Page 5 of A Storybook Wedding

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“You can call me Gert.”

“Gert? That’s a nice name. Is it short for something? Gertrude?”

“No.” She glared at me. I saw that indeed, her name was Gurt, as per the thick piece of masking tape across the side of her hard-bodied suitcase that read GURT LAWRENCE.

“Is that how you spell it?” I asked, pointing to the tape.

“Do you always ask so many questions?” she snapped.

I’m sure it’s a sensitive thing when your parents inadvertently give you a name that results in you spending your entire childhood being called “Yogurt,” but I was not even conceived when she carried that weighty cross, and I had been nothing but nice to her thus far, so I did not appreciate being spoken to with such a sharp tone.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you,” I tried.

At this, Gurt coughed—not a dainty little let me clear my throat cough but more of a full rabid raccoon with a garbage hair ball cough.

I checked my watch, and seeing as how there were only twenty uncomfortable minutes with Gurt standing between me and my orientation lunch, and she was making it extremely clear that friendship of any sort was not in the cards for us, I decided to leave her to unpacking. Figured I could check out the makeshift “Matthias Bookstore” downstairs (which is essentially a hallway lined with books for sale that were written by faculty members) and maybe meet a person who wouldn’t have their sights set on killing me in my sleep. Donning my all-important name tag lanyard, I slid my room key into my pocket and bid my adieu to Gurt.

Now that it was early afternoon, students were beginning to arrive en masse, and the dormitory hallway was pulsating with energy. I tried to look casual as people walked by in groups of two and three as if they’d known each other forever. I passed a casual smile at some of them, but seeing as how my cheer tank was all spent on Gurt, I immediately felt foolish and decided no more of that would be necessary for right now. The “bookstore” was in such a narrow space that my presence in front of it created a physical barrier between incoming students and their room assignments, so I moved myself down the hall to a larger space in the lobby of the North Wind.

Ah, there it was. The Whiteboard.

It was the size of a small house and contained enough information that one could stand there for quite some time and never appear foolish. It listed the date at the top, exclaimed Welcome Students! and had a detailed account of the events for the remainder of the day. I breathed a deep sigh of relief as I could easily stand in front of it and be overwhelmed by its majesty, its neat handwriting in red Expo marker, its plethora of intel, and most importantly, its lack of judgment.

Thank you, beautiful Whiteboard, I thought, for spending these few peaceful moments with me.

My pleasure, Cecily, I imagined it responding in much the same voice as Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree. Come, look at my many offerings. After your orientation lunch, there is some time to unpack and settle in. Then, at three p.m., there is a mixer for everyone on the lawn. At five p.m., dinner will be served. Tonight you may choose from a bounty of options, as it is Taco Night. I will list every ingredient selection here in this fun little corner, titled Fiesta! But wait, there’s more! After dinner, at seven p.m., you can attend a reading in the Spiritual Sanctuary, led by Professor Dillon Norway, director of the MFA, and after that, there will be an informal gathering in North Wind Room B.

Ka-chick.

I looked next to me and found an annoyingly good-looking man snapping a photo of the whiteboard with his cell phone. His facial hair was the first thing I noticed about him. It wasn’t a full beard, far from it. Just scruff, as if he opted not to shave for the last few days. Under the fluorescent lighting, it looked almost auburn. But his hair was brown. Or maybe chestnut. Hard to define in that weird light. I tried to place the color—sort of like hot cocoa with a cinnamon stick in it—when he asked me, “You good?”

“Um. Yeah,” I replied.

“You were staring,” he noted.

“Was I?” My face flushed, and I could feel my neck turning red and splotchy as if just speaking to another human person could result in a fresh case of contact dermatitis.

“You were.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Was I staring? I didn’t think so.

“I think you’re just supposed to take a picture and move on.”

“Excuse me?” I asked. My eyebrows knit together. The nerve of this one.

He pointed at the whiteboard. “It’s too much to remember. So you just take a picture and then you’ll have it with you on your phone.”

“Oh my God. You meant that I was staring at the board.”

He nodded.

“I thought you meant that I was staring—” I began. “Forget it.” My cheeks became engulfed in flames of self-inflicted arson.

“I’m Nate,” he said, shifting the messenger bag draped across his chest. I looked at his lanyard. Nate Ellis, it read.

“You’re Nate Ellis?” I asked. He looked nothing like his author photos, where he was clean shaven, hair parted neatly to the side, and wearing a shirt and tie. This guy did not resemble an award-winning supernova of the literati. He looked…hot-guy normal.