Roommates Alex Jones and Toby Hollis feign distaste for each other.

I showed up at Jones Residential College feeling tired, bedraggled and confused. Tired because I was ousted from my bed that morning at 5 a.m., bedraggled because I had just walked around the grassy knoll twice trying to find the entrance to Jones because the chalk directions had been washed away by the pouring rain, and confused because I had a new set of keys, an ID card and a picture taken of me.

“Just so we know who everyone is,” said the man taking the pictures, instructor Elia Powers.

“You’re on the fourth floor,” said one of many new faces, who later turned out to be our CA, April. “Your roommate isn’t here yet.”

I took the elevator up. Every door on the floor had two paper cut-out T-shirts with the occupants’ names and hometowns written on them. The second door on the left had two shirts, one saying I would live there, and the other saying Alex Jones from Kansas City, Mo., would be joining me.

“Kansas City?” I thought. I had preconceived notions about people from pretty much everywhere else in the country, but I didn’t know what to think about someone from Kansas City.

I put my bag in my room without choosing a bunk or a closet in case he had a preference. I didn’t want to offend him before I’d even met him. When I came back to the room two hours later, he had arrived and not chosen a bed either, hoping to not offend me. We were off to a good start.

I made my way to the lobby, where I ran into a group of six male cherubs. I introduced myself and, when I said my name, one guy said “Toby? That’s my roommate.”

We introduced ourselves, then headed to Hinman dinner. That was the start of my relationship with my roommate.

We got along very well at first. We interviewed each other very comfortably with long spans of conversations unrelated to our stories. We compared newspaper staffs, favorite music and favorite sports.

But, like a ripe pear left neglected in a fruit bowl, our friendship deteriorated as each day passed. It started with comments made in jest.

“Don’t even bother showing up,” was the text I received about his party in the basement.

It was a joke, I’m sure, and he told me, and I showed up to the party and had a good time. Even still, it stung a little.

From that point on, every time we saw each other in public turned into an opportunity for my roommate to tell me he hated me. At first I took his disdain and dismissals as jokes, but when they didn’t stop, I started fighting back, telling him I hated him too and that he really was hurting me. They were still officially jokes, but they went on long enough that I lost track sometimes.

Our public fighting became intense and people started asking me if we truly hated each other. And sometimes, I didn’t know what to say.

But then I’d get back to my room at night, late into the morning. We would talk about what we had done that day, what we were dreading and whatever other random topics happened to cross our minds. We joked about each other’s slang and described our hometowns and our schools.

When I asked him to describe our relationship, he said: “Unsweetened lemonade. It looks good, but it’s really bad.”

But that answer was given in public. When we go back to our room tonight, we’ll be joking around and laughing at everyone’s gullibility. There’s no way we hate each other. Anyone who thought that must not really know us.

Whether it looked like it on the outside or not, our experience was that of average friendly roommates. I feel prepared for college and any other roommate experience I might have. I really enjoyed my stay with my roommate from Kansas City.