchful eyes of nannies and maids. By 6 p.m., I was done. No sign of the roommate. Cool. Quiet evening in. I was starting to think this university thing was going to be a breeze.

Then came The Morning After.

I woke up early, determined to be one of those people who have their lives together by day one. You know the type—bright-eyed, bushy-tailed, maybe even a little annoying, but perfectly prepared for class. I showered, dressed, grabbed my bag, and opened the door.

And promptly tripped over something—or, more accurately, someone.

My graceful, well-organized life flashed before my eyes as I went crashing to the floor. I don't know if you've ever fallen flat on your face at seven in the morning, but let me tell you—it's an experience that sticks with you. The worst part? There was definitely saliva on the floor. Not mine.

I scrambled to my feet, my heart racing like I'd just been attacked by a ninja. Turning around, I finally saw what—or rather, who—I had tripped over. There, sprawled out in the hallway like she'd had a long, violent battle with gravity and lost, was a girl. She had short, jet-black hair that looked like it hadn't seen a comb in days, and yes, there was a distinct trail of drool trickling from her mouth onto the linoleum.

"Oh God," I muttered. My first instinct? Panic. My second instinct? Poke her. Because why not? Logic wasn't really working for me at that point.

"Um... hello?" I knelt down and gingerly shook her shoulder. Nothing. "Hey, are you... alive?"

She groaned, sort of waved me off, and turned her face away as if to say, I'm fine, go away. So naturally, I stared at her for a good thirty seconds wondering, Is this normal? Is this what people do on their first day of school? I mean, sure, I was raised in a quiet, fancy estate, but I didn't think passing out in hallways was part of the university experience.