I should've known it was going to be like this when I transferred. At my small, Arkansas college we had parties— We? They. They had parties. I didn't do them. Ever—but students here acted as if these occasions were part of the required curriculum. I mean I got that college life was a rite of passage, but I'd been dodging ritualistic bullshit since my sister died. Call it avoidance. Call it not giving a care. Either way, it was how I'd gotten through my adolescence and into my young adult years. But now there were two people bound and determined to see me turn into that metaphorical butterfly. Frankly, I liked caterpillars. They kept their feet firmly planted on the ground. In Arkansas, I didn't live on campus. I commuted. Now I had a roommate. Jewel was born as that butterfly. She was the epitome of a socialite, an actual socialite, and not some unemployed rich girl who partied non-stop. Though I was pretty sure Jewel met the financial requirements to be a member of that exclusive club—what with her endless supply of designer stuff and her dad being a former governor and all.
