Plurally Inclined - Part I

Welcome to Lyman Hall. It’s early morning and the usual sounds of dorm life seep in from the hallway. Conversations shouted from the communal bathroom / shower. Hair driers droning. Stereos and TVs blaring a dozen different stations at once.

Our room is halfway down the hallway, diagonally across from the head, so we hear a lot more of the comings and goings (and people getting sick after a night of partying). It’s set up like the rest of the rooms on this wing. Two twin XL beds, dressers, closets. Combination desk / bookshelves. If you draw a line down the center of the floor, the two sides are mirror images, almost.

Cathy, our roommate, has the neater half. Van Gogh’s Starry Night over the bed. A few knickknacks on the dresser. Everything in its place. Thing is, Cathy has an advantage. She doesn’t actually live here. She makes pit-stops in between partying and boys and the occasional class. She also doesn’t have a dozen headmates who’re out and about making messes as quickly as we can clean them up.

In comparison to Cathy’s space, our side is cluttered and eclectic, the walls covered in posters. Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Zoe’s). Michelle Kwan on ice (Heather’s). The Eifel Tower (Suzanne’s). Lots of B.J.’s colorful crayon artwork. A corkboard on the wall by the desk boasts photographs, Post-It notes, a Battlestar Galactica Calendar, several strands of Mardi Gras beads -- usual stuff. A dorm-sized fridge with a portable television perched on top is squeezed between the dresser and the desk.

On the TV screen, Curious George and his dachshund pal Hundley are roller-skating through town. B.J., sitting Indian-style on the bed, giggles along with George and Hundley’s misadventures while eating Frosted Flakes out of a snack pack. (They’re grrreat!) She is four, going on forty, a tow-head with aquamarine eyes, the most precocious, artistic, and outspoken of all our littles.

With all the distractions going on, Suzanne, at the computer, is struggling to finish up our French homework. Suzanne is older, twenty-eight perhaps -- she doesn’t tell her age -- with dark hair and eyes. She is gorgeous in an anorexic super-model kind of way. And French. (Nuff said.) The most wonderful thing about Suzanne is her voice, a cross between Edith Piaf and Joan Jett, whom she uncannily resembles.

Suzanne reaches over and turns down the volume on the TV. Suzanne has been described as having chronic PMS -- spell that B-I-T-C-H -- but she seems to be having a good day. Taking advantage of the uncharacteristic good mood, B.J. reaches over and turns it back up.

By the dresser, Zoe, our resident fashionista, helps Heather accessorize for class. Heather is nineteen and a bit of a dork in spite of being smart as hell. She has long, straight blond hair and cerulean blue eyes. Hollywood would say she’s a bit chunky, but no one’s gonna call her thunder thighs. It’s all muscle from working out on the ice.

“Jade or Topaz,” she asks, holding up one ear ring of each.

Zoe gives her the once-over. She is a younger, idealized version of Heather. At seventeen, she’s sexy and confident and looks a lot like Sarah Michelle Gellar on the Buffy poster.

“Topaz,” Zoe decides.

In the corner, the inkjet printer whirs. Suzanne leans back in her chair, pretending to yawn, and taps B.J. on the far shoulder. When B.J. glances away, Suzanne snatches a piece of cereal and pops it in her mouth.

“Hey!” B.J. says, realizing what’s happened.

“You kids play nice,” Heather says, “or I’m gonna separate you.”

“Awww, Mama!” Suzanne says with her French lilt. She scans the paper that’s come from the printer and reaches it toward Heather. “Your homeworks.”

“Merci, Mademoiselle.” Zoe takes it and adds it to a stack of books and folders on the bed.

And then the door opens and Cathy slips inside.


Cathy is twenty and striking, even with wet-combed hair and no makeup. She will go far in life. Cathy is the sort of girl who’ll wind up as a broadcast journalist or married to a millionaire. What she lacks in looks she makes up in sexually explicit clothing. Her BFF is a Wonderbra.

Heather shovels a spoonful of cereal in her mouth and turns off the TV as Cathy studies her wardrobe. The room is empty otherwise. No Zoe. No B.J. No Suzanne.

“Hey, Heath? Ladies’ night at the forty watt. Don’t wait up.” Cathy stopped asking Heather if she’d like to come along back in the fall. Noisy crowds aren’t Heather’s scene. Also, she doesn’t own a fake ID and is too big a wuss to get one. Cathy respects this and doesn’t push it.

“Have fun,” Heather says. “And don’t worry about me -- all alone, slaving away over French conjugations.”

“Not a chance.”

Cathy appraises Heather as she gathers her books.

“I like the topaz,” she says. “It brings out the color in your eyes.”

Heather grins as she heads for the door. “Thanks.”