Long strands of blond hair fall in soft curls as I set the brush down the hotel's spotless marble sink. My eyes twinkle, trying to memorize every inch of this new face I will don for the rest of the semester.

Big, round brown eyes. Expressive. Lips painted brick red. Classy. Skin tanned the perfect degree. Elegant and about right for the new identity I built for myself. Gentle fingers smooth down the soft, light blue skirt decorated with faint white lines of geometric lines down my legs. Patterns in clothes. Charmaine Stevens loves those.

I smile and my eyes follow the playful streak curling up at the edge of my mouth. Charmaine Stevens. That's my name.

For now.

I unscrew the lid of the tube of mascara I picked up at the nearby convenience store and start applying the thick, viscous liquid to my lashes. Ah, Charmaine loves getting dolled up. As I continue applying the rest of the make-up routine I've seen girls from around here do, my lips move in a silent chant listing all the traits this identity has.

Grew up in Montgomery, Alabama. Never ridden a horse. Had a golden retriever named George. Moved to New York City when I was ten due to a father changing jobs, chasing the impossible dream of living in the metropolis. Into painting, film, and music. Can allegedly play the harp.

I narrow my eyes, clicking the compact powder shut as I run my tongue over my teeth. Play the harp? Isn't that hard to learn in a short amount of time? If a meddler decides to have me prove it, it's going to destroy Charamaine Stevens' identity.

Then again, how many colleges in New York City have an accessible harp? Last I checked, I'm a social science major. I click my tongue. Alright, the harp can stay. It probably will not come up in a conversation in my short stay here anyway.

My phone lights up from its resting place an arm's reach away from me. It's a message from the Fisher College office informing me about my arrangements in their dorms. I set down the hoop earrings I didn't finish attaching to my other lobe to swipe up the screen to free my notifications of the text. I'll figure it out when I actually reach the campus.

I finish my preparations by holding a spray bottle in front of my face, closing my eyes, and pressing down. Sweet-smelling mist hangs in the air before kissing my caked skin lightly. I blink as my eyes adjusted against the sudden light flooding my eyes.

I shove the bottle into a canvas bag containing all my belongings. The suitcase I brought with me has long been discarded in the hotel's foyer. Starting today, I am Charmaine Stevens and she doesn't do suitcases.

I slip on the ankle-high, leather boots I snagged yesterday from the department store as a last-minute decision of whether Charmaine does heels or not. I peek at my legs, turning this way and that, and shrug. Seems good to me.

Time to get this show on the road.

My phone joins its mates inside my bag as I yank the bathroom door open, revealing a lush, modern hotel room I booked as soon as I landed in the country. I throw the canvas bag into the fluffy bed with the quilts and sheets still in disarray after I slept on them last night.

I begin stuffing all the first day essentials into my bag. In go the notebooks, at least a dozen colorful pens, and a binder containing all my important documents. Admission has been a breeze after pulling some familiar strings but the Dean may still ask some questions. I don't know. People like asking questions.

I stick my hand into the bag and begin rummaging for my phone, cursing. Damn it. I forgot to take a picture for my newly-created Instagram account. That's another way to build credibility even if the account was created just a week ago. I can just say that my parents are super conservative and think social media poison children's minds.

My eyes scan the hotel room as I trudge towards the door leading to the grand corridor and ultimately, the posh lobby. So long, then. It's been good while it lasted. A sigh escapes my lips as I angle my phone up and tap the camera icon. I smile the preppiest way I can—Charmaine, after all, is preppy—and snap.

The door gives a quiet hiss when I yank it open. I step out of the room, bent on my phone and tapping away at the right buttons to share Charmaine's first photo into the world. My feet stepped into the busy, New York City roads just as the swirling circle turned into a colorful check mark.

I smile. Charmaine Stevens is ready to conquer New York.

The orientation hall turns out to be a repurposed lecture hall filled with rows of plastic green armchairs stuck to each other. Students dressed in all kinds of attire there are in the earth mill about, either on their own or already laughing with a small group dictating the possible cliques throughout the year.

I tread inside, keeping my chin level with the ground and meeting each and every gaze thrown at me and giving them my warmest smile. Charmaine is overly-friendly, after all. If there is someone who's destined to be friends with everyone, it's her.

The heels of my boots clack against the stark white tiles as I tackle the stairs leading to the middle of the hall. That's the key to being unmemorable—not too far out back and not too near the front either. Average.

I plop into the aisle seat to my left, next to a dark-skinned girl with curly, dark hair tied up in a hasty bun resulting in some strands shooting off in a dozen erratic directions. Her pale beige tank top and hi-cut, denim shorts are something I will steal for my next identity. Just she wait.

The girl chews and something cracks inside her mouth. She must have noticed me staring because she turns to me with a smile revealing pearly white teeth. Her button nose scrunches up with the motion.

"Walnuts?" she holds a packet of wrinkly nuts at me. "Trust me, they're really tasty. Good for your health too!"

I blink. What will Charmaine say?

"Sure, why not?" I clap my hands together and shove two fingers inside a small hole torn at one side of the packet. My fingers touched the scratchy nut at the top of the pile. I pop it into my mouth. "It's my first time trying out a walnut," I make sure to show the girl I'm chewing and thinking hard about the taste. "Earthy. Tangy."

I smile at the girl and hold up a thumbs-up sign. "I like it."

The girl beams and gasps lightly. "Really?" She extends her hand towards me. "Astrid Fowler. Social Science major. It's really rad you like walnuts too. I love them to bits!"

I take her hand and whoa, she has a strong rip. "Charmaine Stevens," I shake our hands a bit. "Social Science major as well. What an interesting coincidence."

"I know right!" Astrid pops another walnut into her mouth. The crunch that followed echoes at least a few rows of seats away. "What's your dorm room?"

I raise my eyebrow. "Wait a sec," I turn to dig around my bag for my phone. As soon as I get it, I unlock it and scroll through my list of apps until I land on the messaging one. I tap the icon to open it and click on the first unread thread. I meet Astrid's expectant face after having read the information. "Partridge Building. Room 209-B."

"No way!" Astrid shakes her head in disbelief. "We're even in the same room!"

"Really?" I lean over when she taps into her phone to retrieve her own message. She holds it out to me and true enough, it says Partridge Building. Room 209-B. I plop against the backrest of my seat, the cold plastic digging into my thin, burgundy blouse. "That's amazing."

"You like walnuts so we're already on the right path," Astrid nods and shoves the half-eaten packet of walnuts into the pockets of her shorts. She doesn't have any other belongings apart from the phone atop her armchair's table and a single pen stuck in the curls of her hair. I like this girl. It looks like she and Charmaine are going to be good friends.

I nod back at Astrid's sentiment. "Yeah," I said. "Yeah, we are."

Before I can ask about her schedule and what classes we have together, a hushed silence sweeps across the room as a door opens at the far left corner of a raised platform spanning the width of the lecture hall. Being this high up, the adults that sprouted from it remind me of walking sticks.

Almost two hundred freshmen watch the adults stride towards the seats lined up for them in the platform while one walks over to the sole podium in the middle.

"Good morning, Fishers," the man's nasal voice rings from the microphone before blasting through the speakers and echoing in the entire auditorium. "Welcome to the annual freshmen orientation."