Free Going Geek by Charlotte Huang Page B

“Fine. Still don’t want to talk about it.”
    “Okay,” she says, sighing. “Guess I’ll call it a night. You should come sometime. EDM can be totally cathartic.”
    “Sure,” I say, already heading back up the stairs.
    Even though it’s quiet now, my tenuous Great Depression groove is ruined for good. I go back to my room, where Opal is still meditating. I tiptoe around quietly and lie on my bed with my copy of
Frankenstein.
    I’ve read the same three pages eight times when Opal opens her eyes. But instead of standing up, she proceeds to do a series of bizarre-looking and -sounding breathing exercises. It’s one of the strangest sights I’ve ever seen, like she’s trying to shoot her tonsils out of her nose. I have to stop and watch, which she doesn’t seem to mind. “What the heck was that?” I ask when she’s finished.
    “Breath of fire. It helps with mental clarity and respiratory health,” she says.
    I stare at her, not bothering to hide my skepticism. If Opal’s the poster child for mental clarity, we’re all in serious trouble.
    —
    Friday doesn’t go any better, and by the time classes are over, I’m in a full-blown depression. Staying in bed turns out not to be a problem, since neither Leo nor my old friends have so much as texted to see how I am or what I’m doing.
    Saturday night rolls around, and I contemplate forcing myself to shower and get dressed to cover Classic Movie Night on the Field. But then showering seems ambitious, especially since no one will really be able to see me in the dark. Every member of the Calendar is expected to cover at least one campus event and report back on the hits and misses at the following meeting. Otherwise there’s no way I’d even consider getting out of bed.
    My dejected stupor wins out in the end. I blow off my assignment with the rationalization that Classic Movie Night has been going on forever. The Film Club couldn’t possibly screw it up. Plus I doubt anyone will miss me.
    Perhaps it’s finally dawned on my dorm mates that I don’t feel like discussing my personal life with them, because they steer clear of me. Then, on Sunday, I roll over to see Opal, already dressed, standing over me with a cup of tea. “Kombucha,” she says. “It’s supposed to calm and relax.”
    “Do I not seem calm?” I should, since I’ve barely moved the entire weekend. “Thanks, but I’m a coffee girl first thing in the morning.”
    “That’s great, except it’s noon.” She sets the mug down on my desk while I experiment with sitting up. “You should start doing yoga with me,” she says.
    “I really don’t think so.”
    “I practice six days a week. That’s how much you have to do it to get the full benefit.”
    “Okay, you lost me right there. I don’t do anything six days a week unless it involves nutrition or hygiene or sleep,” I mumble.
    “Sometimes not even then,” she says.
    I stand up, drape my bathrobe and towel over my arm, and grab my shower caddy off the dresser. I can take a hint. “Sorry for any inconvenience my imploding social life may have caused you,” I call over my shoulder.
    When I get back, she’s still there, sitting on the floor drinking the tea she brought for me. I unwrap my hair from its towel turban and start getting dressed. Or at least changing into different sweats. It’s weird to get naked in front of someone I don’t know, but it’s not like she’s paying attention. “What’s up with you and floors?” I ask.
    “Chairs are bad for you,” she says. I don’t even know what to say to that. “So going back to yoga—”
    “Aren’t we done talking about that? I was pretty sure we were.” I turn my back to her, which is very clear “I’m ignoring you” body language, but she’s not getting it.
    “What do you do as your athletics requirement?” she asks.
    This is a majorly sore subject. I spent my first year trying out for various teams and not making any of them. It’s not like I didn’t play