August

A second after the alarm starts blaring, Bonnibel slaps it off and sits up. After another second, she remembers where she is. She smiles. As she hops out of bed and starts to get dressed, a loud groan comes from a pile of pillows and blankets on the other side of the room.

"PB, what the luuuuuump?"

"Come on, Ellen, time to get up. Last day of orientation! Then we're real college students."

"I told you, call me El, or I'll call you… whatever your real name is," Ellen Smith-Pearson moans, rolling more deeply into the bed.

"The dining hall is only open for freshmen another 30 minutes. Either get up now and get something to eat or get up later and have nothing to eat for four hours."

"No lumping way I'm getting out of this bed."

"Suit yourself," Bonnibel replies with a shrug. Dressed now, she leaves the room to go brush her teeth before some breakfast.

Across campus, in a large building nearly devoid of all life at the early hour but full to the brim with paintings, sculptures, and drawings framed on the walls, the floor covered in discarded programs from an avant-garde play performed therein the previous evening, another young woman sits in a small, sound proof room. She rolls her shoulders, cracks her neck, and gives a little kick to the third emptied Red Bull of the night… er, morning. She supposes. The room has no windows and she makes a point of never wearing a watch, so who really knows. But she settles herself and imagines the conductor before her. Tenderly, she lifts the bow to the strings of her cello and starts to play. This time, this time she knows she has it. Vivaldi, man, she thinks, sensing her focus leave her head and chest behind, feeling her thoughts come instead from her fingertips. You fucking genius. Sure Bach and Beethoven were amazing. For Marceline, however, Vivaldi just always felt right. As right as anything could feel on a cello.

For a few minutes after she completed a flawless solo, fought for all night long, Marceline just sits in her chair, basking in it. Then she starts packing things up. Time for some sleep. ( watch?v=uBWsLVsvCoA)

"So hungry," moans Ellen S-P. Well, El, Bonnibel corrects herself in her mind.

"I told you so."

"Ohmygod, shut up."

Bonnibel laughs. She silences herself when the administrator at the front of the auditorium clears his voice, announcing, "All right, time for one last walk across campus. I know you're all tired from Orientation Week,"—and they were, as the school kept the incoming freshmen busy from 9 in the morning to 11 at night—"but I swear you are almost there. Let's go."

As she and her roommate stand, El whispers, "Will there be lunch?"

"Usually is," Bonnie says as they cram in with the thousand other students for the doors.

As they step outside, the bright summer sunshine reflects off the fountain in front of the building, hitting Bonnibel's face directly. She scrunches her face up, looks down, blinks rapidly to give her pupils a moment to contract. Other freshmen stream around her, all waiting for some kind of indication from their orientation leaders of where to go, someone to take the initiative to lead. Among the many voices surrounding her, Bonnibel freezes when one, crisp and clear, rises above the din.

"Well well well, if it isn't Bonnibel?"

Internally Bonnie sighs. Nooooooo.

When she looks up, Marceline Abadeer in all her arrogant glory stands there, right in front of her, blocking the sunlight with her tall stature and large, floppy hat.

"Marceline?"

"Oh come on, you know it's me?"

"Your name is Bonnibel?" El pipes up from beside her. Bonnie throws her a face to make her shush. "You don't like the name Bonnibel? What the lump, it's a perfectly fine name. Like oh my god, don't be a drama queen about your own stupid name."

"Thank you, Ellen."

"What are you doing here?" Marceline asks, snickering a bit at the exchange between the freshmen.

"What's it look like, Marceline? I should ask you the same thing."

"I go to school here."

"Here."

Marcy nods, smiling. She means it kindly, but her sleepy eyes defeat her purpose.

"Why?"

"Because a college education is good for you or whatever crap they tell you kids these days."

"No, I mean…" Bonnie can't help it. The words come out before she can take them back, before she really thinks about it. "Why me?"

Ellen starts to text furiously, her eyes darting between Bonnibel and Marceline. As for Marcy, she turns her head away. She sighs, chews her lip in frustration. Even as the words were coming out of Bonnie's mouth, she regretted them. She thought certainly she would be leveled, ripped into by an upperclassman in front of the entire freshmen class. But now that Marcy is clearly swallowing her bubbling rage—a kindness—Bonnie regrets her irrational behavior all the more. Why did I do that? she thinks, I never do that!

"This way!" one of the orientation leaders calls, gathering the nearby students around her like lost ducklings. Marcy sees this and turns back to Bonnibel. "So," she asks, "Wanna ditch?"

"What?"

"I know what happens next, it's totally lame. Wanna actually see some of campus and hear about how things work from a pro? Or would you rather be shuffled to another lecture on the dangers of procrastination?"

"I can't skip orientation, this is important!"

Marceline laughs. "Fine, whatever. Have a grand old time, Bonnie." She turns to Ellen. "Ciao."

With that, Marcy heaves her cello's case back onto her back and starts to walk away toward the quad.

"Hey wait!" Bonnie calls out. Marcy turns. "I thought you played guitar?"

For a few moments, Marcy just stands there on the other side of the fountain, looking back over her shoulder at Bonnie, a smirk slowly rising to her lips. Her unruly black hair dances behind her. Just when Bonnie thinks she's going to respond, Marcy turns, a sound of amusement on her lips, leaving the freshman feeling snubbed.

"Whoa," El says later as the group of freshmen are led off to another lecture hall. "What was all that?"

"All that what?"

"The drama, woman! Did you not feel the tension? Like everyone was watching!"

"They were?" Bonnie asks, trying to keep her voice level, even as her fingers nervously reached for her strawberry-blonde hair.

"Totally! Who was she? How do you know an upperclassman already?"

"We… we're from the same town. She used to drive me to school before she went to college." I didn't know she even got in to college, Bonnie muses.

"That's it? You carpooled?"

"Yeah, that's all there is to it," Bonnie says.

Marcy and her cello cut across a parking lot to the bridge over the train tracks that ran by campus. As she walks over the bridge, she watches the people at the university station mill about below. Trains are cool, she thinks sleepily. If I had driven, I wouldn't have to be lugging this thing on my back… but gas money is expensive… "And clearly," she mumbles to herself, "driving sucks."

She hadn't agreed to drive the little brat to school for that crap. Sure, she seemed fine enough for a thirteen year old when the met, shortly after Marcy got her driver's license, but she just turned into a nightmare. Fuck her. Spoiled brat. The memories of their carpool days run together in Marcy's mind. A lot of it is hard to distinguish. That last time, of course, is a little too easy to recall. But the first time…

"Come ooooon," Marcy moans, honking the horn in front of the house. "Comeoncomeoncomeoncomeon." A little thirteen year old steps out, throwing her backpack on with a piece of toast dangling out of her mouth. Marcy gets out of the car, walks around to the passenger side.

"Hi! Sorry!" the girl says brightly. "You must be Marceline Abadeer… right?"

"Not that many of us," Marcy nods. "And you're Bonnibel."

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Don't," Marcy says quickly, "call me ma'am. It's Marceline or Marcy. Come on, get in."

"Okay." They both get into the two-seater; Bonnibel adjusts her seat so she sits a little more upright.

"The middle school, right?"

"Yes. Just one more year."

Marcy chuckles, hitting the gas. "I know what you mean."

But now, Marcy fishes in her pockets for her apartment keys. Finding them ("Ha!"), she opens the door and starts climbing the stars. As soon as she puts her cello away, she flops down on the couch, unconscious before she can spare Bonnibel another thought.