So here's the thing nobody tells you about college acceptance letters: they're basically just fancy invitations to ruin your life.
I'm standing in the Northwood University parking lot with three suitcases, a box of ramen my mom panic-bought at Costco, and the slow, creeping realization that I've fucked up. Like, monumentally. The campus looks like someone gave a bunch of architects cocaine and a blank check. There's a building that's literally shaped wrong—like, it hurts to look at—a fountain shooting water at angles that shouldn't exist, and somewhere in the distance I can hear screaming.
It's 9 AM on a Tuesday.
"Yo, you look like you're about to pass out."
I turn around and there's this guy who looks like he eats protein powder for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Tank top that says "KINETIC ENERGY," cargo shorts, and—I shit you not—socks with slides. The socks have little tacos on them.
"I'm good," I lie, because I'm sweating through my shirt and it's not even hot out.
"Nah, you're not." He grins. "You've got that fresh meat energy. Like a baby deer except the deer also has crippling anxiety."
"Wow, thanks."
"I'm Jax." He sticks out his hand and when I shake it, he nearly breaks every bone in my palm. "You're definitely a freshman."
"That obvious?"
"Brother, you're standing in the parking lot looking like you're trying to remember if you locked your car. Also your mom's still here." He nods behind me.
I turn around and yeah, my mom's standing by our van, crying. She sees me looking and waves, which makes it worse.
"Okay, fair."
"You in the dorms?"
"Uh—" I pull out my phone and scroll through like eight hundred emails. "Webster Hall?"
"Oh shit, that's next to Roosevelt. The Riot Dorms."
"Why is it called that."
"You'll find out tonight." He grabs one of my suitcases before I can stop him. "Come on, I'll show you. Oh, heads up—elevator's been broken since April."
"It's September."
"Yeah, man. Welcome to Northwood."
We start walking and I'm immediately overwhelmed. There are people everywhere—students who actually look like they know what they're doing, parents taking a million pictures, and one guy on a skateboard eating a burrito like it's a completely normal thing to do at 9 AM.
"So what're you studying?" Jax asks.
"Undecided."
"Respect. I'm doing Kinesiology."
"What's that?"
"It's like... sports science? I don't know, man, I just really like the gym and they told me I could major in it."
We pass a group of dudes setting up beer pong on the lawn. Again—9 AM. One of them sees Jax and yells, "YO MILLER, YOU COMING TONIGHT?"
"YEAH, BRO!" Jax yells back, then immediately lowers his voice. "I have no idea what he's talking about."
"So you're just gonna show up?"
"That's literally the entire college experience."
We get to Webster Hall and it looks almost normal, except someone's hung a bedsheet out a window that says "ABANDON ALL HOPE" in what I really hope is red paint.
Inside is pure chaos. Parents are crying, students are yelling, and there's an RA at the desk who looks like she's been awake for seventy-two hours straight. She's got a clipboard, a lanyard with forty keys, and the energy of someone who's seen some shit.
"Name," she says, not looking up.
"Evan Ross."
She flips through papers. "347. Third floor. Roommates are Oliver Chen and Samira Okonkwo. Here's your key. Don't die." She slides the key across the desk. "Next."
"Wait, I have like thirty questions—"
"Not my problem. NEXT."
Jax laughs his ass off as we hit the stairs. "Bro, she does not give a fuck."
By the time we get to the third floor I'm dying. Jax looks like he could do this ten more times.
Room 347 is at the end of a hallway that smells like Febreze and regret. I unlock the door and immediately almost get hit in the face by a drone.
"FUCK, SORRY!"
This guy with messy hair and glasses lunges for the drone. He's wearing a hoodie that says "I VOID WARRANTIES" and looks like he hasn't slept since high school.
"You're Evan, right? I'm Ollie." He shoves the drone onto a desk that's already covered in like fifty electronic devices. "I was just testing some mods. Did you know if you rewire the—"
"Ollie," a voice says from inside, maybe don't lead with the felonies."
A girl with box braids and a tie-dye shirt walks out. She's got this super chill vibe, like she could watch the world end and just be like "huh, interesting."
"I'm Sam," she says. "Well, Samira, but nobody calls me that. Welcome to the shitshow."
I look around the room. Ollie's side looks like Best Buy threw up, Sam's side has plants and crystals and a tapestry that says "LIVE LAUGH MANIFEST," and my side is just... empty. Sad and empty.
"So what's your deal?" Ollie asks, already back to messing with something that's literally sparking.
"My deal?"
"Yeah, like I'm into tech, Sam's into spiritual stuff—"
"I prefer 'seeker of existential truth,'" Sam corrects.
"—so what do you do?"
I think about it. "Uh... survive?"
"Solid," Jax says, dropping my suitcase. "Realistic. I fuck with it."
"Wait, you don't live here?" Sam asks.
"Nah, Roosevelt. Just helping my boy Evan." He slaps me on the back so hard I almost fall over. "Yo, there's a floor meeting in like an hour and then freshman thing at the Pit tonight. You guys going?"
"What's the Pit?" I ask.
"It's this basement thing," Sam explains. "Underground venue. Definitely not up to code. They do freshman orientation stuff there."
"Last year someone released like a thousand crickets," Ollie adds.
"That was never proven," Sam says.
"There. Were. Crickets."
I'm starting to think my roommates are either gonna make this year amazing or drive me completely insane. Possibly both.
The floor meeting is exactly as painful as you'd expect. Our RA is this senior named Marcus who introduces himself as "just trying to graduate, please don't make this hard for me." He goes through all the rules everyone's gonna break, shows us the bathroom that looks like it's been through several wars, and reminds us that "you can't have candles but if you do, don't burn the place down because I cannot handle that paperwork."
After that I spend a few hours unpacking, which mostly means trying to find space in a room that's already 80% Ollie's shit. I claim a corner desk and a bed that makes a concerning noise when I sit on it.
"It's got character," Sam offers.
"It's got structural issues."
By the time we're supposed to go to the Pit, I've changed shirts twice and still look like I don't belong here. Ollie's thrown on a different hoodie (this one says "THERE'S NO PLACE LIKE 127.0.0.1") and Sam looks exactly the same because of course she does.
Jax meets us outside with two girls I haven't seen before.
"This is Maya and Lena," he says. "Roosevelt."
Maya's got dark curly hair, a psych textbook under her arm, and this smile that immediately makes me nervous. Like she knows something I don't.
"Oh good, fresh meat," she says, looking at me like I'm a lab experiment.
"That's concerning."
"It should be." She literally pulls out a notebook. "I'm tracking every freshman's mental decline. You're number forty-seven."
"I've been here for six hours."
"And you already tried to use the broken elevator. I saw."
"How was I supposed to know it was broken?"
"There's a sign."
"I didn't see a sign!"
The other girl—Lena—just shakes her head. She's got black hair with a blue streak, an art portfolio, and resting bitch face that could kill.
"Ignore Maya," she says. "She's like this with everyone."
"I'm scientifically curious," Maya protests, writing something down. "It's different."
"What are you writing?"
"That you're defensive. Interesting."
"I'm not defensive!"
"Now you're very defensive."
Lena smirks. "You walked right into that."
The walk to the Pit is insane. We pass the Great Lawn where people are already setting up for what looks like a massive party, a group painting a banner that says "THETA SIGMA NEVER DIES" (Jax explains they're a frat that got banned but "refuses to accept reality"), and a dude on a unicycle who nearly takes out Ollie.
"Is this normal?" I ask.
"This is Tuesday," Lena says flatly.
The Pit is literally a basement, but like, someone tried to make it look cool. String lights, random furniture that doesn't match, a bar that's "definitely not serving alcohol" (it definitely is), and like two hundred freshmen who all look lost.
"WELCOME TO NORTHWOOD!" Someone screams into a mic, causing feedback that makes everyone wince.
The girl on stage has perfect hair, a student council shirt, and the confidence of someone who's never been told no.
"That's Brianna Cole," Maya whispers. "Student body president. Runs campus like the mafia."
"She seems nice."
"Oh honey. No."
Brianna goes on about "traditions" and "school spirit" and blah blah blah, but I'm not paying attention because Ollie's somehow hacking the sound system and making the bass shake the entire room.
"Dude," Jax hisses, "we're gonna get kicked out."
"I'm ENHANCING it," Ollie argues, but he stops.
The orientation drags on—icebreakers that make me want to die, boring presentations nobody cares about—and then Brianna drops the bomb.
"And now, to start the year right... NORTHWOOD ASSASSIN!"
"Oh fuck," Sam mutters.
"OH FUCK YES," Maya says.
"What's Northwood Assassin?" I ask, already regretting it.
"Freshman battle royale," Lena explains. "You get a target, you tag them with a sticker to eliminate them, but if someone tags you first, you're out. Last one standing wins."
"That sounds super against the rules."
"Oh it's definitely against the rules," Jax grins. "That's why it's fun."
Before I can protest, someone shoves a sticker in my hand and a paper with a name: Maya Green.
I look at Maya. She's reading her paper. Then she looks at me and smiles like a psychopath.
"Oh," she says. "This is gonna be SO good."
"Why do I feel like I just signed my own death warrant."
"Because you have decent survival instincts," Lena says. "Terrible decision-making, but decent instincts."
As we leave, someone screams "ROOSEVELT!" followed by what sounds like something exploding.
"Should we be worried about that?" I ask.
"Probably," Sam says, way too calm. "But that's tomorrow's problem."
Yeah. Tomorrow's problem.
Except I'm starting to realize tomorrow's problem is just today's problem that I'm too tired to deal with.
Fuck.
Welcome to college.