The residence halls at Sarah Lawrence College are diverse. Learn more about the options, which range from private houses to community-focused dorms.
The residence halls at Sarah Lawrence College are diverse. Learn more about the options, which range from private houses to community-focused dorms.
13 best dorm room food storage ideas for anyone who despises clutter. Because an organized dorm WITH snacks makes everyday college life easier.
Tips on decorating a guys dorm room.
Explore the allure of a chaotic messy room aesthetic. Dive into the beauty of disorder with our inspiring ideas. Embrace the unique charm within chaos.
Hey y'all! My freshman year is almost over, unfortunately! I have loved every second of it. I would give anything to go back to this time ...
The residence halls at Sarah Lawrence College are diverse. Learn more about the options, which range from private houses to community-focused dorms.
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Judging by the aisles of puppy folders, Justin Beiber backpacks and 50 cent crayons....it's Back to School season :) Supplies for dorm life include a lot more than paper and pencils though! 2 weeks into campus dining, you'll be ready to stock your dorm with some snacks and healthier alternatives to on-campus dining. Particularly if
Nice witches finish last… A guilt-ridden former coven is forced to tap into the magic of their past . . . if they want to stop their lives from going up in flames again. On the outside, luxury real estate agent Sarah Nelson looks like every other mom in the suburb. But she has an edge that others don’t: She’s a witch. And no one knows . . . except her estranged ex-coven and college friends, Katrina and Alicia. One terrible night during their freshman year, the trio accidentally burned down their dorm, and soon after they scattered. Their secret had been safe, until Sarah learns they’ve been invited back to commemorate the anniversary of the fire. Suddenly, the magic doesn’t want to be controlled. Sarah’s orange tabby cat, Katy Purry, now argues with her. Her broom has become self-brooming, and her fridge somehow restocks thirty pounds of sliced turkey for school lunches. As it grows increasingly difficult to hide the magic and the past, Sarah, Katrina, and Alicia must harness their power together . . . before they find out if polite society still burns witches. Product DetailsISBN-13: 9780593422397 Media Type: Paperback Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group Publication Date: 09-19-2023 Pages: 336 Product Dimensions: 5.10(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.80(d)About the Author Maureen Kilmer graduated from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio, and lives in the Chicago suburbs with her husband and three children. She thankfully has not had to battle the forces of darkness (unless going to Costco on a Saturday counts). She is also the author of Suburban Hell, her horror debut.Read an Excerpt Read an Excerpt Chapter 1 Twenty Years Later A truly magical living space... My computer cursor blinked at me, taunting me with a blank page. Daring me to write the perfect description for my newest real estate listing. On the outside, the house was beautiful. It was a sage-green American Foursquare with a dormer window sprouting out of the center of the roof and a black front door encased by a large porch. I flipped through the information packet, glancing at each picture. I had chosen not to include any images of the inside in the listing. The property had sat empty for three years, the house beginning its slow decline without anyone who loved it, someone to take care of it. It would require a lot of renovations, if not a total gut rehab. There was nothing "magical" about the space, unless the Wicked Witch of the West herself had taken up residence there among the crumbling plaster and hidden critters in the corners. I flexed my fingers and began to type. Location, location, location... They were the magic words in real estate, much like recently rehabbed, move-in ready, and motivated sellers. And I knew all about magic words. I typed out the description, nodding in satisfaction. I spun around once in my chair before I hit the Send button to turn in the final MLS listing, ready to go live. I shut my laptop and peered out the large picture window in my home office that overlooked the front yard, with tall maple trees flanking the driveway and a hedge of pink roses that lined the sidewalk. I frowned as I saw movement near the garbage cans we'd placed on the street for pickup day. I leaned forward and squinted, and it was just as I'd suspected-two small gray bodies were scurrying around in between the cans. Damn raccoons. If I had a suburban nemesis, it was the neighborhood raccoons. They were of the craftiest kind, always getting into the garbage cans on the side of the house no matter what we placed on top. We sometimes woke to garbage scattered on the driveway after a particularly hearty meal. One evening, I nearly had a heart attack as I opened one of the cans outside to toss a bag inside and one peeked its head out and locked eyes with me. I screamed and ran, bag of garbage abandoned on the driveway, until my husband, Travis, agreed to venture into the fray. They usually only appeared at night, but on garbage day it was an all-day trash extravaganza. Other neighbors had been through rounds of exterminators and deterrents, to no avail. But I didn't need any of those things. I had a secret weapon. I scurried from my desk-looking very much like my neighborhood nemeses-and leaned out the door of my home office, listening to make sure that I was alone in the house. When it was confirmed, I raced back to the window, knowing I only had a few minutes before my twins arrived home from school. I closed my eyes and felt the magic deep inside of me, where I kept it under lock and key. I focused my intention on the raccoons, imagining a magical barrier around our trash cans, preventing them from wreaking havoc. I whispered a few improvised words, as I wasn't aware of any known spell to deter raccoons, and then opened my eyes. I smiled with satisfaction as the raccoons halted in front of our trash cans, looking bewildered as to why they wanted to stop, before they ran across the street and disappeared under our neighbor's car. Sorry, guys. Go feast elsewhere. I leaned over and slid open the window that framed my desk, letting a breeze blow through the large, vaulted space. It was September, and still warm, but there was an edge to the air, the faintest warning of fall knocking on the meteorological door. Soon the maple trees would sigh, releasing their foliage, and an earthy scent would waft up from the ground. Our neighborhood would fill with the sound of leaves crunching under the feet of kids as they got off at the bus stop. With pumpkins and fall garlands. With expensive, designer harvest-themed planters standing guard in front of stately front doors in our suburb of Forest Hills, Illinois. But it was still summer for now. My white desk vibrated as the back door slammed. Two sets of footsteps creaked against the oak floors, a tumble of arguments and teasing coming from my twin teenagers. I sighed and stood, ready to make my way downstairs and referee whatever fight was brewing. Yet I stopped as I caught a whiff of smoke in the air. Sarah, the smoke seemed to whisper. Think of what else you could do. It was just for a moment, and then it was gone, replaced by the light, sweet fragrance from the Annabelle hydrangea hedge in my yard. "Nope," I said, and shook my head as I made my way to the door. Yes, twenty years later, I still had magic. But I had it contained, made it my superpowered personal assistant for backyard rodents and stains on the couch. A secret household helper at my disposal. It was a part of me that needed to remain hidden for a multitude of reasons, mostly to protect everyone else. The Kardashians had hourglass figures and paid personal assistants, while I had magic and spells and a body shaped like a shelf-stable milk carton. I leaned out of my office door. "Hey, guys! I'll be right there," I called down the stairs. I brushed my hair back into a ponytail, looping it with the elastic around my wrist, and gave one final, satisfied glance at the pest-free garbage cans before I walked downstairs to greet my children. *** “Mom, I need money for the cheer fundraiser.” My sixteen-year-old daughter, Harper, stood in the kitchen, a bottle of water in her hand, leaning against the quartz countertop. Her long blond hair was twisted in a bun on top of her head, giving her the look of a Lego character. With one hand, she hoisted herself up onto the countertop. "How about: 'Hi, Mom. How was your day?'" I said with a laugh as I walked into the room. "Your cheer squad needs more than money." My son, Hunter, her twin, with an equally impressive mop of blond hair, was hidden in the stainless steel fridge. "Like an ethics code." Harper rolled her eyes and took a swig from her water bottle. "Oh yeah? Well, half of your lacrosse team needs to be sent to one of those Scared Straight! prison experiences." "I wouldn't put it past some of those parents," I said as I pulled out one of the chairs from the kitchen island. Forest Hills wasn't exactly known for being progressive or tolerant. Therapy was for hippies, and only troubled teens wore black nail polish. Harper and Hunter continued to trade barbs back and forth, and I shook my head with a smile. My husband, Travis, and I always said they came out of the womb hugging and arguing at the same time, ever each other's best friend, fiercest protector, and most worthy opponent. Hunter appeared from the fridge, holding half of a white-paper-wrapped sandwich left over from the night before, and took a huge bite. He had the appetite of a German shepherd who had been living on the streets for a month. "I brought the mail in," he said, his mouth full. He jerked an elbow toward the pile on the counter. "Ohhhh, the new Lululemon catalog," Harper said as she plucked the magazine from the stack, causing the rest to spill onto the floor. "No one needs two-hundred-dollar leggings," I said as I bent down to retrieve the mail. My hand paused and my body tensed when I saw what was on top. It was an envelope, addressed to Travis and me, from the North Valley University Alumni Center. Still crouching, I tore it open. Inside was a letter and a flyer. The front of the flyer showed a redbrick building with a white clock tower rising high behind it. A large manicured lawn filled with impatiens and begonias opened in front of the building, overlaid with the words: Homecoming and Alumni Weekend Events. I scanned the letter as I slowly stood. You are cordially invited... "What's that?" Harper said, but her words barely registered. In my peripheral vision, I saw her crane her neck around and peer down at the paper. ...to the unveiling of a plaque commemorating the twentieth anniversary of the Hawthorne Hall fire. "Ew. That's weird. Won't the 'unveiling of a plaque' put a damper on homecoming weekend?" she said. "Homecoming is supposed to be parades and football games." Her face held a faraway expression; no doubt she was thinking of her high school's homecoming festivities, all Spirit Week and themed dress-up days. Forest Hills Hig
