I never expected to associate freedom with Tuesday, of all the days of the week. But since today is the last day of summer break, right before classes start up tomorrow, freedom is precisely the word that comes to mind when I think of this Tuesday.
After a few nights of rest, the girls had a brilliant idea to pick up some ingredients to make some pasta for dinner tonight in the common room—a small gathering before classes start up tomorrow. Norah suggested pasta and none of us could think of anything else so we decided to splurge on some spaghetti sauce and a cooking pot.
When we arrive at the local supermarket, which happens to be only a ten-minute walk from Carissa, Norah immediately heads for the cozy coffee stand strategically tucked into the corner of the entrance. She drags the rest of us with her despite our reluctance—it is five in the afternoon, after all. Usually, I'd be all up for an ice-cold matcha but if I go anywhere near caffeine right now, I simply won't fall asleep tonight.
Alas, we each end up getting a drink at the overpriced coffee stand, although I was lucky enough to find a non-caffeinated option. Never again will I agree to spend eight dollars on sixteen ounces of impossibly sweet strawberry lemonade, though.
After a few minutes of strolling around the store, Norah beams at the three of us and asks, "So, how does everyone rate their drinks?"
I glance down at my half-empty lemonade and then look back up to meet eyes with Opal, who seems to have the same opinion as I do.
"Not bad," Cara says first, taking another sip of her caramel macchiato. Always so predictable.
"Out of ten?" Opal asks and Norah nods. They take a sip of their water cup and smack their lips once before answering, "Probably an eight. Can't complain; it's water."
I let out a small snicker as I try to come up with the most accurate rating of my drink. Is it my personal taste? Not entirely. But is it fair to say it's objectively bad?
"Mine is definitely a seven," Cara adds. "The coffee's a little too bitter but the caramel is really good."
I take one more sip before I devise my final answer. "I'd give mine a nice, even five."
"Oh, only a five?" Norah asks, her face seeming disappointed. "How come?"
"I mean, it's a good drink!" I tell her, a little worried that I somehow offended her. "I guess I just prefer my lemonade a little more on the sour side is all."
She nods. "Yeah, that makes sense!"
Without even realizing it, I somehow end up sharing a confused look with Cara, who seems to notice instantly before she rips her eyes away from mine and stares at the aisles mindlessly instead. At this point, I just have to accept that I'll never be able to experience the kindness of Crossfaded Cara again. Whoever that was, she's not coming back.
We make it to the kitchen aisle swiftly, picking out a cute pastel set of cookware that costs a ridiculous amount of money for what it is. The others don't seem to care much, but I guess that's to be expected from a couple of Barington students.
I can't speak for the other two, but I've known Cara for far too many years, and I know that girl has money. She's not quite millionaire status from what I know, but she lives comfortably enough to not have to worry about scholarships and travel expenses. Though, considering her over-dramatic work ethic, I bet she's not exactly swimming in student loans.
Since I'm the first one finished with my drink, I toss it before volunteering to carry the box of cookware. Of course, nobody thought to grab a cart on our way inside, but this will do for now.
We find the spaghetti sauce and pasta in the same aisle and Opal holds onto them while we start heading to the front of the store to check out. But on the way back, I happen to accidentally make eye contact with a tall guy in a white tank top and a tropical button-down layered over it. He smiles at me, but I avert my eyes; I can't have someone try to flirt with me when half of my body is covered by a giant box of pots and pans.
We make it to the front of the store in a short minute and place the box on the self-checkout scanner. The number shoots up into the triple digits and I can feel my palms start to sweat. I look around at the others, who just continue scanning the other items like nothing, and I silently pray for them to be oblivious to my anxiety. Usually, I'm decent at hiding it—or pretending it doesn't exist, rather—but I can't help it when it comes to financials. Growing up broke does that to you, I guess.
As soon as everything is scanned, Norah and Opal both start to reach into their pockets for their wallets, until Cara stops them.
"Oh, it's fine," she says, "I've got it covered. We can just split the cost later and you guys can Venmo me or something."
Something starts to crawl up the back of my throat and speaking suddenly becomes an impossible task. As soon as Cara pays for the items, I snatch the box back to avoid having to engage in conversation, hoping nobody notices my silence. Even if they do, are we really close enough yet for them to mention it?
The walk back to the dorm is much worse than it was going the other way, and I can't possibly imagine why. The only difference this time around is—oh, yeah, a heavy box of cookware we'll probably only use once and then abandon in our shared pantry for the rest of the year. When I wished for ten pounds of pot last Christmas, this is not what I meant.
"You need help carrying that?" Opal asks suddenly. I glance over at them, trying to play it cool despite the groans slipping past my lips.
"I'm alright," I tell them. "It's not that bad."
"We won't make it back for another five minutes. Are you sure?"
"Five minutes is nothing; I'll be okay."
"Just hand them the box, Greenwood," Cara says suddenly, turning back to face me. Her expression is annoyed on the surface, as well as the tone of her voice, but behind her furrowed brows I can see another layer of concern. It's practically invisible, but it's there.
I don't waste time arguing. Instead, I hand over the box to Opal, who hadn't been carrying anything anyway, and I take a deep breath to enjoy the dropped weight. It makes a much bigger difference than I expected.
As soon as we make it back to the dorm, Norah spends no time busting the door open and dropping the bag of dinner ingredients on our dining table. Opal drops the box onto one of the chairs and immediately takes a knife to the box to open it up.
Within minutes, we're already making our way to the first floor common room, where the community kitchen remains. It's empty, despite the time just barely reaching six o'clock, and Norah starts preparing everything to begin cooking. Opal washes the big pot and other utensils in the sink first, but as soon as they finish, they take a seat on one of the kitchen counters. Cara and I somehow find ourselves standing beside each other in silence, both leaning against the wall.
"So, why did you guys apply at Barington?" Opal asks Cara and me out of the blue. I glance over at Cara, but she doesn't meet my eyes this time.
"Well, Barington has pretty much been my dream school since my freshman year," Cara explains with her head tilted to the side. "My parents hated the idea of me going to an art school at first, but once they saw those rejection letters from the Ivies start rolling in, I think they stopped caring about where I go to college—"
"—Just that you go in general," Opal finishes Cara's anecdote seamlessly and Cara nods. "Yeah, that's how it was between my parents too. My dad just wanted to make sure I get some sort of higher education, but my mom is still mad at me for choosing Barington over Stanford."
"You chose Barington over Stanford?" I ask, trying not to sound too incredulous.
Opal lets out a small, quiet chuckle. "Yeah, I know; it sounds absurd."
"I don't know," Cara chimes in. "Isn't Barington pretty much on the same level as Stanford? At least in terms of notoriety, right?"
"Sure, but if mother dearest hasn't heard enough about it on the news, it's practically just another community college to her."
Cara lowers her head with a grimace as I pull a couple of my braids forward and start twisting them around my finger.
"I get what you mean," I tell Opal. "My dad supports pretty much everything I do, but my mom is always on my ass. She's always going on about me having to be the best version of myself. Whatever that means."
"That sounds kind of sweet," Cara says. I try not to glare back at her; I know she means well. At least I hope she means well. But truly, in every way possible, she has no idea what she's talking about.
My mother is not sweet. Not behind closed doors.
"Is Norah good?" I ask instead of instigating something with Cara that can be completely avoided by just changing the subject. "She hasn't spoken this whole time."
"Oh, she's fine," Opal says, waving their hand. "She gets really focused when she cooks for others since she knows she can be clumsy. She wants to make sure she doesn't accidentally poison someone."
"How would that even..." My voice trails off softly as Cara snickers beside me.
"She's such a character," Cara says. "It's amazing."
Opal grins. "It's definitely something."