Free The Rearranged Life by Annika Sharma

Sophia’s doing and if she’s mentioned anything about his roommate, the glimpse of us as sixth-graders spreading messages of someone’s crush to each other in whispered tones comes to mind. It’s easy to visualize texts in lieu of the notes marking
Do you like me? Check yes or no.
    “You aren’t getting anything about that out of me. I’m like 007.”
    “I’ll squeeze it out of you,” he promises. “We’ve got all night.”
    “Challenge accepted,” I tell him, and he turns a shade more serious.
    “Enough about them, though. How are you doing? Feeling better after yesterday?”
    “I am.” I finally fill him in on the baby steps I’ve taken over the last few weeks to get over what happened. I can put on makeup and dress up without guilt. I don’t feel as though I’m walking on pins and needles at night. There are only a few consequences. I don’t wear headphones at night anymore, to stay more alert when I walk around campus. I’ve had a few nightmares that have woken me drenched in sweat but overall, I’ve escaped any permanent damage. I’ve also learned to get my own drinks.
    “You’re tougher than you look.”
    “I hope that’s a compliment.”
    “It is. It’s scary being victimized, I’m sure. And it’s admirable you’re doing what you can to calm yourself when you feel tense. You’re resilient.”
    I went on a class trip to Paris in high school and we were all asked to use one word to describe the Mona Lisa. We had so many adjectives produced: mysterious, sweet, pretty, ugly, special, unspecial (way to go, Todd Peters). How would the Mona Lisa have described herself? Would she say she was any of those things? To turn the mirror back on yourself is always different. When I look at pictures, I always notice a flaw or a fine point I miss when I only stare at my reflection. James’ assessment that I am resilient is one of those points I’ve never considered.
    “Do you want to get something to drink?” I gesture to the counter.
    We wait in a line of three people. When I bring out my wallet to pay, James stops me and tells the barista, “She’s with me.”
    I really like how that sounds. A daydream begins where James introduces me as his girlfriend to all his friends.
Way ahead of yourself
, my mind tells me, and I stop abruptly. The barista calls my name and his together, and we collect our drinks. As we walk back to the table, I replay the mingling of our names in my head.
James and Nithya.
It is the furthest thing from unappealing. It sounds dignified–synonymous with Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde. Not necessarily a promising ending… but meant to be nonetheless.
    “So, is Tristan your only sibling?” I take a sip of my hot chocolate, and he does the same with his iced coffee before answering.
    “No, I have an older brother, Maxwell. He’s twenty-seven, lives out in California now.”
    I picture Maxwell as an older version of James–maybe he has shaggier hair because he’s the surfer type, or maybe he dresses like James with his sweaters and baggy jeans, a combination of beach boy and future investment banker.
    “He’s a doctor,” he answers me when I ask, proving my ‘James’ life story’ radar is still in need of some refining. “He’s the perfect child in our family. Valedictorian, Ivy League undergrad and medical, residency at his top choice now. We gave up trying to outdo him.” He finds it comical. I’d find it daunting.
    “Is Tristan the troublemaker if Max is the perfect one?”
    “No… well, maybe,” he corrects himself. “The three of us go in order in terms of being uptight. Max is more rigid. He chose the traditional career route. Tristan is really laidback and his sports journalism career path is, like, the total opposite of Max’s methodical way of planning his life. I am somewhere in the middle.”
    “What are your majors, anyway?”
    “Bioengineering and crime, law, and justice. Totally unrelated, I know.”
    “Wow, what can you even do