Autofocus by Lauren Gibaldi Page A

here saved me .”
    â€œHappy to do it,” a short girl with short blond hair says. “He’s, like, the worst kind of guy there is—I hate that he lives on our floor. He’s just always trying to make out with girls, using stupid lines like that.”
    â€œHe sounds delightful,” I say, shaking my head.
    â€œYeah, he’s mostly harmless. But still, what a skeez,” Treena says. “He tried it with me, offering cookies. And I love cookies.”
    â€œYou do love cookies,” I say, thinking about the secretsupply she used to keep hidden in her old room. The old memory brings me comfort—some things don’t change, thankfully. “Well, thanks for . . . that,” I say, shrugging.
    â€œIt’s my job.” She smiles, then turns when someone calls her name. I float back to the wall, where I was standing, and watch it all unfold some more. A person who I assume is the RA walks around, nodding. She looks older, serious, and one guy quickly hides a cup behind his back before smiling wildly at her.
    It’s like school, really. All the different cliques, and people in the same places pairing off. I wonder how I look among all of them. And then I remember that it’s not just me I should be wondering about, but my mother, too. Did she live in this dorm? Did she lean against the wall or join the party?
    Was she ever right here?
    â€œYou’re Maude, right?” a guy behind me asks. He’s wearing glasses and a hat. He’s tall and in all black.
    â€œYep,” I say, wary this time. After College guy, I’m just not sure.
    â€œLike Harold and—”
    â€œMaude. Ha, yeah, my parents love that movie,” I say. “It’s how I got my name.” What I don’t tell him is that it’s because Maude loved the idea of living life to its fullest, so they thought, since I was born from death, I should be named something to do with life. It wasn’t until I watched the movie in high school with Tree that I realized Maude dies at the end.
    â€œI do, too. I’m a film major, so I watch all those old movies all the time.”
    â€œCool!” I say, because I’m a sucker for old films. I was practically raised with them. “Like what else? I loved Bonnie and Clyde . Oh, and of course Casablanca .”
    â€œWell, I prefer newer ones,” he says, “like Scarface .”
    â€œ Scarface ?Really?” I ask.
    â€œIt’s awesome. I have the poster in my room. You have to see it.”
    â€œMmmm, maybe some other time,” I say, having learned from the last interaction.
    â€œWell, sometime while you’re here, you should come by and see my movie collection. It’s epic,” he says. “I have a special edition of Harold and Maude , too. It’s got all the deleted scenes. You know they had deleted scenes back then? Awesome, right?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t,” I say, backing up. He could be totally innocent. Or not. I don’t know.
    â€œThey found some!”
    â€œWow,” I say, thinking that this might be his way to relate to people—through bragging about movies he likes, movies he knows about. “But hey, I have to find Treena?” I say, feeling the largeness of the party and what’s going on. “I’m staying with her.”
    â€œYeah, yeah—Treena’s great. Well, stop by sometime. Room 412. Right there,” he says, pointing to it. “I’m the Scarface room.” He arches his eyebrows and I nod, not impressedwith that . Do you really want to be known for a movie about drug dealing?
    I don’t see Treena in the hallway, so I double back to her room and let myself in. “Hey, Tree—” I stop short. She’s sitting on her desk, with Trey in front of her, and they’re in the midst of serious kissing. I gasp, then quickly walk back out, shutting the door and blushing madly. I smile to myself, wanting to high-five