Until the Day

My mother was the one who got me into making lists.

It all began when five-year-old me was given permission to open the front door to family members, but the real issue was that five-year-old me couldn’t quite focus on a lot of things simultaneously. When the doorbell rang, I was helping Ma wash the dishes because our dishwasher had taken its last breath earlier that week and she gave me permission to leave for a minute or two.

My mind was still focused on washing the dishes and my hands were soaking wet; naturally, I couldn’t twist the doorknob or even pick up my tiny wooden footstool to be tall enough to see who was outside, so my first decision was to wipe my hands somewhere. That somewhere ended up being Ma’s prized curtains—the pearl-white ones with lace at the end, the ones who must always remain clean.

I didn’t think.

I picked up my footstool, decided it was okay to open the door and welcomed Aunt Nancy and Cousin Hayden inside. Cousin Hayden liked to mess with me, being fifteen years older than me and being on summer break, and it was no big surprise for him to walk inside the house as if he owned the place . . . right before Mother came running down the stairs to greet them. When she saw the soap-coated curtains, I felt like digging a hole and burying myself in it.

Aunt Nancy and Cousin Hayden were related to Mother, but not to me, as Ma was the one who conceived me through a sperm donor before meeting Mother.

My sperm donor was white, or so she says, and I got my Puerto Rican heritage from Ma, bless her, who made sure to let me grow up in a mix of her culture and Mother’s. We lived in California at the time, and most of my friends were like me, so I didn’t have much trouble fitting in.

Cousin Hayden, however, was a white guy wearing dreadlocks until his twenty-first birthday, which was when a few of his classmates forced him to shave them off. That straightened him up (not literally, though, as the dude is now dating another guy).

So, Mother. She was pissed, while Ma said it wasn’t that big of a deal (“Hayden, sweetie, shave those things off” “It’s a cultural statement” “You look absurd”), and made me go back to my room and write down a list of all the ways that situation could have been avoided.

I kept making lists from that day forward, with a few focusing on my academic tasks (things to study!) and with others dictating my personal life (grocery lists, things to do that week, people I want to invite for my birthday besides Natasha because I don’t want to look like a loner who only has one friend). I kept doing it, even after Mother died, mostly because it was the only thing I had to keep me from losing control of my life.

Cousin Hayden eventually went to med school and turned into a psychiatrist, but he couldn’t be my doctor—not that I wanted him to. He referred me to one of his colleagues and I quit therapy when I was eighteen out of mutual accord, as my new doctor thought I was sane enough to not depend on a piece of paper to keep myself happy.

I was fine—I am. I’m moving on, living my life, and moving to Massachusetts thanks to the beautiful acceptance letter from Harvard that came in the mail.

“Your mother would be so proud of you,” Ma whispered, arms slung around my shoulders, and I buried my face in her hair, appreciating how she has been wearing the same perfume for the past nineteen years. I wondered how much I’ll miss it while being away. “I’m proud of you, Monty. So proud.”

“Thank you, Ma,” I whispered back. “I’m proud of myself, too.”

She took a step back, still holding my shoulders. “Do you have your lists?” I gave her an energetic nod. “Good. They’ll help you if you get lost at first, but try to not depend on them too much, will you? You need to learn to . . . go with the flow sometimes. Things won’t always go as planned.”

“I know.” I grabbed my olive-green anorak, thanks to my handy ‘things I must not forget to pack because the weather in Massachusetts sucks’ list. “I’ll be fine. Should I call you every day?”

“You’ll soon be busy enough to forget about doing that.” I chuckled and, while part of me knew that was true, the other hoped it wouldn’t be. Ma is the only thing I’ll have in Boston that reminds me of home—both California and New Jersey—and what will keep my feet on the ground considering my surfboard was off-limits. “But yes. Try to update me at least once a week, alright? Just so I can know everything is okay.”

“Will do. I’ll write it down as soon as I can find paper and a pen.”

Shortly more than an hour and a half later, I arrived at my destination.

I miss home. I miss Ma. I miss Mother.

Fortunately for me, I did my research on the best way to go from the airport to Harvard. Unfortunately for me, I have to take a cab thanks to the insane amount of luggage I carry, though I’ve always been more of a public transport kind of girl, mostly thanks to Mother.

She was a vegan, with a mane of dark hair like Alanis Morissette, and insisted on making me purposely go out of my way to do things for the environment I usually didn’t think about.

Except for recycling. That was something I learned in first grade, made a list of where I should put everything I threw out, and took care of myself.

Ma, on the other hand, just rolled her eyes at most of the things Mother said. Granted, she also wanted to help the environment and was the first out of the three of us to remind us to recycle and save water, but she also makes a killer asopao.

Ironically enough, the first thing I see when the cab leaves is a girl throwing an empty plastic bottle to the glass container right in front of the doors leading to the campus. She does it without thinking twice, her red ponytail bouncing up and down as she makes her way inside and is greeted by what I assume is her group of friends—who, I should note, are completely oblivious to the crime against nature she has just committed.

I don’t want to get on my classmates’ bad side, especially on my first day, so I merely shake my head, suck it up and pray my muscles won’t give up on my way to my dorm room.

Weld Hall, standing in all its five-floor glory, is blinding, even with the sun hidden behind the clouds above my head, and I know there really is no reason for me to be as nervous as I currently am. The hardest part was getting into Harvard, and I survived that—with distinction.

So. Weld Hall. I was booked into a five-person suite, with the number five following me everywhere I go (I was five when I made my first list, I had to wait five weeks to receive my acceptance letter and Mother broke five ribs when she died), and I’m stuck in a room with my roommate, whoever they are, as no one bothered to give me any information about them.

The room is empty when I get there, luckily for me, which gives me enough time to rearrange my side. The suite starts flooding with my suitemates shortly after and I know I should get to know them considering we’ll be living together for a long while (and I’m not shy! Despite the awfully embarrassing lack of close friends I had in high school, I’ve always been a pretty outgoing person; I’m just selective regarding the people I hang out with), but I’d rather get acquainted with my surroundings beforehand.

I almost cry. Almost. The folded piece of paper shoved into the back-pocket of my jeans doesn’t let me do it, though—Tasha wouldn’t let me do it and, if I focus enough, I swear I can hear her voice in the back of my head.

Tasha has always had that skill, never letting others forget about her. I sure as hell haven’t.

Tasha, Tasha, Tasha. I haven’t seen the girl in over a year, as I am a year below her and no one knows what happened to her after she graduated last summer, but she’s still everywhere, marking my body like a tattoo. It’s not like I didn’t try to find out, but, considering her parents blame me for the end of our friendship, I can’t say I’ve gotten a lot of helpful answers.

It’s only when I finish hanging my fairy lights above my bed that I allow myself to check the last box on my to-do list and take off my anorak, throwing it to the pillowed chair by a wooden desk, since it’s not threatening to rain anymore.

My back muscles are aching as if I had mysteriously aged fifty years and not even my clumsy massages can help, so I quickly fix my hair in front of the mirror, make sure there are no underboob sweat stains plastered on my tank-top and head out of the door.

There are only two of my suitemates in the common room, but I could have sworn I had heard more than just two voices when they came through the door.

The girl, tall and full of curves, has her hair up in a bun and sips from a tiny cardboard cup from the café I saw outside; she throws me a bright grin when she sees me and I think I try to return it, but my chapped lips crack when I do so.

The guy, with brown skin and glasses, is writing something down on a piece of paper and, for a split second, I wonder if he’s going to be my list buddy or if I’m just overly enthusiastic.

Monty, Natasha laughed, you know not everyone is as into lists as you are, right?

Yeah. I know.

She’s Leah and he’s Jared, but they’re not roommates—in fact, Jared got the only single room in the suite as per his request, while Leah’s roommate hasn’t gotten here yet (not that she knows who they are, much like me) and our other suitemates are scattered around the campus, with a few having gone to the solarium, which I have absolutely no clue what it is.

I decide I want to be a nice, welcoming roommate and drag my ass outside to go buy us both a cup of coffee, glad my cardigan is warm enough to make up for the protection my tank-top doesn’t quite offer me.

I also practice my introduction to my roommate, ranging from too distant (“hi, I’m Montana”) from too ecstatic (“hey, roomie! I’m Montana”), and end up making several people look at me from the corner of their eye because my murmurs are too loud as we stand in the line of the café.

In theory, a neutral approach would be the ideal one, as I know nothing about my roommate and don’t want to scare them by immediately getting too comfortable or making them think I don’t give a damn by being too cold.

In theory. I could make a list of all the variables that would invalidate that theory, but my balance is only relatively good when I’m standing on a surfboard, not when I’m holding two cups of coffee and have to find a way of getting back to my room without spilling them. They’re scorching hot against my palms and I whimper in pain as I quickly cross the court, almost skipping on my Converse sneakers, and make sure to nearly bump against, at least, seven people.

The heating system of Weld Hall does wonders to warm up my chilly bones and the difference of temperatures on the outside and on the inside of the building is abysmal. I’m sweating in no time, to my dismay, as I was counting on looking presentable by the time I got back, and the elevator on the ground floor is suddenly declared my new best friend.

Leah and Jared are gone when I enter our suite, balancing one coffee cup on top of the other one just so I can get my keys from my pocket, and the outside of my room is exactly how I left it . . . except the door is now ajar and I definitely remember having closed and locked it.

Dread begins to creep its way up my brain, with this meaning one of two things—either I’m being robbed on my first day of college or my estranged roommate has finally decided to bless the suite with their presence.

When I push open the door with my knee, however, I soon discover I couldn’t have done it at a worse time. I walk right into someone, but it’s not my body that crashes against theirs—it’s the cup of coffee, the top one, and the scalding liquid stains their t-shirt before they jump back, the cup falling to the wooden floor with a soft thud to empty what’s left inside it. I gasp, but all there is around me is eerie silence.

I risk a glance up at the person standing in front of me, right as he starts hissing in pain and grabbing handfuls of his t-shirt to keep it away from his skin, and all I can do is stupidly cover my mouth with my hand and blabber apologies I’m not even sure he’s hearing.

If it was a burglar, I would have saved my ass.

The problem is that this guy’s suitcases are inside the room, which means I have just assaulted my roommate.

“I’m sorry,” I repeat, sprinting inside the room to set down my own cup and try to find a bottle of water around my belongings. My roommate merely glares at me, his tanned skin glistening with sweat on his forehead and neck, and his dark eyes spark with rage as he probably plots how to make my death look like an accident in his head. “I’m so, so sorry; I didn’t see you—I’m Montana, by the way—”

“And I’m getting first-degree burns as we speak,” he chimes in, pulling his t-shirt over his head, and I slide my bottle across the floor, fearing he might get angrier if I even attempt to get close to him. When I look back at him, he’s pressing the bottle against his chest, right where the coffee first fell, and my heart is repeatedly stabbed by guilt like shards of glass. “Holy sh—”

“Why am I not surprised to see you’ve already taken your shirt off?” a female voice asks, and both of us turn to face the source, finding a dark-haired girl standing by the door, leaning a shoulder against the frame. She tilts her head to the side when he huffs, with blue eyes glowing like crystals, and her lips, covered in a coat of matte red lipstick, twist into a playful grin. “That must be a record for you. We’ve been here for, like, fifteen minutes.”

“Can you be helpful? Please?” he asks her, and she casually strolls inside as I notice a faint scar on his hip. “Jesus, Red. I’m dying over here.”

“I thought that was against the laws of physics.” She finally notices my presence, even though I had been trying to pretend I was invisible, and I straighten my back when our eyes meet. “Oh, hi. Sorry about him. I’m Red”—she walks towards me, with a hand reaching out to shake mine—“and this is Blake. He’s your roommate, unfortunately. Not me. I don’t go here.”

“Montana,” I reply, accepting the handshake, “and I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

She merely waves, shrugging it off. “You’ll be dealing with a five-year-old kid stuck in the body of a nineteen-year-old. I should feel sorry for you.”

“You’re so nice,” Blake dryly adds, and I think I try to laugh, only it comes out as a quack when he glances at me. “Really. It constantly surprises me how in the world Levi puts up with you.”

She wrinkles her nose. “It constantly surprised me how Elliot managed to live with you for a year and a half, but you don’t hear me asking you about it, do you?” I have no idea what she’s talking about, maybe a sibling, or something, but the simple mention of Elliot’s name is quick to cause a shift in Blake’s facial expression. His smirk easily gave place to a scowl and his shoulders went as stiff as an iron bar, joined by a tightly clenched jaw. “I thought so. Let’s keep Levi out of this.”

“Low blow,” he mutters, crouching to zip open one of his suitcases. “If you don’t have anything helpful to do or say, maybe you should go.” I think there’s a fleeting moment when Red wants to apologize—she certainly opens her mouth to say something and seems embarrassed, with a faint pink blush tinting her cheeks—but nothing ever happens and she simply nods, though he’s not looking at her. “You’re checking on Lucas?”

“If I can find him, I guess.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I should go to New York, anyway. I think Ave’s already there and she asked me to help her sort her stuff at the apartment. Kennedy’s there already too, but you know Ave.”

Blake looks up. “Kennedy?”

“Allison’s Kennedy.” It’s his time to nod, while I wish I had a simple idea of what they’re talking about. “She’s going to Columbia too, so I thought I’d ask her to move in with us.”

“Mhmm.” Blake straightens himself, putting on a new t-shirt, and pulls her into a quick hug. “Keep an eye on her, okay? It hasn’t been that long since . . .”

“I know.”

After Red leaves, Blake and I don’t talk. I sit on my bed, crossing my legs over the duvet, while he keeps unpacking his stuff and refusing my attempts to help him. I’m hoping Red was exaggerating by saying he’s like a five-year-old because I’m definitely not good with kids and this might simply be a bad day for him, but I don’t know how to keep ignoring the massive elephant sitting in a corner of the room.

The problem is that I also don’t want to upset him. I really don’t, but Ma always told me to try to be there for people when they need a shoulder, or something; my way of trying to cheer people up is by mentioning Jersey Shore, talking about my lists or spitting out a random fact, and I don’t think any of those things would be helpful right now.

I stand up, clearing my throat in hopes he’ll acknowledge he’s not alone in the room, but he’s busy placing a framed photograph on his bedside table and I crane my neck to peek at it over his shoulder.

I recognize him just fine, finding him joined by two other people, a guy and a girl, with the three of them laughing at something. The two guys laugh at the camera, but the blonde girl, tiny and thin with hair like a platinum curtain, has an arm draped around the other guy’s waist, smiling up at him.

“They’re your friends?” I eventually ask, and he briefly turns around to face me.

“Yeah. That’s Ave—Avery, I mean”—he points to the girl, sighing—“and that’s Elliot.”

I look at the photo once more, staring at the frozen smile of this Elliot person, and can’t help but feel like it seems forced, like he had been using all his energy to do so, with a scrawny arm swung over Avery’s shoulders. Even with the smile stretching his lips, his cheeks seem to carve into his skull and not in the charming way marble statues do—this guy seems to be made of sharp angles and prominent bones. “The Elliot Red mentioned?”

He nods. “We don’t talk about him.”

“Why not? You seem pretty close in this photo.”

“He’s dead, that’s why.” His voice is gelid, freezing me in my place, and I immediately regret having opened my mouth. “I think this is the last photo we ever took. I have no idea how in the world we got him out of bed that day.”

“I’m really sorry.” I mean it. Sincerely. After Mother died, I’ve never really known what to say or do when someone dies because that’s always there, hanging around the ones they left behind. Even after years have passed, sometimes it still feels like an open wound. “What happened to him? He looks—looked—”

“Like shit? We know. He did too.” Blake sighs, shoving his hands inside his pockets. “He . . . God. Can we, like, not do this right now? It’s my first day here and the last thing I want to do is think about how my dead best friend never got a chance to go to college. So.” He fully turns around to face me, hands on his hips, and my heart skips a tiny beat because, despite being awfully rude, he’s still strangely alluring. “Montana, huh? Blake Farley.” He reaches out a hand towards me, much like Red did, and, once again, I accept it.

“Montana Rowe. Belmonte-Rowe, actually, but I use my mother’s last name. Ever since she died, I mean, but Ma insisted I should use it.”

“Two moms?” I nod. “Cool, cool. Belmonte from your Ma . . . you’re, what, Mexican?”

“Half Puerto Rican.” I rub my palms on my jeans. “I’m not as good of a cook as she is, but I can keep myself alive.”

“Yeah? I’m half Mexican and can’t cook for shit, unless you’re into pancakes for every meal.” He gives me a playful shrug and I internally sigh of relief, glad I’m somehow managing to get on his good side. “So, Belmonte; fancy being my company for tonight’s freshman welcoming party?”