The Roommate Situation (2 page)

For all we know,
he
could be my roommate, and here Chuck is blasting his mouth. I rub my arm, fighting an urge to speed up and put some distance between me and Chuck. And Chuck, he just keeps going. “I think you’ve gone from a suicide case to a serial killer.”

I steal a glance over my shoulder as Pete opens the stairwell door. The guy’s stopped in the middle of the hall, so I have no idea which room he’s heading to. He’s reading the letter he pulled from the envelope.

As I follow Pete and Chuck through the door, the guy’s drawing the toothpick out of his mouth, absently, his eyes on the paper.

Chapter Two

The tinny, chipmunk sound of music leaking through headphones is the only sign my roommate’s on the other side of the locker. I’ve been in the room long enough to put my shit away, and he hasn’t poked his head out. I don’t know if I should stick an arm through the curtain to get his attention or just keep to myself. Like Skip.

I open my econ text on my desk and stare at the crisp words. This is my early-morning class, and I haven’t done any reading for it yet. That rumor about how a roommate’s suicide gets you straight As for the rest of the semester? Skip didn’t do me any favors.

Especially not the way the sight of him drops into my head whenever I have an empty moment to fill. Like, when I’m trying to study.

I squeeze my eyes shut hard for a moment before refocusing on the text.

I still haven’t told my parents. Sooner or later I’ll have to mention I changed rooms, but—and this is the first revelation I’ve had that
college
means
autonomy
—I don’t have to tell them anything else. They never have to know. It’s not going to show up as a transaction on my debit card or in my end-of-semester grades. The school’s not going to send a newsletter home, keeping them up-to-date on what’s going on in my life. For once, they get to know only what I bother to mention.

The thready music on the other side of the locker stops. My roommate’s bed taps the wall as he gets up.

The econ text blurs. I’m pretty sure the sentences were crafted for maximum slumber effect, because it only takes a few sentences to wear me out, every time. I flip the book shut and stretch my arms, yawning, while on the other side of the curtain, my roommate shucks his clothes with the soft jingling of a belt, the light thump of denim landing against the floor. The bed taps the wall again. The light that spills over the curtain clicks off.

Just loud enough to be heard on the other side of the locker, I say, “G’night, John-Boy”—a cultural reference from a show I’ve never even seen. He’s probably over there thinking, John-Boy? What the fuck?

I get a “Good night, Jim-Bob” back.

Well, there. Progress. I look at my lamp, its shade bent so it throws a spotlight on my book. Without lifting my head, I say, “Sorry for barging into your room. You were probably stoked to have it all to yourself for the semester.”

A rustle of blankets comes from the other side of the locker. “Actually, it was a little lonely after I offed the other guy.”

Shit.

Well, at least I know what he looks like now.

“Sorry about that,” I say. “Chuck’s mouth can be an asshole sometimes. Well, most of the time. I’m Shane, by the way.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

I have no idea whether he means my name or Chuck’s mouth.

After a moment, my new roommate says, “Hey.”

“Yeah?”

“How do I know
you’re
not the serial killer? Of the two of us, you’re the only one who’s been seen near a body.”

“I guess you’re just a smarter serial killer than me.”

“Fair enough.” Then: “I’m sorry. That was kind of a shitty thing to say.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I push my chair back and stand. My alarm clock glows from under my bed—11:03 p.m. I strip off my shirt and toss it in the basket at the bottom of my locker, push down my jeans, and add them to the pile. After clicking the light out, I climb under the covers and stretch out on my back.

I dread having to be at an eight a.m. lecture. I’d gone with economics because it’s what my dad does. And, well, it’s what they leaned on me to do until I gave in. That’s me: go along to get along. It eliminates a lot of stress when dealing with the parents. Economics far from excites me, but I figured it’d at least be easy—I grew up with it, right?

It is boring as shit. Just about as boring as it’d been to hear about at the dinner table.

“It’s Derek, by the way,” my roommate says. His voice has a trace of a drawl, and it’s frayed at the edges, like he’s been smoking since he was yay high. Skip’d had a voice that didn’t match his body—not girlish exactly, but higher than you expected. Like he was right on the edge of freaking out.

I guess he was.

I say, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

We’ve exchanged more words in five minutes than I had with Skip in the whole three weeks I’d known him, but thanks to life with Skip, I don’t know what else to say to a roommate—like I’ve forgotten how to make conversation—so I close my eyes and wait for sleep.

* * * *

I wake with just enough time to throw on some clothes, take a leak, and brush my teeth before I have to run across campus to class. I have no idea if Derek’s in his half of the room or already gone. The curtain, I think, is a good thing—if Derek does sit in front of his computer twenty-something hours out of every day, I don’t have to know about it.

When I get back to the room late that afternoon, it’s as quiet as when I left.

“Derek?”

The room has an empty feeling, that lack-of-other-life feeling. I walk over to the curtain and cock my head. “Derek, you here?”

My mind goes to anxious places.

It’s stupid—of course I haven’t lost another roommate. I’m not some sort of walking Death, tipping fragile college students toward the ultimate solution. But the feeling’s there anyway, its fingers creeping their way through my guts. The hairs on my arms rise as my brain provides visuals while I stand there and try not to think the worst.

It’s just so quiet.

My stomach knots as I reach for the fabric.

“Derek?”

Bracing myself, I peel it back and look through a gap wide enough for my face.

Derek’s school-issue desk has been turned into a workbench, like Chuck said. A wooden box of tools sits off to the side. Little circles of leather litter the surface, like bits of paper from a hole punch.

The bed is made and empty and not soaked dark with blood. Cardboard boxes are jammed underneath. More sit piled in a corner, the weight of the boxes on top crushing one side of the bottommost one, so they all lean toward the wall a little. This half of the room is shorter than mine, but it has windows, so there was that tradeoff.

The lock snicks behind me.

I drop the curtain and turn as it swings open.

“Hey. I was just wondering if you were here.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “I am now.” He has his motorcycle jacket on again. A scuffed dark helmet hangs from two fingers. A toothpick pokes out the corner of his mouth. He gives it a light chomp as he slips his ID into his back pocket, the door falling shut behind him.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m still a little freaked by my last roommate. I keep worrying I’m gonna walk in on another dead guy.”

“If I decide to do that, I’ll hang a sign on the door.”

“I’d appreciate it.” It comes out sounding more sincere than I mean. I step out of the way so Derek can push the curtain open. He sets his helmet on top of his locker.

My eyes sweep over to his desk again, the scattered circles of leather. “So what do you make?”

“Leather stuff.”

No kidding. “Like belts?” I say.

“Sure.” He shrugs out of his jacket, drops it over the back of his chair.

“To sell or just for fun?”

“I sell it on eBay, wherever. It beats washing dishes.”

He’s older than I am. I mean, of course he is—this isn’t a freshman residence hall—but I wonder how much older. I lean against the side of his locker. “I was thinking of getting a part-time job, but my dad was pretty adamant that I was here to study.”

“So you’re always at the library, your nose in the books?” He sits on the side of his bed to pull his boots off.

“If he ever asks, that’s definitely what you should tell him. Do you make okay money selling leather stuff?”

The toothpick slides to the other side of his mouth. He shrugs. “It helps.”

“I must seem like an asshole, my parents paying for everything and I don’t even take it seriously.”

Another shrug as he sets his boot down. “I try not to get my head bent up in what other people have or don’t have, get or don’t get. It doesn’t change anything, you know? Besides, maybe I enjoy not having my dad tell me what I can and can’t do.” He smirks around the toothpick.

“There’s that,” I say. I take a few steps away from the locker to check the clock under my bed. “I guess I should stop wasting time and get some studying in before the guys are free to play foosball.”

“Knock yourself out.” He slips his headphones on and drags a box from the corner.

I don’t know if I’m supposed to close the curtain or not. I didn’t open it, so I leave it the way it is and enjoy the sunlight warming my toes as I sit on my bed with an astronomy textbook that is determined to break my brain. The stars, the planets—it had sounded like an easy A. It’s too late to drop now without getting a lecture from my parents, so at this point I’m just hoping to keep it from dragging my GPA down to the point where I’ll get kicked out of school.

* * * *

Chuck drops a wrapped sandwich on the table Pete and I are sharing, saying, “So I got the dirt on your new roommate.” He shrugs his backpack off and plops down with it in his lap. The zipper rasps as he tugs it open. “First of all, he’s probably gay, so watch your butt.” He slides his laptop out.

Chuck’s the one who’d said Derek was probably a serial killer, so I give this new information about as much weight. Because, I mean, first of all, he doesn’t come across as remotely gay. Good-looking in a wrong-side-of-the-tracks way but not particularly gay. Tearing open my bag of chips, I say, “So? Pete’s probably gay too, and we hang out with him.” I have absolutely nothing to base that on; it’s just something to say, because with Chuck around, you feel like you have to say
something.

“Hey, now,” Pete says. “I’m not offended you’re calling me gay, but isn’t it kind of rude to go around assuming someone’s sexual orientation?”

“Are you gay?” Chuck asks from behind his laptop. “I mean, at least we’ve seen Shane ogling Rivera’s ass.”

“I think that was you, actually,” I say. I’m still not completely clear on which professor Rivera is. I can’t say I’ve seen
any
professorial asses worth staring at, but maybe I’ve just got shitty classes.

Pete says, “Nope. I’m just selective.”

“Just scared shitless of girls, is what it is,” Chuck mutters. “Here, look. Your roommate doesn’t make ‘belts.’” He spins his laptop around so Pete and I can see the eBay page for username CustomLeatherBondage.

I stop with a Lay’s barbecue potato chip halfway to my mouth. On the screen are leather wrist restraints, bit gags, something called a chest harness. Bondage belts—so, technically, he does make belts, just not the kind you wear out in public. I put the chip in my mouth and crunch it, unsure how I’m supposed to react. I shrug and chew. And try not to stare.

Pete cranes his neck, trying to get a better look. Chuck cants the screen toward him, still watching me. I stuff a few more chips into my mouth, kind of looking at the page but mostly trying to connect this information with the guy I actually know. Not
know
know, but…you know. I’ve talked to him twice now and seen his side of the room.

The only thing I’m sure of is that he makes
something
out of leather.

“How do you even know this is him?” Pete asks. “This could be anyone. This could be some fifty-year-old kinky couple running a business out of their spare room.”

“The guy who’s tutoring me for Chem 101 hangs out with his old roommate,” Chuck says.

“Okay, but how does he know this is him? Does he go around passing out business cards to classmates, or what?”

Chuck shrugs and flips the screen shut.

I
didn’t get a business card.

I take a slug off my bottle of Mountain Dew.

My heart is beating a little fast. The last thing it needs is more Mountain Dew.

I’m glad he shut the laptop. I don’t know what I think about the leather cuffs, bit gags, and bondage gear. I don’t know that I even believe Chuck’s source. Pete’s absolutely right: this could be anyone’s account.

It’s kind of sexy, though, the biker-looking guy making wrist restraints on his side of the room.

“How do you get,” Pete’s saying, “‘probably gay’ from making extra cash selling bondage gear, anyway? You do know women are into this stuff too, right?”

To me, Chuck says, “You get some weird roommates, Hahn.”

If it
is
him…it’s more interesting than Skip. I’ll give it that.

I pop another chip in my mouth.

Chapter Three

A stray drop of water trickles down my neck from my still-wet hair as I juggle my shower caddy and towel to let myself into the room. My chill pants cling to damp patches on my legs. I’m still working on getting used to the communal-bathroom concept. As soon as I crank the water off, I just want to get my pants on and get the fuck out of there—for no rational reason. I mean, it’s no different from the high school locker room. Yet at the same time, it is.

I shake my head like a dog, sending water everywhere as I dump my stuff on the bed.

The curtain sways in the corner of my eye before it slides open, revealing Derek and his ever-present toothpick. He grips the top of a wall locker with one hand, looking at me. “Your phone rang.”

“Thanks.” I pad over to the desk and check the screen. My parents. Of course—on a Friday night. I’ll have to call them back before I take off.

“Hey,” I say as he starts to turn back. “There’s a party tonight. Want to come?” I expect a no. That’s what Skip would have said—at least that first week, when he was saying anything at all. Derek probably has his own plans. It’s possible he isn’t spending all his time outside of the room in class or buried in research at the library. The guy probably has a life, friends. A girlfriend even—or boyfriend, whatever. They just don’t happen to descend on the room the way my friends do. Last night, Chuck and Pete showed up wanting to drag me to a movie they’d just finished seeing themselves. It was tempting, but I’d have gotten an earful if I’d charged a movie ticket to my debit card that late on a school night, and I was out of cash.
Hell Baby
wasn’t worth the lecture.