Chapter 1
Clarice Sterling arrived at RISD on a gray September morning, the kind where the sky looked undecided, and the air smelled faintly of wet pavement. She stepped out of the rideshare with her backpack slung over one shoulder and her portfolio case held tight against her chest, as if someone might try to take it from her. No one did, of course. No one even looked at her. Students were too busy hauling boxes, hugging parents, or pretending they weren’t terrified.
Clarice preferred it that way. The less attention, the better.
Her dorm building was old brick softened by ivy, the kind of place people described as “charming” when they didn’t have to live in it. She climbed the stairs slowly, counting each step in her head. Counting helped. Numbers didn’t lie. Numbers didn’t smile at you and wait for you to trust them.
She reached the second floor, found the door marked 214, and paused. Her heart thudded once, hard. She wasn’t afraid of the room. She was afraid of the person inside it.
Her new roommate.
She knocked.
The door swung open immediately, as if someone had been standing right behind it. A woman in her late forties stared at her with the kind of intensity Clarice associated with school administrators and mothers who volunteered too much. Her hair was neat, her blouse pressed, her expression alert in a way that made Clarice’s shoulders tense.
“Oh! You must be Clarice,” the woman said brightly. “I’m Elodie’s mother, Elle.”
Clarice blinked. She hadn’t expected a parent. She certainly hadn’t expected one who looked like she was ready to conduct a full wellness check.
“Yes,” Clarice said quietly. “Hi.”
Elle stepped aside, ushering her in with a sweep of her arm. “Come in, come in. Elodie’s just finishing organizing her desk.”
Clarice entered the room, which smelled faintly of lavender and something citrusy. The space was small but tidy, with two beds, two desks, and a window overlooking the quad. A girl with brown hair and soft features sat at the right-hand desk, lining up pens with careful precision. Her laminated medication schedules were taped across the dorm room.
“Elodie,” her mother said, “your roommate is here.”
Elodie turned, smiling gently. “Hi, Clarice.”
Her voice was warm, but her movements were slow, deliberate, like she was thinking through each one before committing. Clarice noticed the pill organizer on the desk — three rows, morning, afternoon, night — each compartment filled.
She’d been told Elodie had a medical routine. She hadn’t expected it to be so visible.
“Hi,” Clarice said again, setting her backpack down. She felt the mother’s eyes on her, assessing, cataloging. Clarice’s skin prickled.
Elodie’s mother stepped closer. “I got your number from the housing office,” she said, as if this were normal. “I also have your parents’ numbers. Just in case.”
Clarice stiffened. “Okay.”
She didn’t know what else to say. She didn’t want to be rude. But she also didn’t want this woman to have her parents’ numbers. Her parents were kind, loving, and private. They didn’t need a stranger to call them because Clarice’s roommate passed gas or something.
Elodie must have sensed the tension, because she spoke softly. “Mom, maybe you should head out soon. Clarice probably wants to unpack.”
Her mother hesitated, then nodded. “All right. I’ll call you tonight.”
She kissed Elodie’s forehead, gave Clarice one last assessing glance, and left.
The door clicked shut.
Silence settled over the room like dust.
Clarice exhaled slowly. “She’s… involved.”
Elodie laughed — a small, tired sound. “She worries. A lot.”
Clarice didn’t respond. She didn’t trust herself to say anything that wouldn’t sound judgmental. She opened her suitcase and began unpacking, placing her clothes in the dresser, her sketchbooks on the shelf, her paints in the drawer.
Elodie watched her for a moment, then returned to her desk. “If you need anything, just ask.”
Clarice didn’t ask for things. She didn’t need things. She needed space, quiet, and the ability to disappear when necessary.
But as she arranged her belongings, she noticed Elodie’s pill organizer again. Morning. Afternoon. Night. Three times a day. Every day.
Clarice wondered what it felt like to need that much help.
She wondered what it felt like to accept it.
She didn’t ask. She didn’t comment. She didn’t smile.
She simply finished unpacking, sat on her bed, and tried to ignore the strange, unfamiliar feeling settling in her chest — the sense that this girl, this quiet, fragile-seeming girl, might be someone she would have to learn how to exist beside.
Someone she might have to trust.
Someone who might trust her.
Clarice wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t ready for anything.
But the semester had begun, and she was here, and Elodie Hart — with her pill organizer and her gentle voice and her overprotective mother — was her roommate.
And Clarice Sterling, nineteen, African American, gifted painter with a mind wired like a storm cloud, was going to have to figure out how to live with that.
Whether she wanted to or not.
