She spit on a girl’s face and I knew: we were destined to be friends.
The idea of coming to college used to terrify me. Like crying on the living room floor terrified. Face stuffed into a pillow, hiding under the bed kinda terrified.
You might, as many people did, ask, “Jess, college is the best four years of your life. What’s so scary about it?”
And I would have shot over my shoulder as I sprinted out the door, “Everything.”
For example:
- Moving four hours away? No thank you.
- To a place where I don’t know anyone? I’m good.
- Living with a stranger? Nah.
- Communal bathrooms? That’s torture.
- Cafeteria food? I’ll pass.
- Figuring out what I want to do with my life? You’re funny.
- Having to take care of myself and be an “adult”? Not for me.
But at the very top of that list, one thing loomed particularly large. It resulted in nightmarish scenarios. Sent me ducking under my covers at night. Made me want to flee the country.
How…the h*ll… would I make friends?
You have to understand. I went to a painfully small highschool. There were about 100 people in grades 9–12. I graduated with many of the same kids I met in first grade. It’s like you’re five, and your mom is friends with someone else with a five-year-old. The two of you are just… automatically friends because your moms are.
The good thing is, you don’t have to win over friends. People fight over friendships like wild dogs over a rotisserie chicken. And as the rotisserie chicken, you never really know: do they like you? Or are you just available? With pickings this slim, even Mussolini would have a seat at the lunch table.
No part of my high school education had prepared me to socialize.
When I finally voiced this fear to my parents, my mom offered to make me a shirt.
“I’ll write on it, nice and bold,” she said.
Please Talk to Me
I don’t know how to make friends.
I turned down her offer.
Everyone kept promising me it just comes naturally. You’ll start talking and it’ll just work out, they said. Yeah, you greatly overestimate my social skills. I don’t want to talk to people. I can fake being an extrovert for a couple hours, but honestly? I really just want to hide in the woods and read books all day.
But when I got to school, I made myself try to meet people. Everyone else acted so eager to make friends. They’d just sit down next to you and start talking at you. And it was so easy for them! Like they enjoyed socializing with a total stranger. Madness.
After that first day, I just picked an extrovert to trail around after. She talked a mile a minute, flitted around the campus like a minnow, who’s completely cool with shark-infested waters. We weren’t really friends. She was more my buffer. I’d hide behind her blindingly bright personality and half-heartedly introduce myself. Technically meeting people, while still avoiding them.
That night, she wanted to go to some event, Kindling Friendships, I think. I stood awkwardly next to her around a bonfire, just a step outside of the circle. Right in the sweet spot.
I was happily gnawing on a marshmallow when She walked over. Actually, She kinda bounced. In one hand she held a s’more, the other a can of Mountain Dew.
“What’s up, I’m Laura.” She never stopped moving. Shifting from one foot to the other. Swinging her arms around as she talked. Shoving her wild hair out of her face.
My buffer and I introduced ourselves.
“Cool, cool.” Laura finished her s’more in one giant bite. Then, with her mouth still crammed with marshmallow and graham crackers, asked, “So, what are your all’s majors?”
I watched a fleck of marshmallow launch itself from her lips. It landed on my buffer’s cheek. She brushed it away with a look of disgust, before smiling uncomfortably at Laura. I tried not to laugh.
“Oh, sorry, my bad.” She chuckled awkwardly.
“It’s fine.” The girl ran a hand through her hair and glanced around. “Oh, cornhole’s open, you wanna play?” She asked me.
I didn’t. I liked this Laura. She was funny. But I didn’t want to say no and then have to talk to people. So I waved goodbye to her and went and played cornhole. That night, I wrote in my journal about it.
I met this girl, Laura. She’s funny. I hope I see her again.
Two weeks later, I’d ventured out of my room to some music event on campus. My buffer had disappeared in seconds, leaving me to wander around. I tried not to look as lost as I felt. Just eat your popcorn and act natural. Laura stood with a group of other girls from my floor. And I forced myself to go talk to them.
“Hey! You’re Jess, right?” Laura slapped me on the back.
“Yeah. And you’re Laura?” As if I didn’t know.
She nodded and offered me a chip. “I was just saying my roommate’s gone, so I’m all alone in the room tonight.”
“Oh, mine too!” And then, I heard myself saying, “We should have a sleepover!” As soon as the words left my mouth I cringed. A sleepover? What are we, twelve? You don’t even know her, and you want to let her spend the night in your room? That’s so weird. Nice j —
“YES,” Laura’s eyes grew so big they looked like they were about to pop out. “That would be awesome.”
So the rest of the night, we hung out together. We painted rocks and tie-dyed shirts and ate our weight in popcorn. And then, when we were peopled out, she dragged her mattress down the hallway and crammed into my dorm room. Over peanut m&ms and salt and vinegar chips, I told her my whole life’s story, and she told me hers.
Unlike most people, Laura didn’t zap my social battery. She didn’t suck away my energy and leave me staggeringly tired and wanting to curl into a ball. Talking to her came easy. Suddenly I had so much to say. And she listened to it all.
That next morning we went to breakfast together, and lunch and she convinced me to go bridge-jumping into a river with some upperclassmen she knew. Even though I knew no one, I knew Laura. And she was safe.
After dinner that night, we headed back to my room to watch a movie. Dark clouds sagged in the sky, and the wind snatched at my hair. It was going to rain. Laura turned around and looked at me, walking backward.
“You know something?” She glanced over her shoulder to make sure she didn’t run into something.
“What?” I skipped along after her.
“I think you’re my person.”
