Page 1 of Beyond the Lines (Pine Barren University #1)

one

LEA

Pop music assaults my eardrums with increasing intensity as I drag my suitcase down the corridor of Hughes Hall. And, while I’m as big a Taylor Swift fan as anyone, ‘Blank Space’ blaring at a volume that would make most stadiums envious is not how I thought I’d start my college experience.

My brother, Mike, is only a step behind me, but I can barely hear him as he shouts, “What fresh hell is this?”

I turn to face him and flash an impish grin. “Hey, someone on the floor is a Swiftie, deal with it.”

He gestures with his chin at the door from which the music is spewing. “Looks like your roommate is, Andy…”

“Great!” I smile, realizing we’ve reached my room. I reach into my pocket, grab my key, and?—

“Wait!” He screams, freezing me cold as he grabs my shoulder. “What if the music is covering for something?”

I exhale slowly as I turn to face him. “And what exactly would it be disguising, genius?”

“Meth lab…” He shrugs. “Extreme make out session…”

“I’d prefer the meth lab,” I say. “Come on. ”

“Maybe I’ll wait out here…” he says.

“Come on, Mike,” I say. “You’re meant to be showing me around. If Mom?—”

“ Fine! ”

With an innocent smile, I unlock the door, steeling myself for whatever awaits on the other side. The door swings open to reveal a whirlwind of motion—my new roommate dancing like she’s auditioning for a music video, using her phone as a microphone.

“Cherry lips, crystal skies, I could show you incredible things. Stolen kisses, pretty lies, you’re the King, baby, I’m your Queen…”

Mike and I stand there for what feels like an eternity, watching her flail around the room like a tornado. Her eyes are closed as she sings, but somehow she avoids knocking anything over or stubbing her toe on the furniture. It’s as impressive as it is scary.

I clear my throat loudly. “Uh, hi!”

She freezes mid-hip thrust, and her eyes shoot open. Then her eyes widen, almost comically, and she launches herself at me like a human missile.

“Oh my God, you’re here! You’re finally here!

” She runs at me and wraps me in a hug that threatens to crack my ribs.

“I’ve been waiting all day! I got here this morning, and I was like, when is she coming?

Is she coming? Maybe she changed her mind and decided to transfer to another school, and I’ll be all alone, and?—”

“Can’t. Breathe,” I wheeze.

“Oh! Sorry!” She releases me, bouncing back.

“It’s OK,” I say, resisting the urge to take a step back from this human ball of energy.

“Anyway, I’m so excited!” She goes on. “I’m Amélie. But everyone calls me Em. Well, except my Mom, when she’s mad, then it’s ‘Amélie Charlotte Dubois’ in that tone that means I’m in heaps of shit, you know?”

Mike clears his throat behind me.

“Oh!” I gesture to him. “This is my brother, Mike.”

“Hi, Mike!” Em gives a little wave. “You’re on the hockey team, right? I totally recognized you from the social media clips!”

I raise an eyebrow at Mike, who’s trying not to preen.

Hockey players and their egos, I swear .

“Yeah, that’s me,” he says, trying to pull off being nonchalant and not quite succeeding. “Listen, we’ve still got boxes in the car?—”

“I’ll help!” Em practically teleports to the door. “I’m really strong. Like, surprisingly strong. Dancer strong. My Dad also says it’s because I have too much energy and it has to go somewhere. He also says I talk too much when I’m excited. Which I totally am right now. Am I talking too much?”

“Yes,” Mike says, at the same time as I say, “Not at all.”

We spend the next hour hauling boxes up to the third floor.

Em wasn’t kidding about being strong—she carries my mini-fridge by herself, chattering the entire time about how her cousin Louis (not to be confused with her other cousin Léon) once dropped one on his foot and had to wear a boot cast to his sister’s wedding.

By the time we finish, I know her entire family tree and amusing anecdotes about most of the members of it. I’ve also figured out that living with Em will be a storm of conversation during all waking hours, with only small pauses permitted for food, water, breathing, and sleeping.

But hey, we’re done.

And I’m in .

College.

“Want help unpacking?” Mike asks, checking his watch, clearly not as excited as I am about the milestone.

I glance at the pile of boxes and almost accept his offer, but I can see Em practically vibrating with the need to properly meet her new roommate.

“Nah, I’m good,” I say to Mike. “But we’re on for bagels tomorrow morning?”

“At eight,” he confirms. “Don’t be late.”

“When am I ever late?”

“You really want me to answer that?”

I shove him toward the door. “Goodbye, Michael .”

“Bye, Leanndra .” He ducks the pen I throw at his head. “Nice to meet you, Em.”

“Nice meeting you too!” Em calls after him.

The moment he’s gone, she spins to face me.

“So. Tell me everything about yourself. Where are you from? What’s your major?

Do you like Taylor Swift? What’s your zodiac sign?

Do you believe in zodiac signs? I’m a Gemini, which totally explains the talking thing?—”

I hold up my hands, laughing. “Whoa, one at a time! Let me at least sit down! And why don’t you start?”

“Right! Sitting! Yes! Me!” She plops cross-legged onto her bed, which is already made up with a riot of colorful pillows.

“I’m a freshman, although I’m already twenty, because I took a few years off.

I’m from Boston. Well, technically Brookline, but nobody knows where that is, so I just say Boston. ”

She takes a breath. “And I have ADHD, which?—”

“Explains the talking thing?” I suggest, grinning as I perch on my mattress.

She beams. “Exactly! Your turn!”

“OK, well, I’m Lea?— ”

“I thought your brother called you Leanndra?”

“Only when he’s being annoying. Which is always.” I lean back on my hands. “I’m from New Jersey. I’m nineteen, also a freshman, majoring in Fine Arts.”

“Ooh, an artist!” Em claps her hands. “I’m doing dance and elementary education, which means I might hit you with a stray high kick. Fair warning.”

“Noted,” I laugh.

“What’s your medium?”

“Mixed media, mostly. But I love drawing and painting.” I gesture at one of the boxes. “I’ve got some of my stuff in there somewhere.”

“Show me!” She bounces on her bed.

“Maybe later?” I eye the mountain of boxes. “I should probably unpack some of my stuff first.”

“Oh! Right!” She springs up. “Want help? I’m excellent at organizing things. Like, really good. I have a system.”

I raise an eyebrow. “A system?”

“Mmhmm!” She’s already opening the nearest box. “See, you start with the essentials—bedding, toiletries, clothes you’ll need right away. Then you move on to decorative stuff, then books and school supplies, then everything else. Trust me, I’ve got this down to a science.”

“You’ve moved a lot?”

“Nope! Just obsessively watched dorm room organization videos on YouTube for the past month.” She pulls out my sheets. “These are cute! Very artsy!”

I look at my plain white sheets. “They’re… white?”

“Exactly! Like a blank canvas! Very on-brand for an artist.” She starts making my bed with military precision. “So, tell me more about yourself. Do you have any siblings besides Mike? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Pet goldfish named Hootie the Goldfish?”

I laugh, helping her with the fitted sheet. “Just Mike. No significant others. And definitely no goldfish, though now I want one.”

“Right? It’s such a good name for a fish!” She smooths out a wrinkle with determination. “What about—oh! Before I forget!”

She darts to the mini-fridge—which I notice is already plugged in and humming—and opens it with a flourish. “Ta-da!”

My jaw drops. The fridge is fully stocked with drinks, including…

“Is that cinnamon cider?” I ask, stunned she’s both figured out my favorite drink and managed to get some in stock.

“Yep!” She grins. “I may have done some light stalking of your Instagram. I hope that’s not too creepy?”

“No, it’s…” It is kind of creepy, but I don’t want to tell her that, and I’m a little touched, actually. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”

“I figure college is scary enough without having to worry about beverage drama.” She closes the fridge. “Plus, I needed to try my fake ID. It’s terrible .”

I laugh. “How terrible?”

“It says I’m thirty-seven and from Wyoming.” She throws her hands up. “But the guy was like, ‘Trust me, no one checks Wyoming IDs because no one knows what they look like.’ And he was right! I’ve used it three times already, and no one’s questioned it.”

We spend the next hour unpacking, and I learn more about Em than I probably know about some of my high school friends. She talks constantly, but somehow makes it feel like a conversation rather than a monologue.

By the time we finish, I feel like I’ve known her for years. She’s a hurricane of energy and enthusiasm, but there’s something genuine about her that makes it impossible not to like her.

“Oh!” She says suddenly, in the middle of helping me organize my desk. “I almost forgot! I made a map of campus for us!”

“I’ve got a map, Em…” My voice trails off, not wanting to offend her, but confused about why she’d make a whole other map.

“Not this map,” she says as she rushes to her desk and pulls out a folder.

“Well, technically I made several maps. One for classes, one for food, one for party locations—very important—and one for emergency awkward social situation exits because you never know when you’ll need to make a dramatic escape. ”

She spreads the maps out on my newly made bed.

They’re incredibly detailed, with color-coding and little annotations in her loopy handwriting.

And, true to her word, they contain everything she’s described and more.

They are far more useful than anything Mike has given me, and she’s been on campus for only a few hours…

“When did you have time to make these?” I ask, amazed. “Didn’t you just get here this morning?”