Falling For You

Is there a circle of hell for impure thoughts about a college dorm-mate? Not lustful thoughts, at least not exclusively. It’s just… Kyra’s only two floors down, three rooms to the right. It would be so easy to go see her. Malia could dig out that green romper she said was cute and sweep Kyra off her Birkenstock-clad feet. Malia would have to ditch her favorite tennis shoes, though, because the tread is wearing thin, and she nearly slipped the last time she wore them. That would make the whole sweeping thing rather difficult. 

Is she overthinking this? Malia drops her head onto her pillow and groans. All she has to do is knock on Kyra’s door and ask her to dinner. She’d take her to Dennis’s Diner just off-campus because she knows the dining hall makes Kyra nervous. Then, she would get them a stack of Bangin’ Banana Walnut Pancakes to share. Kyra would order hot cocoa like she does every time they hang out casually, and a line would get stuck above her lip. Malia would wipe it away and Kyra would lean in. Then, after nearly two semesters of desperation, Malia would finally kiss her. 

She would taste like chocolate and powdered sugar. She would if Malia could will herself out of bed. It’s just, what if she says no? What if she sees Malia at her door and decides that she isn’t into girls, after all? That the whole “girls are hot” coming-out campaign she had in November was really “girls are hot, except Malia Monroe?” 

Malia pulls her comforter over her head and slides down the mattress. Maybe she should stay in. 

“Are you pining again?” She pops her eyes out into the cruel, too-bright world and glares at her roommate. 

“No.”

Sam snorts. “Just go talk to her.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Reese asked you out a week into the school year.”

“Yeah, he asked. That’s all it takes.”

“And if she turns me down?”

“She won’t,” Sam holds out a hand and cuts Malia off before she can start, “but if she does, we’ll go get pity pancakes instead.” Sam throws a stuffed animal, and it slaps Malia in the face.

“Hey!” She ducks as a purple and blue dinosaur comes flying at her, then a dog, then a goose.

“I won’t take another second of your preemptive moping, so get to it.”

Malia bolts. The door slams behind her and she flops against it. “I can’t believe I got chased out of my own room by a stuffed menagerie.”

She lurches at a knock from the other side of the door. “I can still hear you out there! Go!” Count your days, Samantha Ackerman.

Malia shuffles toward Gallagher Hall’s northern stairwell. With each step, her pulsing heart ratchets closer to an EDM beat. She’s going to do it. Just one more floor. 

She takes the first step down from the landing and the world blurs. Shit! Forget the tennis shoes–she has no footwear on at all! Her socks slide on the glossy stairs and she scrambles for the railing, but her fingers barely brush the wood. 

Malia knows falling. The flying-soaring-stomach-flipping sensation is familiar after seven years of bouldering. There’s no stopping it now. She braces her arms around her head and balls up as best she can, but she feels every hit. The edge of one step strikes her ass and her elbow cracks against the wall. Then, she slams into something just as solid, but softer, louder. Wait, louder? Malia forces her watering eyes open and almost wishes she could keep on falling. There’s someone sprawled out under her, their limbs tangled together like the decade-old box of yarn in her closet back home.

If only it was a stranger. She’d even take Gwen from floor six, and she hates Gwen from floor six. 

“I was just coming to talk to you,” Kyra says with a small smile and a wince. 

Malia tries to sit up and fails miserably. “Really?”

“I wanted to ask you to dinner. I’ve… uh… I’ve been meaning to ask for a while.” Kyra lets out an awkward laugh. 

“Same! I mean, I—me—I also wanted, I mean, shit.” Malia drops her head against the cold ground with a thud. “Ow.” She sighs and meets Kyra’s amused eyes. “Do you want to get pancakes with me?” 

“I would.” Kyra wiggles her arm, as much of her arm as she can move, since the rest is stuck under Malia’s ribs. “We should figure this out first, probably?” Kyra’s cheeks are pink, that brilliant rouge pink that blends into an orange and purple sunset. Malia dials Sam before the words can worm themselves out of her. 

The call connects. “Well, was I right or was I right?” Sam asks.

“Um… we’ll definitely be going somewhere together.”

“You sound weird.” Ah, crap. That’s her suspicious voice. 

“We may have had a stair-related incident.” Silence. “Sam?”

“You’ve pulled a Tumbling-Tina, haven’t you?”

Malia clears her throat and decidedly does not look at Kyra. “Mayhaps.”

“Why are you calling me?!” Malia pulls the phone from her ear as Sam screeches. “Hang up so I can call an ambulance!”

“No!” she yells, then slaps a hand over her mouth. “I mean, no. Do you know how expensive those things are? I don’t have that kind of money!”

And so begins the most awkward shuffle in human history to Sam’s ancient Toyota. 

“This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to anyone, ever,” Malia mutters into the back seat’s crispy gray fabric. She’s face down across it to keep the pressure off of her tailbone, and Kyra is half-laying on top of her in what Sam keeps insisting is a “96 position.”

Hours later, they’re both admitted and processed. Maybe it’s not pancakes and hot cocoa, but sharing a hospital room is closer than two floors down and three rooms to the right.