Make It Rain Harder

When I’m Seventeen

When I’m Seventeen

After making the long drive from my rural Kansas hometown to this plush University of Michigan campus, I sit in my car, awestruck by the chaos unfolding in front of me.

It’s a type of beautiful chaos, but I suddenly feel terrified and out of place because I don’t know how to do any of this.

The kind of socialization that’s going to be required.

I don’t have the bandwidth for being friendly with strangers, making small talk.

This is going to throw me into a panic. There are students reuniting, hugging, high-fiving, excited for the beginning of a new semester.

Others are part of the happy/sad goodbye rituals as their parents, siblings, and others reluctantly depart.

Their people. Something I do not have. It’s only been on the drive up here that I have started to appreciate how dysfunctional my upbringing was and how it’s going to hinder me in every way.

I feel a little conspicuous but remind myself that this is for the best. It is what I have longed for. To be on my own with the distinct absence of my parents and their dysfunction.

After being ushered forward by those in charge, I lift my foot from the brake for a half second to comply.

I am briefly distracted by what I can only assume is the entire football team, which has been assigned to heave ginormous boxes and suitcases to the sidewalk in an effort to keep things moving.

I then realize my shameless gawking is holding things up.

Fleeting embarrassment turns to blushing, and I’m proud of myself for feeling something so normal for a girl my age.

And I certainly can’t remember the last time I giggled about anything.

As I ease my car forward, I feel twinges of an unfamiliar lightness begin to settle into my body. This is what I wanted.

I can do this.

A kind RA checks me in and waves over a couple of the cute boys to help with the boxes from my back seat and trunk, which they will take to my dorm room while I park in my approved spot.

After, I lumber up the stairs with my backpack and a couple of suitcases.

I plop down on the bare mattress, trying to catch my breath, and I begin to observe my surroundings.

It is just me, luggage, and the taped-up boxes from my car, along with the things I ordered online and had shipped directly to the dorm.

The room is not exactly inspiring. The walls are concrete blocks, painted a gray noncolor.

It’s what a prison might look like. But ironically, this is the most freedom I have ever felt.

Rummaging through boxes for a while serves as a nice distraction.

Opening the new things that were delivered feels a bit like having my own little Christmas, and I actually get excited when I find sheets and a comforter that I ordered and forgot about.

I make the bed and feel ridiculously proud of my achievement—that I’ve made myself this cozy nook in which to hide out.

Soon though, I begin to lose interest in the remaining stuff scattered about. I’ve never been very good at organizing my own space. My excitement fades, and I feel loneliness threatening to creep in.

While staring at the greige walls, I wonder if I should hire a decorator.

That is definitely something my mom would do.

Are dorm decorators a real thing? Sounds like a horrendous occupation.

What a stupid thought. As I ponder the situation, my roommate, Janet, bursts in, dragging suitcases and numerous mismatched bohemian-looking bags.

I know her name from the long emails she’d sent me after our school connected us.

She talks as though she has known me forever and launches into odd ramblings about her love of manatees and jicama as she collapses onto her bed.

I just listen and smile. I’m so intrigued by weird people. This might actually be fun.

Janet and I spend the next few days going through our orientation packets and attending—very much against our will—horrendous team-building sessions for freshmen, which include all the stereotypical nonsense, like trust falls and knotting ourselves up in ropes with fellow students and then untangling the knots that bind us.

The metaphors are so painfully obvious. However, we do bond with others in our collective desire for bad things to happen to the people who came up with this insanity.

Given that I am in a new space, with new people, starting a brand-new life, everything is going okay. Coming from such a small town, where I have spent my entire life, I’m struggling a bit with the social aspect of things here. It is unexpectedly intimidating. Not something I really considered.

One evening, while Janet and I are contemplating what to do with our non-decorated walls, there is a knock at the door. Just a regular knock, nothing special, but behind that knock is the person who will completely change my life.

I open the door and vaguely recognize the guy standing in front of me. But I have seen so many new faces, so I cannot possibly pinpoint why he is so familiar.

“Hi! I’m Patrick from Cleveland. Diana, right? Saw your name on the list of new dorm residents.”

He shoots a silly finger gun at me, and I can’t help but laugh at his confidence and overall goofy demeanor.

He is wearing a tough-guy biker jacket. Black leather, buckles, zippers, and all the things, and it totally does not fit with his beer belly, floppy hair, and beautiful—bordering on electric—blue eyes.

I’m briefly stunned by the irony of his appearance, but find him immediately endearing.

“I’m having a party tonight, and you’re coming.”

Patrick is so sweet and silly that I can only say yes.

I’ll go to his party, I tell myself. I’ll get out of my room and conquer my social anxiety.

Although I might be lying.

I’m not sure if I’m ready to leave this room.

However, that evening, while Janet and I are just hanging out in our concrete abode and hearing raucous music and noise blaring from down the hall, I find myself fixing my hair and makeup. Picking out a cute top to go with my jeans.

I somehow know this Patrick person could be a lifeline, so I grab Janet’s hand and pull her down the hall. “Let’s give it a go.”

When we cautiously enter his room, he gives me an enthusiastic welcome and a shockingly lovely and staggering hug. “Diana!”

“Patrick!” I match his fun energy and don’t hesitate to hug him back.

He directs us to the keg, and I drink some gross beer and manage to mingle. Small talk and big groups have never been my thing, but this is my new reality, so I soldier on.

Later, when he finds me alone against the keg, he takes the tap from my hand to refill my beer. “So, New Girl Diana, I noticed you were flying solo on moving day. Where are you from? Local?”

I didn’t realize people kept an eye on shit like that.

“I had some things shipped ahead of time, but drove here with most of my stuff in my car. From Kansas. From a really small town.” I accept the beer, take a long drink, and accompany my practiced, forced smile with a little shrug.

“Not sure my parents even know I left for college. So, driving myself was kind of a given,” I say with a laugh.

“Say more about that.” Patrick leans against the keg and seems genuinely interested.

“The shipping?”

He laughs. “No. The parental stuff. Sounds weird.”

Although I’m surprised by his directness, I find that it doesn’t bother me at all.

I wave a hand and half smile. “Maybe another time. Or not. It’s super bizarre and not very interesting.”

“I like super weird.” We hold each other’s gaze for a second before he pulls me in for an unexpected, crazy-long bear hug, and it’s everything. “I gotcha, lady!”

The smell of his leather jacket, the Marlboros in his pocket, and the cheap beer is oddly comforting. I’m not sure exactly why.

He pushes away just a bit. “See that divine young lady over there?” He points to a very pretty girl standing in the corner and places a hand over his heart.

“Swear, she’s my future wife. Her name is Katrina.

An artist, painter, I hear.” He nods to himself, swipes his floppy hair back, and gives me a zealous grin. “I’m going in. Wish me luck!”

He bounds across the room with a carefree joy that I’ve never witnessed in anyone, and I realize I am now hooked on his energy.

Later that night, after I’ve somehow connected with some girls who live on my floor and when I’m surprisingly more at ease, Patrick circles back, grabs my hand, and spins me around.

“I got my lady!”

“Katrina fell for your charms?” I ask. “Still your future wife?”

“Pretty sure,” he says with the cutest wink.

In this dorm-room gathering—and while we’re basking in loud playlists and booze and dancing wildly and even while he’s getting his Katrina—I catch him watching over me. Making sure I’m never alone for more than a moment. Making sure to introduce me to people.

And cementing the foundation for the best friendship I will ever have.

That is the night Patrick becomes my best friend.

Maybe not the friend that I’ll get to have forever, but the best one I’ll ever have.