Chapter 1
Kori
In theory, making friends shouldn’t be that hard. You meet someone, find common interests, and thenboom,friendship. At least that’s how it looks from the outside. I’ve never had the same luck.
This year will be different; it has to be.
Two years slipped between my fingertips because I was too scared to put myself out there. I wasted my free time camped out in my dorm room, gaming on my PC with online strangers. It wasn’t a bad experience—my kill/death ratio was unmatched—but I never found a place where I belonged at Georgia State. Not in the way my parents always talk about when they reminisce about their college years.
This transfer to the University of Georgia is my chance to try again—to find my people. I’ll manifest it into existence by sheer force of will if I have to. So mote it be.
The only flaw in my plan is I have no idea how I’m going to do it.
Muffled laughter and music bounce down the hallway, spilling into my room. It’s a stark contrast to the silence wrapped aroundme. The only sound in my tiny white cell is the low hum of the AC. I didn’t think it through when I selected a single. A roommate would make this whole thing so much easier; safety in numbers and all that. Plus, I would have been guaranteed to know someone. It was a strategic misstep on my part, but I can’t change that now, so I have to put my big girl pants on and figure this thing out on my own.
At least I’m not completely alone.
“It’s Friday night in Athens. What do you think I should do, Daisy?”
The rubber duck that’s tucked away on the built-in shelf behind my desk doesn’t answer. I’m not crazy—I don’t expect her to. Sometimes it’s easier to work through my thoughts when I say them out loud. My dad gave her to me when I told him I wanted to go into computer science like him. “Rubber ducking” is a method programmers use to work through problems in their code, but I’ve taken the concept to a whole new level. Over the years, Daisy has become my best friend and closest confidant. It’s not like she’s had much competition.
“Yes, going downtown is probably my best chance of meeting people, but what do people even do there? Is it only drinking? Is that even fun? You know I’ve never drank before.”
Judgment radiates from her beady black eyes.
“I know, I know, you’re a duck—you don’t drink either. I am twenty-one now, though. It’s probably time I saw what the hype is about. If I hate it, I can just come back and playMonster Hunterall weekend.”
It’s not the most thought-out plan in the world, but it’s good enough. Athens is known for its bar scene, and UGA is a notorious party school. You know what they say—when in Rome, do as the Romans do. I’m bound to meet at least one person if I go out tonight.
The bees in my stomach buzz around like pinballs inside an arcade machine the entire time I get ready. It’s not like it takes me long—I don’t have many “going out” clothes. I land on a bright-yellow crop top, low-rise jeans, and chunky white platform sandals. The matching yellow bucket hat calls to me from my dresser, but Y2K is probably the wrong vibe for the night. Instead, I thread golden rings and clasps into the lighter ends of my long box braids, all the way up into the dark strands that match my natural hair. A few coats of mascara and a swipe of lip gloss later, I’m ready to do this thing. At least, that’s the lie I tell myself as I walk out the door.
***
This was a mistake.
Neon lights shine from every bar’s window, mixing with the foggy night air to create a technicolor haze. That on its own wouldn’t be so bad. But combined with the disharmonious sounds of multiple songs fighting for dominance and the stench of urine, spilled beer, and the juice from overripe dumpsters mixing in the gutters, it makes the tiny “downtown” feel like a fever dream—or my waking nightmare.
Bees spring to life below my skin, crawling around with their barbed feet, and it only gets worse every time an unfamiliar body bumps into mine. With how packed the streets are, it happens more than I would like. How can so many people fit in one place?
I can’t get a clear thought in over the surrounding cacophony. It takes every ounce of my willpower not to melt down where I stand or cover my ears and flee. This is why I never went out in Atlanta; I wasn’t made for this type of overstimulation. Against my better judgment, I keep my attention locked in front of me and breathe through my mouth as I maneuver through the maze of students.
The farther I get from the central hub of E. Broad Street and College Avenue, the thinner the crowds grow. Each bar I pass has a smaller line than the last until, finally, I find one that’s dead compared to the others: Cutter’s Pub. There’s no line, no blaring music, and only a few light-up signs advertising different beers. I hand my ID to the man checking them at the door and breathe a sigh of relief as he motions me inside.
The whole world depressurizes as the door swings shut behind me. All the stimuli that bombarded me are blocked out by the thick wood. Tension melts off my body, and the itching under my skin eases. It’s still loud, but the soft rock playing is meant to be a backdrop to the hum of conversation, not overpower it completely. The lights are low, matching the grungy industrial decor, and the bar is busy but not packed.
Now for the making-friends part of this mission.
I scan the room, assessing the other patrons, while I try to figure out where to begin. Everyone seems content with the groups they’re with, and those who are alone don’t exactly fit the profile I’m looking for. It was too much to hope I would find another twenty-something girl looking for friends who also love to play video games and watch old monster movies. Hell, at this point, I would take looking for friends without any of the other qualifiers.
A pair of women hanging out near the bar seem like my best bet. The light from behind the counter shines off the taller woman’s rich brown skin—which is several shades darker than my own—making her seem ethereal. Her natural coils are cropped close to her head, unlike her shorter, curvaceous friend, whose hair is picked into a large afro that seems to defy gravity. I would love to be able to do my hair like that, but thanks to my mom’s genes, my curls aren’t tight enough to hold that style.
I drift closer to them, careful to make it seem like I’m not approaching directly, until I’m situated beside them at the bar.
Step one: complete. Now what?
I’m really bad at this whole planning thing.
My ears prick up as I tune into their conversation and realize I know exactly what they’re talking about.
