Cicadas.

Have you been hearing them lately?

Not those periodical, magicicada broods that only emerge every 13 or 17 years but the regular old East Coast annual cicadas who sing their mating songs in the late summer.

God, they are beautiful. At first I assumed they were sprinklers. “Damn, these East Coasters use their automated watering systems a lot,” I thought.

I moved to New York in August of 2001. My soon-to-be college roommate and I decided to meet up and road trip our way through New England two weeks before our first semester of college. Get to know one another and see the sights while we were at it. You know, the thing naive kids plan. And their parents probably say things like, “Two weeks?! You’re going to spend two weeks with a girl you don’t even know? What if you hate her? You’re going to have to spend the next year with her whether you like her or not. Better to just meet her in the dorm. There’ll be other people around, you’ll have a whole shared dialogue, a shared experience. Don’t do this. It’s not a good idea.” I don’t know. I mean, my parents didn’t say anything. But, that’s probably what hers said. Smart folks.

I got into Penn station around noon, dragged my giant, purple backpack to the closest wall and sunk down into it. It had never been this stuffed, this unwieldy when I lugged it through Europe the year before. I’d carried that thing everywhere. Rode trains illegally spilling wine and god-knows-what on it, sprayed a bus full of Scottish riders with pepper spray (accidentally), broke into the coliseum (purposefully — I plead young and stupid) with it waiting outside, ate pizza in Rome with it as a table, drank Whiskey in Drumnadrochit while it sat emptied and sad on my shared hostel floor. My pack had perched silently in the seat next to me when I was craving the English language and went to see Charlie’s Angels in Berlin. It had provided cushioning from the cold sidewalk when I ended up with nowhere to sleep in Barcelona in January (before scooting off to a warmer Valencia) and a perfect barrier between my body and the creepy french man wearing the trench coat in my train car (why are trench coats still so creepy and molestor-y?) on the way to Paris. And, here it sat. With me. Again. Ready for my next adventure. Ready to meet the girl with whom I would share a bedroom for an entire year.

We’d been talking for weeks over the phone. Her name was Lisa, she was from Florida, she liked Cat Power and Bob Dylan, she had a car (road trips, donut runs, weekend adventures!) she was an artist and had a cute, round face, two giant puppy-dog eyes, dyed black hair and a boyfriend who was a vegan photographer.

She loathed all things processed (my cheese-doodle eating really freaked her out) and had about twenty pair of low-top chucks. Actually, they were purchased as high-tops but she cut the tops off to make them more punk-rock looking. You know, I bought these new but they look used, kind of a vibe. Her family was loaded. Really loaded. She showed up in a bright green 2001 Volkswagon Jetta, fully loaded, black leather seats, moon roof, the whole deal.

She was so ashamed of that car. She was so ashamed of her wealth. Don’t get me wrong, she took full advantage of it. But, she was incredibly embarrassed. In college, or at least at Sarah Lawrence College, it was NOT cool to be wealthy. It was way cooler to be the poor kid on scholarship. So, you know, me. Except, it wasn’t actually cool to be that kid. It was just cool to seem like you were that kid and then go out and buy things and live a life that is only possible with lots and lots of money.

By the time I got to college I was pretty much done with my hard-partying ways. Small town, no rules or restrictions, I got into a lot before reaching legal adulthood. I’d taken some time off between high school and college to travel and take care of my mom so I was significantly, sigNIFICANTLY older than my peers. Okay, I was two years older. But, I will tell you right now, the difference between 18 and 20 is big. Giant, even. I was practically an adult. I had a dying mother, an abusive boyfriend and I’d already had alcohol poisoning twice.

I didn’t know what to make of this rich girl who acted poor. At first it was charming. She has money but she’s like me. Then it was confusing. She buys expensive clothing but cuts the labels out so no one knows it’s expensive? Then, I just got pissed. Why is this bitch pretending life is hard when it is so fucking easy for her?

I know now that money doesn’t make life better. But anyone who says it doesn’t make life easier has never been dirt poor. Having grown up with no money doesn’t make me an expert on poverty but it makes me an expert in my own experience. And, what I can say is that listening to people with money talk about how, “money doesn’t buy happiness” is super frustrating. I mean, I agree. But, it’s too simplistic a statement. Life is hard for everyone. We all have our very own, unique struggles. But a hard life and no money makes for a really hard life. There’s just no getting around that one.

This was all before the days of facebook and social media. I barely had an email address. There was no way to cyber-stock your future roommate. Seeing her in that bus station was seeing her for the first time. She’d described herself over the phone and I spotted her as soon as she approached the depot. We had an agreed upon meeting place because, that’s what you had to do back then. Make decisions and then stick with them. Decide things ahead of time and follow through. Dark days, they were.

“Oh, wow. So, you’re like really punk, huh?” she had said upon seeing me.

“Um, yeah. I guess so. I mean, not really but I kinda look the part, I guess,” I responded, trying to decide if she was really cool for just laying it out on the table. Or, kind of a bitch for being so weird about what I look like.

“Hmm. Okay. So, should we get going or…this place totally creeps me out. Let’s just get out of here and get on the road. Cool?”

“Cool,” I replied. “Let’s go.”

The first day was all pleasantries. Back stories.

Day two was filled with compromises. Sure, I’m happy to visit that teensy artsy town you really want to go to. I concede. I’d love to drive the extra-long scenic route, she lies. And so on.

By day four it’s clear we don’t like each other. By day six it’s starting to feel possible that we might, in fact, hate one another. We have nothing in common, aside from a few bands. We don’t understand one another’s life experiences and we are both completely devastated that we will have to cohabitate for any amount of time.

Days pass. There are fun moments. Laughs and what would later become inside jokes, good food (mostly vegan), some nice people along the way, quaint towns and gorgeous beaches. We journal and read and listen to lots and lots of Cat Power. We do our own thing, we make loads of phone calls (from pay phones because…that’s how long ago it was) and we just sort of get through the next week.

As we pull off I-80 into Stroudsberg, Pennyslvania we are miserable. We hate each other. We know we hate each other. The secret is out. School hasn’t even begun and we have nothing left to talk about. We’ve pretended for too long (12 whole days!) and neither of us has any patience left. It’s all out on the table. She’s a rich girl pretending to be some eco-friendly, street-savvy artist. And, I’m a small-town fuck-up with a giant chip on her shoulder, too heartbroken to be open and too jaded to be forgiving.

We just have to get through one more night. Bronxville is on the horizon but it’s late and we can’t check into the dorm until the following morning so we have to find one last place to stay before…before an entire year of this begins.

“Let’s just pull in here. This looks promising,” I say. It looks cheap and I’m broke. I know if I don’t suggest something she’ll have us staying in a Marriott.

“Why don’t you just let my parents pay for us to stay in a nice hotel?” she pleads.

“Lisa, not everyone can call their goddamn parents and ask them to subsidize their lives. I can pay my own way. I’ll cover my half but we’ve gotta stay here. Deal with it.”

“Shit. Fine. This place looks like a rape motel. If I get raped, I swear to god I am so suing you.”

“You’re not going to get fucking raped, Lisa. Jesus, you are so dramatic. It’s dark, it’s cheap. There’s cheaper and darker. Believe me. We’re fine,” I say. “Just back the car into the space so it’s harder to open the trunk if someone tries to steal our shit. And put your fucking cd’s in the glove compartment. You can’t leave them lying out like that.”

“Fine. But, I’m super uncomfortable with this. Just for the record.”

“Great. Your grievance has been recorded,” I mutter under my breath. I hear the car doors click loudly just as the cracked glass door to the front desk area swings shut behind me.

Lisa quickly unlocks the doors when she sees me coming. Doesn’t want me to know she’s scared, I think. “I got us a second floor room. No one will even bother with the second floor. If anyone’s getting raped it’ll be some first-floor fool,” I say with a smile.

She chuckles. Just a bit. But, enough to break the tension and lighten the mood. Maybe this will work, I start to think. I stop and let her walk ahead of me. She’s carrying three heavy bags and limping under their weight. Maybe she just needs a little bit of reality. And, time away from her folks. She’ll come around, I think as she turns the corner.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Lisa screams.

“What is it?” I ask, running to see what’s the matter. The light is out in front of our door. The ground is moving. The door is humming. The wall is alive. “What is THAT?” I ask.

“Cicadas,” she explains. “They’re disgusting.”

“Whoa! I think they’re beautiful. Holy shit, listen to them. I’ve never heard anything like it,” I say. “They’re amazing. They look like a cross between a Mystic and a Skeksis. Right? Like, before they split.”

“What are you even talking about?” she hisses.

I can’t believe she’s never seen the Dark Crystal, I think. I fucking knew I didn’t like her.

“How do we get in?” Lisa asks. She’s starting to look genuinely scared. And pissed.

“They’re like tiny dinosaurs. Holy shit. They’re so creepy. But cool. And, that sound. It’s like music. It’s dreamy. I feel like they’re hypnotizing me. They’re magical. These things are magical, right?”

“You are such a weirdo.”