Chapter 2 - The Dorm Room Inquisition
Hauling black garbage bags up three flights of stairs because the campus elevators were predictably jammed on move-in day is a special kind of torture. Doing it while your parents look like extras from a post-apocalyptic survival documentary is psychological warfare.
By the time we unlocked the door to Room 314, my face was burning hot. The room was a standard double: two twin beds pushed against opposite walls, two identical wooden desks, and two empty closets. Chloe and her parents had arrived just moments behind us, carrying sleek, monogrammed canvas storage bins that looked like they belonged in an interior design catalog.
From the second we stepped inside, my parents went to work. And by "work," I mean they acted like a pair of overly friendly, eccentric rural tourists who had accidentally wandered onto an Ivy League campus.
My dad introduced himself to Chloe’s parents not once, but twice, enthusiastically pumping their hands and asking if they needed help finding a hardware store to buy a hammer. My mom immediately waltzed over to Chloe’s side of the room, picked up a plush accent pillow, and cooed, "Oh, my goodness, Chloe darling, this velvet texture is simply exquisite! Where on earth did you find something so soft? Back home, we just use whatever old cushions we can salvage, but this is luxury!"
I stopped mid-unpacking, a stack of sweaters clutched in my trembling hands, and stared at my mother in absolute horror. Back home, we just use whatever old cushions we can salvage? My mother’s living room features custom Italian leather sofas that cost more than a used Honda Civic!
Chloe gave a tight, superior little laugh, adjusting her posture. "Oh, thank you. My mother bought it for me. It’s imported. You know, it’s really important to have a comfortable environment when you're transitioning from... well, from simpler backgrounds."
The condescension in her tone was sharp enough to cut glass. But my mother just beamed back at her like an adoring aunt. "My, aren't you just precious! So well-spoken. Isn't she, honey?" she nudged my dad.
"Oh, absolutely," my dad chimed in, wiping a fake smudge of grease off his forehead with the back of his ripped sleeve. "Reminds me of the good old days when we didn't even have indoor plumbing—well, not quite that bad, but you know how hard times can be when the local factory shuts down!"
I dropped my sweaters. The thud echoed loudly in the small dorm room.
Chloe’s parents exchanged a look—a shared, silent glance that communicated volumes: Poor things. Absolutely destitute. We must make sure Chloe keeps her distance so she doesn't get roped into asking for financial favors.
As other students and parents trickled in and out of the hallway, greeting each other, I noticed a distinct shift in the air whenever they glanced into our room. Chloe wasted no time. Every single time one of her new friends walked past our doorway, I watched her subtly motion them over, lean in close, and whisper behind her hand.
I caught fragments of her whispered commentary as she gestured vaguely toward my stack of clothes sitting awkwardly next to a black trash bag.
"...literally came in a rusted van..."
"...garbage bags for luggage..."
"...I know, I felt so awkward, her dad tried to shake my dad's hand with grease all over his fingers..."
"...I didn't even know people like that could afford tuition here..."
My blood boiled. My ears rang with a mixture of hot shame and cold fury. For the first eighteen years of my life, I had lived a life of comfort, stability, and quiet pride. Now, thanks to some bizarre, unannounced theatrical production orchestrated by my parents, I was the resident charity case of the freshman dorms.
About twenty minutes into the unpacking process, Chloe’s mother smoothed down her designer skirt, looked my mother dead in the eye with a patronizing smile, and asked the killer question.
"So... what is it that you do for work, dear? It must be so difficult managing everything."
My mother froze. A micro-second hesitation crossed her features—the split second it took for her executive brain to switch back into character. She blinked wide-eyed, clasped her hands together nervously, and sighed.
"Oh, you know... a little bit of everything. Odd jobs here and there. Whatever keeps food on the table, right? Cleaning houses, sewing alterations, helping out at the local community soup kitchen when they'll have me. You take what you can get in this economy!"
I literally choked on my own saliva, coughing violently as I pounded my chest to keep from passing out. My mother—who managed multi-million-dollar corporate portfolios and negotiated high-level contracts—had just claimed she made her living doing alterations and cleaning houses.
May you like
I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed my mother’s wrist, spun her around, and dragged her forcefully out into the hallway, pulling her past the vending machines and around the corner away from prying ears.
"What," I hissed, my voice vibrating with controlled rage, "is going on?!"
