Chapter One | Campus

♫ Campus by Vampire Weekend

I've always dreamt of moving to New York one day.

I was seven when it started. It was the night before Halloween and I was carving pumpkins with my siblings at the dinner table. My mom had installed scented candles all around the room and my dad had Frank Sinatra playing on his record player when on came 'New York, New York' and changed my life forever.

At seven I was very much into Kidz Bop and the soundtrack to High School Musical, so everybody was pretty surprised when I couldn't contain myself, exclaimed I loved this song, and then proceeded to accidentally cut myself with the knife that was supposed to go into my pumpkin because my hands were shaking too much.

My mom wrapped it up in bandages and that night, my Dad carried his record player to my bedroom so I could listen to Frank Sinatra singing about New York until I fell asleep.

Naturally, I then entered the weird-obsession phase every kid has about something. I had a Statue of Liberty bedspread and a Times Square poster and my third CD ever (first being Kidz Bop 2006, second being a duplicate of my sister's High School Musical soundtrack) was one Dad made for me, the only song on it being New York, New York.

I never really grew out of that phase. Granted, at fourteen I decided that I liked plain bedsheets more and at sixteen I was all about Paris for a couple of months, but my dream remained. One day I was moving to New York. Everyone knew. And while it was impressive that I got into NYU, my dream school, nobody was surprised when I left town to start my year.

My mom's manicured fingers grab onto her sleeves as she pushes them to her nose. She's standing in the middle of my dorm room, glancing around at the space and the decorations she and my father have just helped me set up.

I feel a tightness in my chest at the sight of her reddened eyes and reach out for her. "Mom, stop crying," I mumble into her lavender sweater, encircling my arms around her shoulders. "I'll be fine. Dad, tell her I'll be fine."

My father opens and closes his mouth like a fish, his tall form awkward in front of the window. He's never been that great at comforting people—Mom says he's too rational and insensitive and he calls it 'being realistic'—but his heart is big enough to scramble for the words she wants to hear. At last, he settles for, "Come on, honey, when has Nova ever failed to take care of herself?" He gently places both of his hands on her shoulders and pries her away from me.

My mother sniffs and meets my eyes as she leans into him. "I know, I know. I just don't want to— I mean— we still have to..."

"It's okay." I smile my best smile, a wobbly one as it's heavily affected by my own nerves. "Flynn and Sofia aren't that far away and I'll visit you guys with them soon. You're not throwing me to the wolves, Mom. I'm ready. And I wouldn't say that if it wasn't true."

She sighs and then takes a deep breath, wiping at her eyes. "That's true. I know you're ready, and I'm so proud of you. Just... know that you can come home anytime. I don't mind if you want to drop out tomorrow, I'll support you."

"Let's not mention dropping out yet," Dad quickly adds. He narrows his eyes and gently caresses her arm to comfort her. "We expect you to try and do what's right for you. And you know by now, Nova, the easiest choice to make isn't always the best one."

Mom loosens herself out of Dad's grip and steps forward, cupping my cheeks. "I'm proud of you. And we'll get out of your hair, or I'll flood this room with my tears on your first day."

"You're leaving? Now?" I ask, panic tugging in my chest.

"It's a long drive. Your mother and I want to be home before it's dark, at least. And you should get some time to yourself to settle in before your roommate storms in here." Dad smiles gently at me, enhancing the lines around his mouth and at the corners of his brown eyes.

His age always manages to slip my mind, as does my mother's. I never want to think about the fact that they get older as I get older, but now, suddenly, it's so real. The next time I see them they'll be older again. Will it be more obvious if I stop seeing them every day? What if I live here for the next four years and one of them dies unexpectedly? I'd regret not being with them. Maybe this was a bad idea.

My mother tilts her head. "I can see those gears turning in your mind, you know," she teases. "And as much as I want to whisk you away, you're not coming home with us."

I don't even attempt to sway her. I know better.

We exchange goodbyes as they shuffle towards the door, taking their belongings along the way. I watch them grow smaller in the hallway and disappear at the end. It feels empty and tragic, and I don't know what to do next.

I know it would be easier if my best friend Logan was here. He got into NYU with a wrestling scholarship and each of the sports teams of the school went on a lavish camping trip during the introduction week as an ultimate bonding exercise.

My brother Flynn is at Columbia at the other side of the city while my sister Sofia is in another state entirely, and the only other person I know in New York is Logan's sister and my brother's girlfriend Elle, who probably has better things to do than hang out with me.

It's easiest, I decide then, to go with the flow. In a while I'm supposed to be down at the dining hall for the freshman campus tour, and in the meantime I can at least change my clothes and cry my eyes out.

In an attempt to calm my nerves and at least make sure I don't miss the campus tour, I take ahold of the week planner that lies on my desk and watch the white crumple where my fingers grip the sheet of paper.

My hands have always been a hotspot for pressure. My fingers aren't made to help me drink out of a plastic cup or pick up tiny objects or unravel knots in shoelaces. When I got my NYU acceptance letter, I got Flynn to open the envelope for me so that the paper could stay intact, just in case it would be good news and I'd want to frame it. And like every anti-bullying ad in history has distinctively told me: once you crumple a good piece of paper, there's no straightening it out.

Sometimes I despise my hands for how they seem to always ruin things. There's no good to be done by them and they frustrate me more often than they allow me to take pride in what they bring forward. My fingers are always tensed, always tremble when they shouldn't, always stiffen when I don't want them to. They're never gentle or elegant either. They look like the hands of someone who does a lot of physical labor: they're always bruised, I often dig my nails into my own skin and pick some of it off unintentionally. I have thick, short fingers that are always dry. As if how they're built— not ever listening to me and all the aforementioned flaws— reflects on the outside of them. Ugly and rough.

My fingernails are battered and cut unevenly, too. I've always wanted to get them done like my mother and Sofia, but the thought of sitting in a salon with some poor person having to deal with my involuntary movements, cooing at me to 'relax' as if I can do that, and me having to explain why I'm being so difficult, has always kept me from trying it out. I'd rather live with my ugly, mean hands than put someone, and myself, through that sort of misery.

"NYU FRESHMAN INTRODUCTION WEEK", says the top of the paper I'm ruining in my hands. "Monday, september 28th: campus tour at 1.30 P.M. Assemble at dining hall".

I lay the paper back on my desk and press a hand to it as the other attempts to straighten it out, to no avail. My phone buzzes on the bedside table and I walk over, reading the text as I let myself fall onto my bed.

The light that spills into the dorm through the creak underneath the door is interrupted by someone's shadow, and what sounds like keys scratch against the door before they find the lock and it swings open.

The girl, who I can only assume is my long-awaited roommate, lets out a sharp yell and hops on one foot as she enters. Her arms are filled with two heavy looking boxes stacked atop of each other, and in a hurried action she leaps towards her bed and drops the boxes on top, making all their contents (chargers, an alarm clock, a power-bank, an iPad and some other electronics), fall out onto her plain blue comforter. She stands, looks at it, and sighs.

"Do you need any help?" I rise to my feet.

The girl jumps again and her hand shoots to her chest. "Oh my God!" She exclaims, wide-eyed, as she turns and faces me. She releases a breath. "You must be my roommate. God. Sorry, that was embarrassing." She deflates when she comes to that realization, brushing the blonde beach waves that fell from her messy bun away from her flustered face.

I laugh, silently glad that it wasn't me who had to be embarrassed at the first meeting. "It's no big deal. Should I help you?" I pick up one of the chargers that has tumbled from her bed and sheepishly hold it up. "I'm Nova."

"I'm Olivia. And yes, please, that'd be great." She vaguely gestures to her bedside table. "You can just toss everything on the nightstand, I'll organize later." Her eyes travel around the room until she finds what she's looking for: the clock on the wall, over our door. "Shit, isn't the tour-thing at one thirty?"

I nod. "Don't worry, you've still got fifteen minutes."

Olivia buries her hands in her hair, and then shakes her head and pulls out her bun. "Okay, okay. Um, I'll just brush my hair really quick and freshen up. Do you wanna head over there together? If we leave within two minutes we'll definitely be on time," she says. Her voice is pitched from the stress.

"Yeah, go ahead."

I sit on my bed as Olivia bustles around the room, applying and removing and reapplying lip gloss, searching through three different bags for a very specific eyeliner and finally holding up her keys, gesturing for me to come with her. I can barely look around me as we get downstairs and make our way to the dining hall, following her large strides until we've arrived.

Olivia leads the way as we move further into the room. She glances back at me. "Do you know anyone else here?" She asks. The dining hall is absolutely packed, I can barely see what it looks like except for the high walls and hardwood floors. "We could find them if you want."

I shake my head. "I only know a senior, and my friend Logan who's away with the wrestling team. You?"

"A few girls from my school got in, but I doubt I'll find them in here. Let's just stick to the walls and wait until this thing starts, there's no way we'll find seats this late."

Olivia walks in a relatively fast pace, easily weaving her way through the crowd of people until she finds a bare spot of wall somewhere in the back. She's quick to pull out her phone when we lean against it, and soon she's in an entirely different world. I assume she's texting her friends.

I press my hands between my back and the brick wall and study the crowd. It comforts me to have Olivia next to me. Making friends isn't exactly my strong suit, and I feared that with Logan being away during the orientation week I'd be alone, exactly as how dependent I was on him back in high school. Maybe it's a bad trait, and I shouldn't cling onto people as much as I do, but I can't help wanting to be safe. I never feel safe when it's just me in a public space or new environment. This dining hall is both.

"Coming through! Drinks, anyone?" A platter with plastic cups moves through the crowd, yellow lemonade and water almost slushing over the edges. It stops in front of me, and the boy looming over it raises his eyebrows with a smile. "We've got lemonade and water! Welcome to NYU!"

Olivia reaches over my shoulder to get herself a drink as she presses her phone to her ear.

The boy's still waiting for me to nod or shake my head, and in an ugly attempt to grab a fragile plastic cup with my mean hands, I dip my pointer and middle finger in the drink and my thumb against the outside of the cup and shakily take it off the tray.

"Oh... wait, I've got napkins. Here—" he reaches into the pocket of his purple apron and hands me a crumpled white napkin. "I probably shouldn't have stuffed the napkins in here, huh?" He laughs. "Whatever. If you need any more, find me by the drinks. My name's Milo. Bye!" He's off before I can even say thanks.

Next to me, Olivia stuffs her phone back into the pocket of her jeans and eyes my drink. "Woah, you're really nervous, huh?"

I realize how weird and disgusting it must look for me to hold my drink this way, but it's the only way I really can. It's stable, it's fast, and it's better than attempting to be normal and shake and knock everything over like I'm an outsider watching myself ruin everything, once again. In hindsight, I probably could've said no to the drink, but I'm thirsty and don't know how long this tour is going to take. If I take deep breaths, and will myself to just chill out, maybe I can even drink from the cup this way. Wrist in a weird angle, knuckles in my eyes, sure, but the cold liquid in my parched throat, exactly where it's supposed to be. And as my old therapist Claire always used to say: it's not always about how something works for you. As long as it does just that: work.

"A little, I guess." I offer Olivia one of my wobbly smiles as I clench the napkin between my thighs and move the cup in my hands.

She gives me a strange look and tilts her head, her eyes moving to my hands once again. I recognize this look. The quiet study of my movements, the pull of her lip. It's a gaze I've come to grow familiar with, when people notice but they're too hesitant to ask.

Claire was intrigued when I told her about it weeks before graduation last school year. Like how the moments are so similar prior to the Look. And how they're always occupied or distracted and don't see it, until it happens and I catch their full attention. They'll look, tilt heads, their eyes will flicker from my face to my movements and sometimes they'll smile bitterly as if to encourage me, but it looks more like a grimace most times.

"What do you do next?" Claire always wore a red, distinctive lipstick that sometimes clung to her front teeth. That day she bit her lips so often as I spoke, probably absentmindedly, that it smeared everywhere. I actively had to try not looking at it the entire session. I don't know why I didn't just tell her.

"Sometimes I'll challenge them. I won't say anything and neither will they, but we both feel the question burning in our mind." I realized how pointless it sounded as I said it. "Other times I get so tired of it that a part of me even gets angry. I act annoyed and short and leave if I can."

She sat back. "Do you ever explain why you do certain things the way you do without being asked?"

I told her I tried to avoid talking about it.

"Maybe that's something you should try, then. Just keep it short and clear. No big deal."

Those words burn in my mind as I spot the Look on Olivia's face. I challenge myself to do as Claire said. "I have a disability called cerebral palsy," I start, uneasy. Something in her face changes and it annoys me. "When you move, your brain sends these signals to your muscles that tell your fingers to bend a certain way, or tilt, or how much pressure to put into your movements. Basically, cerebral palsy confuses my signals, so when I move it doesn't work exactly the way it should, or the way I intended it to work."

"Hmm." Olivia shrugs. "So, fucked up signals. That sucks."

I blink at her. "Yeah." I'm having trouble deciding whether that's a good reaction or a bad one. Maybe neither. I shouldn't try to analyze it the way I tend to.

She then laughs, snorting in between breaths. "Don't act so shocked, Nova. It's fine. You've got fucked up signals, next person got asthma, the next got childhood traumas that keep haunting them. You do you, it's not really any of my business."

I let out a nervous chuckle, and take a shaky sip of my drink. "I just... I don't know. People usually feel the need to apologize to me when I tell them," I say. I use the napkin to wipe at my mouth.

"If I apologized for what you just told me, I'd feel like I'd be telling you that it's wrong or something," Olivia tells me.

I open my mouth to continue the conversation, but the sharp tone of a microphone's volume being turned up fills the space. I jump in surprise, and my drink tumbles from my hands onto the floors. The lemonade splashes onto, and into, the shoes of my unsuspecting peers, who turn around and sneer at me.

"Shit," Olivia curses. "Come on, let's get some more napkins. It's fine."

They always say it's fine. It's fine when I spill drinks, hot ones, cold ones. It's fine when I trip and push someone. It's fine when I shake someone's hand and squeeze too hard, get panic attacks during tests, start stuttering and trembling during presentations, make everyone wait because my legs are burning with an invisible fire that spreads and hurts without anyone knowing.

I look at Olivia as she takes my arm, gently, and guides me to the drink station. The person speaking into the microphone is dividing the crowd up for the tours. I pick something up about the guides, but I focus on Olivia's hair and the way it grazes her shoulder blades as I follow her like a small child.

"You should go."

She turns to me. I spot the drinks right behind her, the boy from earlier chatting with someone else. The sound of the dining hall emptying out makes me feel guilty.

"Join one of the groups while you can. I recognize him from earlier, he'll help me clean up and I'll explore on my own," I say to Olivia, swallowing feverishly, trying to rid myself of the growing lump in my throat. "Don't worry about me."

"But—" she sighs, defeated. "I really don't mind helping. Promise."

"I know, and I appreciate it, but I don't need help. Go."

Something in her face lights up, though she obviously tries to mask it. "Okay. If you're sure. I'll see you back at the dorms tonight, alright?"

I nod and watch her as she leaves. It all looks so easy for her. The way she skips towards the doors, avoids sharp table corners as she speeds, rounds the corner to outside as the only problem she has as far as I know, the only thing she has to worry about (if she hasn't already forgotten about it) is the embarrassment of tripping when she met me. My first impression was worse. Mine isn't a one-time thing, it'll keep happening. I'll still be like this in four years, when we're graduating. I don't want to feel like this as a college graduate.

It feels ridiculous. I said the same thing when I started high school.

"You're missing the tour, you know." Milo rounds the station, mop in hand. "Technically, so am I as I am a freshman this year as well, but I've been here before and they needed an extra hand—which I happen to have two of—so they couldn't really resist." He grins at me.

I feel too bad to laugh at his joke, but manage a smile I feel strain my muscles. "It's fine. I'll see everything eventually." I turn to the spot where I dropped my drink, now unshielded by the crowd, and then back to Milo. "Could I use that mop for a second? I dropped my lemonade and want to clean it before it becomes sticky."

He follows my gaze. "Oh no, I got it. Thanks for letting me know, though. Most people would just flee while they can." He pushes his mop into a bucket on wheels and drags it to the spot.

I look outside to see if I can spot any groups I can tag along with later, but the street has already gone back to its usual business, barely any purple hoodies in sight. I give up and follow Milo.

"No, I'd feel bad," I say, letting out an awkward chuckle and rubbing my arm. I watch him swirl the mop in the water and drop it on the floor with a wet 'splosh' sound. He draws it around and soon the floor shines once again.

Milo stands up straight and rests a fist onto his hip, his eye falling on me. "What's your name?" He asks.

"Uh, Nova. Nova Carter."

"Pretty." He smiles. "I promised I'd help out here, Nova, but if you want I can give you the tour you're missing right now when I'm done. The Milo Macarevich version of anything ever, is always the best version, guaranteed."

I straighten my back. "You'd do that?" I ask, my voice sounding softer than I expected.

Milo pulls a 'duh' face, and it makes me smile. "Hell, yeah. Not just anyone would be nice enough to report a case of a lemonade puddle on hardwood fucking floors. We're friends now. Wait for me while I finish up, okay? I'll be right out."

He waits until he's seen me nod and then dashes back to wherever he even got that mop from. Minutes later he emerges, the NYU apron discarded to reveal an NYU sweater. Of course.

"I'm just a major fan, alright?" He says when he sees me looking, and laughs a hearty laugh as we walk out the doors into the blinding sunlight.

I catch myself looking at him. I wonder what it's like to be this nice, and to be so casual about it. It's not like I'm not a nice person, but Milo's open with it, like he hides his smile from no-one. He offered to give me a tour like I'm an old friend, and I never once had the idea that he was judging me for being weird. Not even when I dipped two whole fingers in my drink like a psychopath.

We haven't taken five steps when Milo leaps forward and jumps onto the edge of the fountain, his hand finding the hand of the statue of a man I don't recognize in the middle of the water.

"Presenting!" His voice is loud and boisterous. "Mr. Alexander Hamilton! As we can see NYU's headmaster adored the Broadway Musical so much that he put up a statue of the guy. Talk about fangirl mania."

The smile that's tugging at my lips breaks into a grin and I feel it completely enveloping my face.

Milo smiles at me as he jumps off. "Come on, I'll show you the best reading nook in the library next."

As it turns out, Milo Macarevich was right: his tour is better than anyone else's could've been. By the time classes start next week, I'll feel more like a part of it. Not to mention, I actually managed to prove myself wrong: I made a friend. All by myself.

Milo and I have just spent more time exploring than I thought we would. By the time we climb up to a random dormitory's rooftop to take pictures for his instagram page, the sky's turned into a yellow with purple streaks, and the humid air has turned breezy and cold.

"You know, a few friends of mine put together a small get-together a few blocks from here. I think you'd enjoy it. You can invite your roommate if you want," he says after I've snapped a few pictures of him.

I look down at the screen of his phone and then hand it back to him, shrugging. "A small get-together doesn't really sound like the type of event a stranger could just crash."

"You're not a stranger. And I mean, usually a crowd turns up anyway. Word spreads fast around the city. You wouldn't stick out like a sore thumb, if that's what you're afraid of." Milo nudges me. "I'll text you the address, anyway, and I hope to see you there. But don't come if you don't want to. It's really not that important of an event."

"I'll think about it, then," I say.

Milo nods approvingly. He slides the phone into the pocket of his denim jacket and gestures towards the door to the rooftop. "C'mon, Nova. I'll walk you home."

You've got three push notifications.