Free Been There, Done That by Carol Snow Page B

color!”) but couldn’t decide whether her milk crates should be just plain white or pink, too. (“Is that overdoing it?!”)
    Still clutching her rose-scented letter, I called Tim.
    “Dead,” I said when he answered.
    “Excuse me?”
    “We’re playing Jeopardy . The answer to the question is, ‘Dead.’”
    “Okay, okay.” He was quiet for a moment. “What does Elvis think the rest of us are?”
    “Try this: What are you going to be if you don’t get me a single room at Mercer College?”
    “Ah.”
    “You can’t expect me to live in a pink room with a girl named Tiffany.”
    “You know, Kathy,” he cooed. “Some reporters sleep in tents and bombed-out buildings because that’s where the story is.”
    “A bombed-out building can have a certain panache,” I snapped. “The distressed look is very in.”
    “You’re a freshman, and freshmen at Mercer have room-mates. You’d stick out if you had a single. We’re talking about seven weeks of your life. Think of it as your bunker.”
    He was right, and I knew it. “But I hate pink!” I whimpered.
     
 
As recommended in my freshman packet, I called her. I didn’t get past “Hi, Tiffany, this is Katie O’Connor” (I’d always wanted to be called Katie, which sounded so much hipper than Kathy; O’Connor is my mother’s maiden name) when she started gushing. “I’m so excited that you called! Ever since I got my room assignment, I’ve been picturing you and wondering what you’re like and hoping we’ll be best friends. Since they used those living habits questionnaires for matching and all, you gotta think we’re a lot alike. I mean, the computer can’t be wrong, can it?”
    “I don’t think so,” I said. “Modern technology is pretty impressive.” I picked up a sponge and started working on a coffee stain on my counter.
    “Did you read 1984? ”
    “What? Oh—Orwell. Yes.” I didn’t add that I’d actually read it in the eighties, when she was probably still chewing on board books.
    “That’s, like, so scary.”
    “It makes you think,” I ventured.
    “When you think about it, Big Brother is already out there. Like, the government knows so much about people.”
    “The government doesn’t bother me so much,” I said. “It’s those telemarketers who call at dinner time.” I paused, trying to bat the conversation back, then caught myself. “My mother hates the telemarketers.”
    “Mine does, too.”
    When Tiffany asked about my interests, I was prepared. I sang alto in my high school choir and in our a cappella group, the Roses (I was supposed to have graduated from Roosevelt High School). I was photo editor of the yearbook (as I said this, I realized I didn’t have a yearbook, so I hoped Tiffany wouldn’t pursue this part of my past). And, finally, I was president of the French Club.
    “Quelle choses accompli!” Tiffany trilled.
    “Yeah, uh— merci .”
    Tiffany’s resume was equally well-rounded (not to mention real). She played oboe in her school orchestra and hoped to join a choral group at Mercer. A member of the junior varsity swim team, she loved the sport but lacked the shoulders necessary to make her really good. She had been a member of the bulletin board committee, which, in her tenure, had introduced many novel lighting effects. But her real devotion lay outside of school.
    “I was the secretary of our local CYC chapter.”
    “CYC?”
    “Committed Young Christians. We go on retreats and talk about our faith and make pacts with God.”
    “What kind of pacts?”
    “No drinking, no smoking, no premarital sex. But don’t get the wrong idea about me—I love to have fun!”
     
 
I waited till after eleven to call Tim. It wasn’t the low rates, so much—I just relished the idea of waking him up.
    “I don’t think my roommate is going to be much help in getting me to the hookers.”

twelve
    Sheila was thrilled about my upcoming project.
    “It’s all set,” I told her. “I’ve got a dorm