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suggested to Erin that most homeless people are unlikely to own portable Coleman
grills and REI camping gear, and she snorted and said, “Yeah, I pointed that
out. My warning fell on deaf ears.”)
    I couldn’t leave
my dorm and walk in any direction without passing people with whom I’d had
uncomplicated relationships just days before. Now their eyes shifted away when I
walked by, though some still smiled or waved before pretending to be deep in
conversation with someone else. Even fewer called out, “Hi, Jackie.” I didn’t tell
them I was no longer using that name.
    At first, Erin insisted
that the snubs were in my head, but after two weeks, she reluctantly concurred.
“People feel the need to choose sides when a relationship splits—it’s human
nature,” she said, her second-year psych classes kicking in. “Still. Cowards .”
I appreciated that she was willing to ignore her detached analysis in support
of me.
    It didn’t surprise
me that practically everyone chose Kennedy. He was one of them, after all. He
was the outgoing, charming, future world leader. I was the quiet, cute but
somewhat odd girlfriend… After the breakup, I became just a non-Greek
undergrad—to everyone but Erin.
    Tuesday, we passed
the reigning campus power-couple—Katie was president of Erin’s sorority and D.J.
was vice president of Kennedy’s fraternity. “Hi, Erin! Great outfit,”
Katie said, as though I wasn’t there. D.J. tipped his chin and smiled at Erin,
his eyes flicking over me, but he didn’t acknowledge my existence any more than
his girlfriend had.
    “Thanks!” Erin
responded. “Fuckheads,” she muttered right after, linking her arm through mine.
    When I’d moved
into my dorm room over a year ago, I’d been horrified to find myself with a
roommate who embodied the sorority girl stereotype. Erin had already claimed
the bed nearest the window. Above her headboard, she’d fastened shiny blue and
gold high school pom-poms to a huge cutout spelling “ERIN” which was coated in
gold glitter. Surrounding the giant gilded letters were posters covered in
photos of cheerleader events and homecomings with hulking football players.
    As I stood gaping
at her light-reflective side of our tiny room, she’d bounced through the door. “Oh,
hi! You must be Jacqueline! I’m Erin!”
    Diplomatically, I hadn’t
voiced the no shit comment that popped into my head.
    “Since you weren’t
here, I chose a bed—I hope you don’t mind! I’m almost done unpacking, so I can
help you.” Wearing a university T-shirt that almost exactly matched her upswept
coppery hair, she picked up my heaviest bag and swung it onto the bed. “I attached
a whiteboard to the door so we can leave messages to each other—my mom’s idea,
actually, but it sounded like a usable suggestion, don’t you think?”
    I blinked at her,
mumbling, “Uh-huh,” as she unzipped my bag and started removing the belongings
I’d brought from home. There had to be some mistake. I’d filled out a lengthy
roommate attribute preference sheet, and this girl appeared to have not one of those desired qualities. I’d basically described myself: a quiet, studious
bookworm who would go to bed at a decent hour. A non-partier who wouldn’t bring
a parade of boys through our room, or make it the floor headquarters for beer
pong.
    “It’s Jackie,
actually,” I’d said to her.
    “Jackie—so cute! I
do like Jacqueline, though, I have to admit. So classy. You’re lucky, you can
choose! I’m sort of stuck with Erin. Good thing I like it, huh? Okay, Jackie,
where should we hang this poster of—who is this?”
    I’d glanced at the
poster in her hands—the likeness of one of my favorite singers, who also played
the upright bass. “Esperanza Spalding.”
    “Never heard of
her. But she’s cute!” She’d grabbed a handful of tacks and hopped up on my bed
to press the poster against the wall. “How ‘bout here?”
    Erin and I had
come a long way in fifteen