The Roommate Situation (18 page)

“Two weeks, give or take, without incident. He’s going to a sociopath support group.”

“What, like a twelve-step program? Does he get a chip for going so many days without leaving a body in a Dumpster?” He shoots the ball between my goalies.

“Shit.” When the ball’s on the table again, I say, “So what about you? No one to make moon eyes at yet?”

“You think when you get to college you get a whole new set of chicks to choose from, but they’re just the same chicks from high school, only more self-important.”

“In other words, no.”

With a shrug he says, “There’s this girl in Spanish. She might not be so bad.”

“But you don’t know because you just stare at the back of her head.”

He looks up quickly, then back down at the table. “Yeah, pretty much.”

I smile.

He tries to get the ball by me again. I catch it and knock it up the table to my offensive row.

“Well,” he says, “it’s not like you have room to talk. Apparently. Taking your
roommate
to parties.” He looks up again. “Is he a good wingman?”

“I have no idea.” I try getting the ball into his goal. Chuck bounces it away, right back to my men. I twist my wrist and slam it into the goal.

“Damn. What’s the score/”

“I forgot to keep track,” I say. As he looks from one goal to the other, counting scores from memory, I say, “You should talk to the girl in Spanish class. Ask her a question about conjugating verbs or something.”

He serves the ball, focused on the game.

“Or,” I say, “you could develop an intimate relationship with beer and your Xbox.”

“It’s Pete’s Xbox.”

I shrug. “I think they have an open relationship. He won’t mind. Just don’t run away with it.”

“Also,” he says, “I’m not sure they’ve legalized game marriage in this state.”

I jerk my head up, hearing it wrong at first.

Chuck skates the ball right by my goalies.

“What?” he says.

I shake my head. “I’m sure you and Pete’s Xbox will be very happy together. I’m maybe even a little jealous.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll share her. We can have a threesome. You up for some
DOA5
?”

Chapter Eighteen

“This one,” I say, making room for myself on the bed between Derek and his
Physical Chemistry for Biological Sciences
textbook. I turn my laptop so he can see it.

“I know nothing about guitars, but it looks all right to me,” he says.

I shift the screen back toward myself. This Washburn acoustic isn’t exactly what I’d been hoping for, but it’s in my price range, a range that’s gotten a little wider thanks to some more of Derek’s eBay sales. I chew my lip.

It isn’t exactly what I’d hoped for.

But it’s a guitar, and it’d only been listed for about ten minutes. In fact, I’d just finished daydreaming through the listings for amps before I came across it.

My phone rings.

Derek pulls his chemistry book back over when I get up.

I trade out my laptop for my phone, my parents’ photo beaming up at me from the screen. They call every other day even though, I mean, what am I supposed to tell them? It’s the same old thing: school’s fine; I’m doing okay; yeah, I have enough laundry detergent still. “Hey,” I say.

“Hi, honey. How are you?”

“Good.” About to buy a guitar. Finally. If it doesn’t get sold while I’m talking to you. “How are you and Dad?”

“Oh, we’re good. Listen, honey, the reason I’m calling. Your father and I have plans to meet up with some old friends for dinner—you remember the Carsons, don’t you?”

I mumble something in the vague affirmative.

“They’re only an hour away from you, so we thought we’d come by and visit you for lunch, spend a little time catching up. What do you think?”

“When—tomorrow?”

“No, Saturday.”

“We have midterms next week. I’m probably going to be studying.” Or playing my new guitar. Probably playing my new guitar.

“You can take a break for lunch, can’t you? Your father and I can go sightseeing afterward and let you get back to the books, but we were hoping to get to see at least a little bit of you while we’re out that way. What do you say—one o’clock?”

I sigh noiselessly.

And then it hits me.

“Hey, could you bring my guitar with you?”

“Your guitar?”

“It’d be nice to have something to do when I’m taking a break from studying. You know, recharge my brain. You’re not supposed to study for hours straight, you know. You can’t retain information that way.”

“Well, sure, honey. We can try to remember to bring that.”

“Sweet.”

“Is there anything else you need?”

“I can always use another snack package. Especially with midterms coming up.” I’m milking it for all I’ve got.

“You’re not forgetting to eat real meals, are you?”

A worry hits me that they can get a breakdown of what I’ve been spending my dining plan on—vending machines, pizza, more vending machines. I say, “No. I just get the munchies—you know, like at nine, ten o’clock. Then I have to go out and get something, which means I’m away from my books longer than I’d really like to be.”

“I’ll see what I can do. Saturday at one, then?”

“I’ll be here.”

I end the call grinning and spin my laptop toward me so I can punch in a new call.

“Did you get the guitar?” Derek asks when I shift his chemistry text out of the way a few minutes later. This time I put it farther out of reach and, smiling, climb over him so I can wedge my body between him and the wall.

“Nope,” I say. “I’m buying an amp. Do you think you can strap an amp to the back of your bike? Or should I try to get a ride from someone with a car?”

“An amp
and
you? How big’s this amp?”

“I might be able to hold it on my lap.”

He grunts and pulls himself up to sitting. “I guess if you don’t both fit, I could drive the amp back first and then you. Let me dig out the bungee cords. How far away are we going for this?”

“Seven miles.”

“And what are you going to do with an amp and no guitar?”

My grin spreads. “My parents are bringing my guitar Saturday.”

“I guess until then we can use your amp as a plant stand.”

“Har. Funny.”

* * * *

Late that night, in the dark of our room, with my new used amp sitting next to my desk and my arm draped over Derek’s chest, I say, “Do you, like, really like chemistry?”

“Like it? It’s interesting. I like finding out how that stuff works.”

“I wish I thought economics was interesting.” I press my lips against his shoulder, then say, “Growing up, I thought my dad had the most boring job. Well, next to my mom’s.”

“What’s she do?”

“Healthcare administrator.” I bite his shoulder a little. I don’t want to have sex—we just had sex ten minutes ago—but biting feels nice anyway.

Derek says, “So explain to me why again you’re studying economics? I mean, I haven’t kept up-to-date with the degree programs, but I’m pretty sure they haven’t whittled them down to ‘economics’ and ‘healthcare administration,’ forcing you to take the lesser evil.”

“God, I don’t know.” I roll onto my back. “The money, I guess. With my dad being who he is, I have a good chance of getting a decent job right out of school. You know, the economy being what it is, anything else would be a risk.”

“This sounds like your parents’ logic.”

I laugh. “You can tell, huh? It’s just so fucking boring.”

“It’s just the introductory classes.” He pulls over onto his side, pushes my hair back from my brow. “Those are all boring.”

“And then they get better?”

“They get more interesting. But also harder. Less rote memorization, more thinking. More or less.”

“I hate economics,” I say. “But it could be worse, I guess.”

“Healthcare administration?”

“I could be majoring in fucking astronomy.”

He laughs.

My side’s pressed against the wall. We’re having a cold snap, and the walls aren’t exactly toasty. The edge of the mattress digs into my back as well. Derek, I suspect, has the other edge digging into him. Last night he fell off the edge completely.

“One of these days,” I say.

After a bit, he says, “One of these days what?”

“We’re going to need to figure out a bigger bed situation.” I pick myself up and resettle on my side, tracing his hip with my fingertips. “But not before Saturday, because my parents are coming Saturday.”

Derek says, “Do you want me to go back to my own bed and give you some room?”

“Nope. I’m still enjoying the novelty of waking up with my dick up against someone else.”

Chapter Nineteen

When my parents call to let me know they’re ten minutes away, I already have my sneakers and jacket on, and my pits are damp from fidgeting in a heated room under the layers of clothes. I leave Derek with his head bent in the October sunlight, working on another harness for the eBay store, and take the stairs two at a time.

The fall air feels good on my face when I hit the outside. I tip my head back, my eyes closed against the bright sun, and smile.

My phone rings again: my parents can’t find a nearby parking space, so they’re idling at the side of the road behind Quaid. I hoof it around the building and climb in the backseat.

The empty backseat.

Somehow I’d been expecting my guitar to be back there, propped on the leather.

“Hi, honey.” My mom turns in the passenger seat, smiling, squinting into the sunlight. “We’re not late, are we?”

“Nope. Hey, Dad.”

“Shane.”

“It’s such a gorgeous day. We couldn’t have asked for better weather,” she says. “Your things are in the trunk. We’ll get them out when we drop you off.”
Yes!
To my dad she says, “Do you know how to get there from here?”

I lean between the seats. “If you just go down that street and around, you’ll be right by Johnson, and then it’s just straight for half a mile.”

“Where’s your seat belt?” my dad asks, glancing in the rearview mirror.

“Getting to it.” I sit back and buckle up. We pass all the now familiar buildings. Hard to believe just two months ago it was all new and foreign to me. “We’re working on persuasive speeches,” I offer. “Mine is about how beneficial it would be to have rehearsal rooms in the residence halls.”

“Rehearsals for what?” Mom asks. “Plays?”

I furrow my brow. “Music. You know, soundproof rooms so you can practice—or your band, if you have a band, can practice. Without disturbing anyone.”

“Didn’t you have headphones for your guitar?”

“It’s not the same. And a band wouldn’t be able to practice together if everyone was listening to their own amp through headphones. And what about the drummer? Or the vocalist?”

“Are you thinking of being in a band again?” She’s digging in her purse—for a tissue, it turns out. “Hay fever,” she says as she touches it to her nose. “It’s terrible this year.”

I say, “Not particularly. I just had to come up with something for a speech.” I chew the side of my finger for a moment. “Anyway, they have practice rooms for the music majors, but you can only go when the building’s open, and I think, but I’m not sure, that they’re only available to music majors.”

“Sounds like some data you need to research before you give your speech,” my dad says.

We pull into the parking lot and climb out of the car. My dad offers his hand, his grip firm as ever, and my mom pulls me into a hug, kissing me on the jaw, telling me how much she misses me, how empty the house has seemed—and how proud of me she is.

“Okay.” I extract myself from her. “Can we go eat now?”

She laughs.

Inside, after we order and the waitress walks off with our menus, my mother says, “We have some exciting news.” She beams at my father, who’s looking off across the restaurant, his mind somewhere else. Her hand clasping his arm brings him back. “Tell him, Franklin. The news.”

“We’re going to the beach,” he says.

“All of us!” Mom adds.

“Okay. Cool. When?” Hopefully not now.

“For Thanksgiving!” she says. “We’ll pick you up the afternoon before, get there that night—you can spell your father on some of the driving if you like—and stay until Sunday morning. How’s that sound?”

“Good. Sounds good to me.”

“I knew you’d like it. We have a little house near the beach. Jerry—do you remember Jerry? He works in the records department. Anyway, he had reserved the rental months and months ago, and then his mother became ill, bless her, and they don’t know if she’ll make it till Christmas. He didn’t want to lose his deposit and asked if we’d be interested in taking it. We haven’t been to the beach in years, have we?”

“No. I think I was still in junior high. You’re awfully quiet, Dad.”

“Hm? Just lost in thought. Don’t mind me.”

Mom elbows him lightly. “He’s been like this for weeks. It’s that project he’s been working on. That’s why I thought it would be good to get out today and see other people, do things. Get away from that computer of his. Franklin, tell him about that snag you’ve run into. Maybe he can give you some input. Fresh ears and all of that.”

“Mom, I don’t even have half a semester of Econ 101.”

She waves me off. “It’ll be a good learning experience.”

Dad drags in a long breath and sighs. “Do you really want to hear this?”

No
. “Sure.” It makes it easier to eat my burger, at least, not having to hold up an end of the conversation. I just have to half listen earnestly and nod in the right places—usually at my mom, who interjects frequently.

When the check’s finally paid and we’re walking out, she puts an arm around my waist and says, “I’m so glad we made the trip.”

I give her a little squeeze back and say, “Me too,” and I mean it—and not just because of the guitar. My parents didn’t show up to try and uproot me. There’d been no major scene at the restaurant. No one had stalked out in anger. No one had walked out of my life when I was three or kidnapped me when I was six. My mom has her irritating tendencies, but all in all, considering some of the alternatives, she’s not bad to have as a mother. She’s a pain in the ass, but it’s only because she cares about my well-being.