I’m on the ground floor, in room eleven. Bramppath sent me a key card in the mail a couple of weeks ago, and we slot it into the door a few times until the chip’s accepted and the lock flashes green. Dennis whistles again as we head inside. The rooms at Bramppath are all private, and they’ve even managed to squeeze a full bed in here—just. That, a wardrobe and desk—both made of a dark cherrywood—and a leather desk chair, and that’s it for furnishings. The walls are a plain, washed-out cream, and the carpet’s a dark gray color, perfect for hiding stains. I try not to think about what might be camouflaged under my feet right now.

It’s plain, and it’s cramped, and it smells like disinfectant.

I love it.

After a couple of hours we manage to get my room looking less like a fancy prison cell and more like an Ikea display room. After a stern lecture from Mom to keep on top of my piano lessons, followed by a long goodbye that we have to repeat several times because Mom keeps chickening out from leaving the room, suddenly, they’re gone. And I’m alone.

I’m totally alone.

I wander around my room for a bit, folding my arms across my chest. There’s basically nothing familiar here. When Mom offered to take me on a Target shopping spree so I’d have all new things at Bramppath, I jumped at the chance. I figured the more new, glossy stuff I have the better, so I’ll stand out less. But now I’m regretting it. I’d take my old, striped, faded, cat-hair-covered sheets over new and glossy any day.

Besides. Target stuff won’t impress the students here. I was kidding myself.

Before the homesickness has a chance to really get started, I message Molly to tell her I’ve arrived.

It turns out her room is on the next level up, on B-floor, so she’s down in less than a minute. She spends a while politely admiring all the Target stuff, then she plonks on my bed and spreads her body into a starfish position while she bounces. “It’s so good to be in the senior cycle, you have no idea,” she says, patting the bed. “The small doubles we had last year were not okay.”

I straddle the desk chair and lean my chin on its back. “Is that like a twin XL? Because honestly even that would’ve been an upgrade for me from home.”

She props herself up and gives me a pitying look. The kind of look I would probably have taken offense to if I didn’t know Molly meant well. “How did you survive?”

“People survive sleeping on twins every day, Molly.”

I think that’s when she notices how she sounds, because she ducks her head. “Sorry. That was very ‘Rose’ of me.”