It started on the balcony of Manley dorm. A crowd of girls was jumping, dancing, and shouting to the greek gods of exclusivity, “We’re sisters!” Whitney Bost was on that balcony—we’d invited her. Though technically not exactly part of the family, it was only a matter of time. And while she pined for inclusion—I stood wondering, did I really just sign up to pay for these friends? We both stood on the periphery of the dancing, and then struck a deal.
That summer, Whitney and I didn’t talk much, and when August rolled around, Whitney moved into our double-room by herself, and I got on a plane for Shanghai.
By the time I returned, that balcony pact felt like a bad tattoo engraved into your lower back on your 18th birthday. It seemed like such a good idea at the time. But what did Whitney Bost and I have in common other than the fact that we’re both 5 foot 3 inches and brunette?
Plus, if we were being honest (which we rarely were, at that point), we were both miserable.
Whitney had isolated herself with a boyfriend while at Furman, and I had isolated myself from everyone halfway across the globe. We rarely talked, and were rarely in our dorm room at the same time. We started talking about rooming with other people for junior year. Our experiment had failed.