Helen St. Pierre inclines toward theatrical entrances, and exits, too; makes sense, as she’s a member of the drama club. Like me, she has declared herself an education major, and she hails from Oklahoma (albeit Heritage Hills, a posh Oklahoma City neighborhood). Our home state is where the similarities between us end. Just look at us now. I’m in my nightgown, working at my desk, which faces Helen’s by our turret window, hot tea gone cold in my cup. The room and I smell of nothing so much as dusty books and stuffy air. Dazed and bleary, I’ve been studying all morning. I’ve forgotten to eat lunch again; I may have forgotten to wash my face and brush my teeth. My hair, raked by my fingers as I work, is most certainly a frizzy brown mess. Helen, decked out from head to toe in blue and gold (school colors, down to her saddle shoes), smells of citrusy perfume and fresh air. Her green eyes glisten; her red lipstick smacks of freshly applied. Except for the fact that Helen’s hair has turned nest, she could be a poster girl: Union University Freshman Coed.
