What We Left Behind

He frowns. “It was just a joke.”

“Oh, come on. How was she supposed to come back from that?”

He frowns some more. “I don’t know. I didn’t think about that.”

“Where did you get those shoes?” I ask him.

“A vintage shop down on Canal. Are you into vintage clothes?” He looks down at my Martha Jefferson Academy for Young Women Tennis Team T-shirt. “By that I mean real vintage, not some ancient crap you dug out of the bottom of your girlfriend’s closet.”

I clutch at my heart. “Your wit, it burns me.”

The guy sits down next to me. “Hi. I’m Carroll.”

I laugh some more. I can’t believe how good laughing feels after everything that’s happened. “No way.”

“Yes way.” He pulls out his wallet and shows me his New Jersey driver’s license. It says Carroll Ostrowski next to a photo of him looking twelve years old and even scruffier than he does now.

“Little-known fact,” he says. “In 1932, Carroll was the hundred and seventy-third most popular name for boy babies in the United States.”

“What happened after that?”

“It fell off the chart thirty years later.” Carroll smiles, showing off extremely prominent dimples. “My folks fancied themselves eccentrics.”

I laugh again. I can’t wait to tell Toni this story later. Toni’s parents are into old-fashioned names, too, so they named their daughters Antonia and Audrey. Bad, but not as bad as Carroll.

“You don’t have a nickname?” I ask Carroll.

“In high school I tried to have people call me Carrey, ’cause at least that sounded kind of like a guy’s name. Then I got beat up anyway, and I figured now that I’m out of that hell town, I should embrace the real me.”

“Okay, Carroll.” I smile. He’s clearly rehearsed this speech, but it’s funny anyway.

“So?” he asks. “I showed you mine. You show me yours.”

“Oh. Okay.” I dig in my bag and pull out my Maryland driver’s license.

“Gretchen Daniels,” he reads. “Also somewhat old-fashioned, and yet not the sort of name that prompts disbelief. I like it.”

“I’m glad you approve.”

The other guy, the one who stuck his head through my doorway earlier, motions for us to come with him. We get up and follow him down the street. I don’t know if he’s our orientation guide or our RA or just a very outgoing freshman, but whoever he is, he doesn’t know the city at all. He has us looping all the way around Washington Square Park.

It’s fine, though. I’m busy with Carroll. It’s distraction city over here.

“That’s my roommate,” Carroll says, pointing to a tall guy in a sports jersey. “Juan, from LA. He already hates me, but he’s hot, so I’m okay with it. Who’s your roommate?”

“I still haven’t seen her. I know her name’s Samantha and she’s from South Carolina. Oh, and she’s a goth. I know because there’s black lace and purple candles spread out all over her side of the room.”

“Is she in Tisch?” Carroll asks. Tisch is the arts school, where all the wannabe dancers and filmmakers go.

“No,” I tell him. “She’s Arts and Sciences, same as me.”

Carroll snorts. “Why’d you pay all that money to come here for that? You can take English and math anywhere.”

“Hey.” I give him a shove. “Anywhere isn’t New York. I guess you’re an artsy fartsy Tisch kid, then, since you have such an attitude about it?”

“Absolutely! I’m a drama queen all the way, baby.” He strikes a pose like he’s about to burst into song. I laugh.

We make fun of each other for the rest of the walk to the comedy club. Once we get inside, it turns out the comedians aren’t that great, so we spend most of the show whispering to each other and writing funny notes on our drink napkins. We annoy the heck out of everyone else in our group, but that’s probably because we’re having a way better time than they are. Carroll’s not as much fun to talk to as Toni, but then, no one I meet here is going to be as much fun as T. That’s the thing about soul mates, I guess.

It’s late when we get back to the dorm after the show, but my roommate still isn’t there.

“Maybe she had a séance to go to?” Carroll says when he sees all the candles.

“What if she’s been kidnapped?” I ask. “She is from South Carolina. A stranger in the big city. Some weirdo could totally have lured her into a van.”

“Yeah, you always hear about that happening to goth country bumpkins.”

“Should we go ask the homeless people outside if they’ve seen her?”

“Nah. Let the vampire fend for herself.” Carroll shoves some boxes out of his way and sits down on the floor. “Sit with me.”

I join him on the floor. For the first time all night, it’s awkward.

Suddenly I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what you’re supposed to talk about when you’re sitting on dirty industrial carpet in a dorm room surrounded by cardboard boxes full of books and shampoo and tampons and all the other junk you made your parents haul up from DC.

“So tell me about your girlfriend,” Carroll says, and just like that, the awkwardness is gone.

“What makes you so sure I have a girlfriend?” I finger my top hat charm and smile. Carroll’s certainty that I’m taken is making me feel a lot better about what happened yesterday. Things between me and Toni can’t be too terrible if I’m radiating coupledom.

“You’ve got that hippie granola Indigo Girls vibe.” Carroll points to my Birkenstocks, which aren’t so much hippie as they are superbly comfortable, but whatever. “So I figure that makes you a lesbo, and all lesbos have girlfriends. It’s, like, a law. I mean, not that I’ve ever met a lesbo before you, but trust me, I am wise in the ways of lesbos.”

I laugh. Toni would point out the lack of logic in his arguments, but that sort of thing doesn’t bother me.

“We’ve been together for almost two years,” I say. “T left for college today, too, in Boston.”

He asks to see a picture. I pull up our Queer Prom photo on my phone.

“Wow,” he says. “A redhead. She’s really butch, huh? With the short hair and the suit and all that?”

I shrug.

“You clean up good, though,” he says, pointing to the dress I was wearing in the photo. I’d borrowed it from my friend Jess. It was long and black with pink dinosaurs printed all over the fabric. “You should try combing your hair more often.”

I elbow him. “Some of us have better things to do than hang out in front of the mirror for hours every morning.”

“Touché,” he says, but he smiles like I complimented him. “What did you say your girlfriend’s name was?”

“Toni. T for short.”