Namea

Jane Austen once famously proclaimed in her timeless classic, Pride and Prejudice: "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife."

I suppose you could say that's still applicable today, barely, but still accurate.

However, today shall be known as a momentous one as I am making my own proclamation.

"It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a struggling college student, in their senior year, must be in want of a vacation."

Sound too close to the original? Well, I tried. Please don't sue for copyright infringement. Well, I mean you can, but considering the only thing you'll get out of me is a bus pass, about a gazillion (Is it even still acceptable to use that?) notebooks and a large sum of debt (gotta love those student loans, huh?), it really isn't worth the trouble.

As Taylor laments to me about another heartbreak via some song off her latest album, I make my way across campus. I chose the wrong day to diss my jacket. There's a chill in the air and the winds are pretty aggravated today and both of those combined create an awkward and uncomfortable walk for moi.

Honestly, it's September for crying out loud. It cannot be 75 degrees, yet feel like 50. I mean, it can, but where is the justice?

"Sorry," My eyes form into slits as some Beats wielding, negative GPA having athlete, 'accidentally' bumps into me.

"You should be," I shoot back harshly and politely make my way past his tall form. I hear him call out for me, using some colorful adjectives, but I offer him no response. Well, no verbal response, at least.

My finger needed a good stretching anyway.

God, I can't wait until I'm out of this place.

College has been a pleasant experience. I guess. I was never on academic probation, never at risk of getting kicked out of the dorms and I've managed to make it thus far without getting knocked up. So, I think I'm doing pretty good. My grades are phenomenal, if I do say so myself.

I've gotten so used to the intelligence deficient athletes and the sweet, but sometimes frustrating, mentally challenged students, that my on campus job as a writing tutor has actually become the highlight of my day.

It probably helps that I'd probably die if I were ever unable, for whatever reason, to write...

"You're late," is the first thing I hear as I step foot into Dr. Blake's large office. He once joked that the stress that came with getting his Ph.D allowed him the honor of having an office that's bigger than my dad's entire apartment back home. Not quite sure if I can agree with his belief, but the insanely comfy leather chairs make up for any doubt or disagreement I may have.

"I'm sorry," I lie, swinging my backpack off my, well, back, and dropping it to the floor. "I lost track of time." Reluctantly, I pull Queen Bey away from my ear just as she was about to explain to me what happens when you mix that Negro with that Creole.

He doesn't remove his eyes from his desktop as he continues to type away. Probably typing up one of his infamous "class dismissal notification" letters aka the ones you get from a professor when you've been dropped from their class. Another thing I've managed to avoid my four years here.

Seriously though, where is my medal? Certificate? Sticker? I'm not picky.

He grunts and glances at me, studying my body language. I shift under his lingering gaze. I'm not uncomfortable in any way. Dr. Blake is one of favorite professors. I trust him to not be stupid and try anything, not that he ever would, but I'm just saying.

"I won't keep you long because I assume by your insistence on coming down instead of email correspondence, that your answer is one I will find pleasing."

"Hmm," I purse my lips and look off into the corner of the high tray ceiling. "Define pleasant Dr. Blake."

"How about I define an F?"

"Close enough," I reply right and chuckle. Gulping and smoothing down the rough denim of my Forever XXI jeans, I shut my eyes. "I've decided to accept the offer."

Opening my own eyes, I'm met with surprise and relief. I'm sure he wasn't expecting that answer, but was hoping to hear it.

As if breaking out of his trance, he claps his hands together, and swivels around in his chair. Papers clash with one another and incoherent mumbles of irritancy leave his mouth as he searches for something.

"Ah," he says with a straight face and pleasant tone of voice. "Here is all the required paperwork for you to fill out."  I take the hefty folder from his outstretched hand and gasp.

He laughs, "Too much for you?"

"Never," I exclaim dramatically and drop the folded into my Betsy Johnson bag. "When do you need it back?"

"Preferably, before 5pm tomorrow, but given I know your situation and such..."

"Don't worry I'll have it back to you by then," my tone becomes testy and understandably so. I make it a priority to avoid having my personal life interfere with my educational and professional responsibilities. This is common knowledge and even with the strange circumstances surrounding this whole thing; I don't want to risk putting anything into the universe that could change that.

"Oh, and I would like the 5,000 to go toward my tuition as well." 5,000 cash sounds so clutch right about now, but it also screams danger. A weakness of mine has always been spending. I'd blow through that money faster than Kim Kardashian goes through men.

See, I'm not so perfect after all.

He smiles softly, "I figured as much." A beat. "Are you absolutely sure you're up to this?"

"Dr. Blake," I start off with a wry smiled "I'm a college kid with debt up to my ears waiting for me as soon as I walk across that stage in May, an overload of classes just beating at my door for next semester and the remainder of an internship this experiment will get me out of, looking for me." Picking up my bag and swinging it over my shoulder, I stretch and rise up off the sofa. "I can't afford not to be."

He leans back and looks up at me, "You know once you turn that folder in and your name is on the dotted line, that's it. There's no backing out."

I grin and make my way to the door, placing my small hand on the cool knob. "Why would I run from a vacation?"

He just laughs at my lame sense of humor and swivels back around to continue his typing. I don't bother waiting for him to let me know our meeting is over. That's made pretty obvious.

After all, I don't really do waiting. Not since my mom.

I'm spent days waiting for her to come back from the store. Sometimes I wish I still had that belief she just never came back, but she did.

She actually did, but it was just in a body bag.

Yeah, it's definitely time for a vacation.

Namea

A plantation. 

Of course. 

I should have known as soon as I found out we were being sent to New Orleans.

The plane ride was short, uncomfortable and a nuisance. I've never been a fan of travel methods in which I'm thirty thousand feet off the ground and survival rates of an accident, of any sort, are slim to none.

My trusty candy apple red Camry has served me well through the years and being away from her for two weeks will be a true test of faith, strength, and resilience.

My über driver was a New Orleans native with a thick southern accent, friendly mien and chatty personality. As great as all that was, it didn't take long for me to grow tired of him.

People like him, overtly kind, tend to irk me after a short period of time.

Despite my multiple requests, I was not informed as to how many people will be staying here, only that there would be an equal amount of guys and girls.

So, no help whatsoever.

True to the binding words in the agreement I signed after a careful reading, they confiscated all of my electronics (cell phone, laptop, iPod and ear buds included). If it was buddy buddy with electricity, they took it. In exchange, I was given a brand new Sony camera (still in the box and everything) and encouraged to take plenty pictures and even record anything I find interesting or noteworthy.

Good thing I took that Digital Photography course my sophomore year of high school.

Unlike most normal people, the exquisite interior design of the property fazes me not. It's very nice. I will admit that. However, material objects have no strong effect on me.

When you've lost more than you've gained in life, you tend to not be as easily captivated by materialistic things.

"Interesting," is all my new roommate says to me as I make my way to the room assigned to me by the 'staff' conducting this experiment.

She's a tall girl, much taller than me (not that that takes much) with a coco completion and long black hair. With her slim figure and sharp facial features, she puts me in mind of the Victoria's Secret models I make fun of as a hobby.

Seeing as she arrived first, I don't bother to object to her getting first pick for the bed. They're both equally nice to me.

Other than her one word greeting, we don't say anything to each other as per instructed, and simply try our best to make the room feel more like home.

About 45 minutes after arriving, we hear over the intercoms that our presence is required in the library.

There's actually a library in this place. Ridiculous.

The setup is eerily similar to the library at campus.

Even though we walk in together, and sit next to each other, my roommate and I share no words. Instead, we both take the opportunity to survey the other participants. There are four guys, two other girls, and all are complete and total strangers to me.

In all, there are eight of us.

"Well," Dr. Blake begins, walking in with four graduate students behind him. "I'm glad to see you all were able to make it here safely."

"Barely," one of the girls, a brunette with striking blue eyes, mumbles and shifts in her seat. "My über driver was totes creepy."

And I am already totes annoyed.

Dr. Blake gives her faux sympathy and I couldn't be any happier. "I'm sorry to hear that Ms. Baker."

As he continues to go over the rules laid out in the agreement we all autographed, his graduate student assistants go around giving all of us small, dry erase boards and different colored Expo markers.

"...Now I want you all to write down your first names only and when you're done, flip the board over so your name is visible to the group." It takes us only a matter of minutes to complete the task and when we're done, Dr. Blake gives us our next set of directions. "Now, take a look around the room. Look at each persons name. Think about it and without factoring in what you may or may not already know about the person, I want you to express to that person what you think of their name from a racial standpoint."

Boy, this should be fun.

Given the uncomfortable circumstances surrounding the instructions, no one is exactly burning with excitement to go first.

Eventually, someone does and guess whose name they chose?

"I don't even know if it even constitutes a name," Richard, a Caucasian boy with blue eyes similar to totes, and dirty blonde hair laughs, looking in my direction. "How do you even pronounce it?"

All eyes turn in my direction and I cringe internally cringe.

"Nu - may - uh," I accentuate each portion and try my hardest to maintain a neutral disposition. "Technically, there's an accent over the e, but I opt not to spell it with one."

Richard chuckles, "It's ghetto as hell." Finally, he falls out in a fit of laughter and then offers me a weak. "No offense."

"None taken," I smile warmly, shrugging my shoulders. "Hey, isn't Dick usually a nickname for Richard?" His laughter starts to die down, but my smile only intensifies. "That's so cool. We both have names that signify who and what we are." I stare directly at him, my gaze unwavering and my voice low and clear. "Ghetto and a dick."

I hear chuckles and laughs from all around, but my eyes do not leave Richard and soon he matches my stare down.

"Hey Dr. Blake," he finally speaks, but his gaze still remains on me. "Since when do EBT cards cover college tuition?"

"Unfortunately, they don't." I pout dramatically and pull my curls back. "I've had to settle for tips and such from the strip club. You know, the usual, college student by day and exotic dancer by night?" He looks confused, but maintains narrowed eyes. "But thank God for your sister. She's taught me everything I know. Crowd favorite actually."

"You f*cking b-"

"I think that's enough for today's session," Dr. Blake cuts him off, but not for reasons one might think. Judging by the small smile on his face, I'm guessing this was the type of reaction he was hoping for. "We shall reconvene tomorrow morning at 10am."

With that, he gets out of his seat and walks out with his students behind him.

The rest of us waste no time in leaving the room as well. My roommate, who I learned name is Sarah, seems to have a newfound sense of annoyance toward me.

She's the first of us to walk out.

As I near the door, the other girl in the group approaches me.

She introduces herself as Layla and proceeds to praise me for shutting down Richard (she uses other words to describe him actually) and proclaims me her new best friend. Her voice is preppy, her words are simple and the speed in which she speaks is unnatural.

Put simply, she's sugar, spice and everything nice.

Didn't she get the memo that show was cancelled years ago?

As we walk toward my room or her room, I'm not quite sure it matters because it's painfully obvious she has no intentions on leaving my side, we're met with a complication.

"For what it's worth," the complication, with his low voice, bright eyes and firm build looks down at me. "I think your name is beautiful."

He doesn't say anything else and proceeds to retreat down the hall and into a room without offering me the chance to reply.

Actually, I'm somewhat glad I don't have a chance to do so because Layla wastes no time in informing me that Mr. Complication (real name Adam) was staring at me the whole time we were in session.

She continues to give me a 'rundown' on who he is, but I only get bits and pieces (athlete, senior, baseball). My mind is too enthralled as to why his compliment has me curious to know more about him.

I don't do that. Getting to know people only ever leads to disappointment. It's important I remember that or risk having history repeat itself.