Spiked

1

Atlanta was full of new things.

Strange things.

Confusing things, even.

I’d never, for example, seen so many clubs proudly flying rainbow flags (which delighted me) or so many one-way streets (which horrified me). I’d never experienced traffic as bad as the connector at rush hour, and I’d definitely never had so many dining options at two o’clock in the morning (including a place where apparently one could order both egg rolls and nachos, delivered, which was the trifecta or strange, confusing, and new).

But traffic aside, it was a thrilling place to be— not just Atlanta—but being enrolled at Harton University. Finally, finally, finally, I was out of my tiny town of Tifton and getting my actual life started.

Even as I stood in the middle of Harton University’s beautiful campus, I was blown away by the fact that I was actually there.

Everything felt fresh and new and vibrant. I could smell the grass and see the gorgeous buildings, and it was like a dream I didn’t want to end.

A cheery girl on the school’s north campus handed me a thick folder. “Here you go— Copeland, Sasha, right?” She flashed a smile at me and continued talking. “This is your welcome packet. There’s a campus map, a social calendar for upcoming freshmen, and your housing information. Looks like you’re in Wells. Which…wait. That can’t be right,” the girl said, frowning and pulling the folder back.

“No, Wells is right— that’s the one that was on the letter they sent to my house,” I said.

“But Wells is the upperclassmen suites. You’re registered as a freshman,” the girl said. “You should be in Parks.”

I smiled, though I could tell the expression was more than a little tight. “I’m a freshman, but I’m nineteen and didn’t really want to do all the freshman stuff with the eighteen year olds. So they put me in Wells.”

“Oh! Ok,” the girl said, looking a little baffled. “Are you sure, though? The freshman mixers are a great way to meet people.”

“I’m not really interested in mixers. I’m just trying to get my education,” I replied in my best polite, yet final, voice.

“Sure,” the girl said. She shrugged and surrendered the folder. “If you change your mind, talk to your RA. She can probably get you on the freshman calendars even though you aren’t in Parks.”

“Thanks,” I said. I tucked the folder under my arm and walked away— or at least, I tried to walk away. I was more or less stopped dead in my tracks by a row of cheerleaders who broke into cries of “Go Rams!” as I started down the path. At the end of the path, should I survive the cheerleader gauntlet, was the school’s costumed Ram mascot and a photographer.

“No, thanks!” I called to them, and tried to walk the other direction.

“Come on! You’re joining the herd. You’ll regret not getting a picture to commemorate it,” the nearest cheerleader said. She had a kind face with bright red lipstick and a Rams logo fake tattoo on one cheek.

Cheerleaders and the sports they were attached to weren’t really my thing— but I didn’t hate them either. Everyone needed to find their tribe, after all; the cheerleaders’ tribe was for people who possessed amazing hair and unheard of flexibility; mine was with those who called the library home.

“Come on,” the cheerleader pleaded. “One quick photo with Ramses! We’re supposed to get one with everyone who picks up their registration. They’re doing a big collage in the football program, the sort where they use everyone’s photo to make a giant ram? You won’t want to be left out.”

I really wanted to get to my suite, so I could chart my schedule. But hey, I had come all the way to Atlanta to attend school— why not mark the occasion with a photo? It’d definitely look a lot nicer than one of my infamous scheduling charts in a scrapbook, someday.

“Sure,” I said, finally. The girl slipped her slim arm through mine and led me down the path, cheerleaders on both sides hooting as we went. I was deposited by the Ram mascot’s— er, Ramses’— side, and a photographer knelt down to snap a picture.

“Say, beat the hornets!” the photographer shouted.

“Beat the hornets!” I said cheerfully. “Whoever they are.”

The photographer lowered the camera, looking stunned. “What? Are you serious?”

I realized that the cheerleaders had gone quiet. “Oh. Um. I just don’t really do the sports thing. Sorry.”

The cheerleaders glanced at one another; the photographer looked at the ground. I turned to Ramses, like his giant cartoon eyes might offer some sort of solace; instead, the light hit the costume eyes in such a way that I could see through them, to the disappointed eyes of whomever was wearing the costume.

“But I hope…we beat the hornets all the same?” I offered.

“Honey, you’re gonna have to do a lot better than that here at Harton,” the photographer said, smiling pityingly, and before I could resume a smile, snapped a picture.