Waking in Memphis Chapter 6

Chapter 6: F is for F•R•I•E•N•D•S

Casey

Jill and I, my freshman year at the University of Tennessee in Knoxville. But before we get to her, we have to start with Tessa.

I grew up in northwest Arkansas, just ten miles from the University of Arkansas, and made it my personal mission to skip 13th grade with the rest of my high school and get out of there. My first semi-adult decision was moving twelve hours away to a city where I knew exactly one person. Tessa.

She wasn’t just my best friend—she was practically family. We met in sixth grade, bonded over chaos (specifically gluing Ryan Altom’s textbook pages together when he was absent), and never looked back. She joined us on family vacations, got snowed in at my house for days at a time, and we never got tired of each other.

We were yin and yang and yang and yen. Tessa was smart, steady, and low-key brilliant. Actually liked her classes. Actually took notes. She was the one with goals.

I was the extroverted, all-in, let’s-try-it-and-hope-we-don’t-die one. The kind of girl who says, “What if we use the same fake ID at the same bar we already got caught in?” and two hours later is bribing the bouncer to get it back. (Successfully, I might add.)

I remember the day we moved into the dorms in Knoxville. Tessa, her mom, my mom, and me—all piled into the car with our Bed-in-a-Bag accessories and hometown dreams stuffed into plastic tubs. Tessa slept most of the drive, so I licked gummy bears and stuck them to her face. Let the AC seal 'em on like facial piercings from the Dollar Tree. We stayed in a cheap hotel that night. Tessa and I were being typical monster eighteen-year-olds on the eve of our independence, dying for that first moment of unsupervised freedom. Our moms should’ve been too. But for some reason, they still thought they’d miss us.

We unloaded everything into our rooms, got all set up, and then looked at them like, “Okay… bye.” They took the hint. But it wasn’t until the elevator doors closed behind them that it hit us. I think we both felt it deeper than we wanted to admit, but instead of saying anything, we just turned the music up loud and started organizing. By nightfall, we were picking out outfits to go to Cotton Eyed Joe’s. On a school night. We were free.

Jill came second semester. We were living in the dorms, and Tessa and I had the misfortune of being suitemates with the RA. We shared a bathroom and foyer with our dorm mom. Yay.

Our hall director dropped by one day and said, “You’re getting a new RA. Jill moves in tomorrow. Please wear pants. At least for the first week.”

We groaned.

But then the next day, we were coming back from a grocery run when someone popped out from behind a stack of boxes.

T-shirt. Underwear. No pants. “Sorry,” she said. “I hate when clothes touch me too much. I couldn’t breathe.”

Tessa and I locked eyes like the gods had answered our prayers. Jill was one of us.

She totally had a cool camp counselor vibe. Maybe a cruise ship director. Either way—she had a plan and a built-in megaphone. Her voice had authority. (Was loud.) I think she was either an actual camp counselor or just a camp kid because every time she wanted us to chill out, she’d say it was time for “FOB.” Flat on back. That’s the most Christian church camp shit I’ve ever heard. You know those little Jesus-lovin’ virgins can only play so much ultimate frisbee before they start flirting with the opposite sex. So they invented enforced horizontal alone time. To this day, if one of us misses a text or takes a nap, we’ll say, “Sorry. I was FOB-ing.”

She warned us before fire drills and room checks so we could hide our contraband (mostly mini liquor bottles and the occasional oversized vodka handle). One night, when we snuck two guys into the dorm—strictly against the rules—Jill made sure we avoided cameras and covered for us like a big sister. A true protector.

And once her RA duties ended, she leveled up from dorm mom to squad member. Still protective, now fully chaotic.

Which worked out great for me. Tessa had limits. Jill had limits. They were just different limits. So with them both around, I could be a little extra-limitless.

I think that’s what bonded Jill and me the most. I was the ticking time bomb, and she was the bomb squad CEO. She liked feeling needed. I gave her plenty of opportunities.

One night, I fell down the stairs and cut my knee open. I found some plumping lip gloss in my bag—you know, the kind with menthol in it—and decided it would cool the wound. Jill warned me. Multiple times. But I went for it anyway. Reader, it did not cool the wound. She won drunk science that night. And every night after that.

Also—once Jill’s mom came to visit. It was our first time meeting her. Tessa and I had gone out the night before, and I’d fallen asleep with my underage Sharpie Xs still drawn on my hands. I was rushing out late for class, and Jill introduced me. Her mom was all giggles, which I figured was just her vibe. Turns out, I had two giant Xs printed across my face, and neither of them told me. I went to class like that. Full campus runway. No notes.

Then came Shitney.

After the dorms, Tessa and I moved into an off-campus apartment with four individual leases. Translation: roommates could be assigned at random. One day we got a call—some girl named Britney Lofton was moving in.

A quick Google search turned up a church directory photo: pearls, pageant hair, perfect posture. We printed it out and hung it on the wall to welcome her. With a hula hoop around it. For ambiance.

Tessa and I were actually home in Arkansas when Britney moved in. Our parents had co-signed the leases, so Shitney’s mom called mine. In her sweetest Southern voice, she introduced herself as Debbie Lynn and said they were just real humble people who loved the Lord.

My mom was terrified about what we might do to poor innocent Britney.

Turns out… Britney was a little firecracker just waiting for a fuse.

Her mom had been the small-town DA and ran a tight ship. We were just there to help her spread her wings—and maybe throw hands in a Waffle House parking lot.

She was younger than us, a reigning pageant queen with Southern sass and a rhinestone-studded spoon for stirring shit. The kind of classy woman who’d bring you a peace-offering pitcher of lemonade—only to let you finish it before telling you it was her pee.

She earned the nickname Shitney after one particularly unhinged night out. I’ll spare the details, but it involved Jell-O shots, a cowboy hat she stole, and a dramatic announcement that she was “done being polite.” And honestly? She was.

She fit right in. Like a little sister. The kind you occasionally want to push down a flight of stairs—but who would absolutely key your ex’s car while singing “Before He Cheats.” She was sugar and spite. Equal parts debutante and demolition derby.

The four of us worked like the most dysfunctional, well-oiled machine you’ve ever seen. We each had our role:

Tessa: The Organizer. Smart, kind, chill. The only one who actually wanted a degree. Jill: The Protector. Bold, direct, shameless. “Matter of fact” met its match. Shitney: The Instigator. Drama-loving Southern belle with a heart of gold and a trunk full of grudges. Me: The Negotiator. Gab, grit, and gift of the gab. I could charm a snake or con a cop with a wink and a one-liner.

Of course, we traded hats constantly.

Like the time Tessa took a shot in the car, immediately “spit up” (read: vomited) on her shirt, and then tried to use a fake ID with a real cop. I went out to talk us out of it, got my fake taken, and Jill and Shitney pulled off a side-door escape pretending to be our Uber.

We were chaos. But coordinated chaos.

And looking back, all those nights? They were rehearsals. For heartbreak. For survival. For the kind of loyalty that doesn’t flinch when things get dark.