Roomies Read online

  She’s also going to be disappointed about the art gallery thing. Me and art do not mix, and this is what has kept my fingers hovering over the keyboard with no action for the last ten minutes.

  Here’s me looking at art: “Oh.” Or “What’s it supposed to be?” or “Gertie could paint that.” But I don’t want to sound like a rube and I can already tell Ebb thinks of me as this hip San Franciscan, while she actually seems more authentically Bay Area–ish than me. Art, landscaping, not into sports. Maybe she’s hairy-legged with smelly dreadlocks, and smokes pot. Maybe she’ll be protesting at People’s Park every weekend while eating organic sprouts. Which is fine, but really different from me.

  An image of her and her landscaping-major buddies setting up a hydroponic pot-growing system in our dorm closet makes me shudder.

  I hate feeling so negative.

  This is an exciting time in my life. Right? Why do I sort of want the clock to stop?

  I reread her e-mail and I guess I’m relieved to hear that, like me, she has two jobs. It makes me feel slightly less like the Sad Working Poor, or at least that having more than one job at our age isn’t completely weird.

  I end up writing to her about Zoe, because I need to write something, and compared to my family stuff and the whole why-can’t-I-breathe thing it’s a neutral topic.

  EB:

  I didn’t know landscape architecture was a major. Neat. I’m sure if Berkeley has a program in it, it’s good. Congrats on getting in. I’m a biochemistry major, hoping to go into the graduate comparative biochem program. It’s really boring to talk about but the main thing is that there aren’t very many women in the program, and that helped me get a pretty big scholarship. Berkeley was the opposite of my “safety school.” More like a wish on a Magic 8 Ball. I assumed I’d be going to SF State and living at home for a while, then my teacher made me promise to apply for the scholarship and trust me, NO ONE was more shocked than me when I got it.

  Question in two parts:

  A. Do you have a best friend?

  B. If yes, do you think your relationship is going to change now that you’re leaving each other behind for college?

  C. I guess there’s a C, too, which is, do you guys TALK about it?

  My best friend, Zoe, and I have basically been pretending nothing’s going to change. Maybe it won’t in ways that matter in the long run. But it does matter, right now. I mean if you were married and you knew you were suddenly going to have a four-year break in your marriage, that would CHANGE THINGS. Then again, she’s my friend, not my wife. Also, change doesn’t have to = bad. (I have been telling myself that so much lately!)

  There’s this party on Saturday with kids from our high school and she wants to go, and wants me to go with her. I don’t know. I just feel like high school is over, and I’m probably never going to see those people again (other than Zoe), and what’s the point?

  If the answer to A is no, disregard B and C.

  I bet you didn’t expect an essay question. Surprise!

  You don’t have to answer at all if you don’t want, obviously.

  —Lauren

  THURSDAY, JULY 11

  NEW JERSEY

  I had sort of given up on Lauren so when her e-mail arrived seven stinking days after I last e-mailed her, I read it, closed it, and decided that two could play at that game. Just watch me! Why am I always in such a hurry to respond to her e-mails anyway? So now that a couple of days have passed I think about writing back but, ironically, can’t figure out how to explain why it’s taken me so long. I decide to write later because I need to shower and get dressed and eat breakfast and head to work, where I’ll be finishing up the last of the new flower beds in Mark’s garden.

  The frustrating thing is that this latest e-mail from her is the first one that I actually really want to respond to, the only one with any meat on it. Because the best friend stuff heated up with Justine big-time after she got drunk at that July Fourth bonfire party last weekend. We fought and haven’t spoken since and it’s highlighted everything that has been feeling off about our friendship these past few weeks, maybe even months.

  I want to write back my answer to A.

  I’m not sure anymore.

  And then my answer to B.

  For a while I’d been hoping I’d come home from college for holidays and pick up right where I left off with my friends, but now I’m hoping that maybe when I come home it’ll feel more like it used to. Like we’ll be so excited to see each other after being apart that we’ll forget that the end of high school and this summer were both sort of weird between us. But I don’t know. Most of my friends are staying local for college so it seems likely they’ll still be in touch more than I will be with any of them.

  And (C), no, we don’t talk about it. Lately my friends and I don’t talk about anything I find interesting. I’m not sure when that started. Maybe when we got boyfriends and started spending all our time together with them, too? But my two besties—Justine and Morgan—seem to find each other wildly entertaining and interesting. Not sure when that started, either.

  But I should wait. Meaning, I should make Lauren wait more than a measly three days.

  Shouldn’t I?

  At the party, everyone but me got annoyingly drunk. And all any of them wanted to talk about (to me, anyway) was sex. Justine was thinking of doing it with Danny that night, and Morgan and Mitch, who’ve already done it, kept talking about how it wasn’t a big deal. (“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell her!” Danny said.) A few times, I pulled Justine aside and told her it wasn’t a good idea, since she was drunk and shouldn’t be drunk the first time. And she said maybe she’d wait until the night of her birthday party because that would make it even more meaningful and I said not if she was drunk then, too, and she called me a buzz kill. Then Alex and I took a walk down the beach and he started coming on way too strong with his hands and mouth, like in the limo after prom all over again. I pushed him away and he stormed off and then when I told Justine about it, she muttered something about me being a prude.

  Nice.

  I ended up sitting by the bonfire, holding a beer I wasn’t even drinking, and no one even seemed to notice or care that I was all alone. They just kept drinking and talking and shouting and the whole thing made me wonder what the point of parties was anyway. I started thinking about stuff my mom and I used to do before I was old enough to even go to parties on my own and I suddenly missed those nights when we’d do each other’s nails and hair, and watch dumb movies, and the nights when we’d pitch a tent in our pathetic little yard and look at stars and eat nothing but cookies for dinner.

  We did used to do that. Didn’t we?

  And then I realized the beer I was holding was warm, so I put it down, twisting it into the sand, and got up and walked home.

  I’m opening a bag of mulch on one side of the yard while Tim works on the other when Mark comes over. He waves a hand in front of his nose and says, “Excu-use you.”

  It takes me a minute to realize he’s talking about the mulch, which comes out of the bag moist and ripe and stinky. “What are you, five years old?” I ask.

  He smiles and says, “So you’re done here, huh?”

  The mulch is warm in my hands and it feels almost alive. “Pretty much.”

  Today’s our last day—and I’m sort of sad about it though I don’t want to admit why. Even if Alex and I are broken up—and I’m not sure we are—I wouldn’t want to move right on to some other guy.

  Not like my mom.

  “It looks good.” Mark stands back and nods. “I think Froggy will be very happy here.”

  I crinkle my nose. “Froggy?”

  “You got a problem with that?” He crosses his arms at his chest defiantly.

  “Just not especially creative is all.”

  He shrugs and says, “Hey, so listen. These buddies of mine, they have this house on the bay in Toms River and their parents are out of town and I know it sounds really B-movie or something but t
hey’re having a party.”

  I stiffen, then force myself to relax, and I dump out more mulch without looking up at him.

  “The house is actually awesome and they do all the requisite party things—you know, Jell-O shots, skinny-dipping—so that makes for some pretty spectacular people-watching.”

  The mulch really does smell bad.

  “I was wondering if you’d want to, I don’t know, come along?”

  I look up at him, totally prepared to say something like “I have a boyfriend” or “I don’t think that’s a good idea” or “I have to work”—which makes no sense since I don’t even know when the party is yet. But he’s taken off his sunglasses and he has this look in his eyes that’s electric and sweet. So I don’t say any of those things.

  “When is it?” I ask, and he says, “Tonight.”

  “A Thursday night?”

  He shrugs. “That’s how they roll.”

  Now I get the chance to say “I have to work,” because it’s true. I’m babysitting until nine because the Schroeders are going out on some happy hour boat ride with friends.

  Mark looks more puzzled than disappointed. “You do landscaping at night?”

  “No,” I say. “Babysitting. Until nine or so.”

  “Well, this doesn’t start until like nine, anyway. So I can pick you up and head over then.”

  “Okay,” I say. “If you’re sure.”

  Because I am not.

  “I’m sure,” he says. “Tell me where to get you and I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll text you,” I say, and he says, “Excellent.”

  And then he drifts off and we finish his garden and there’s no point denying that this invitation takes the edge off the sadness.

  I almost e-mail Lauren a million times that day—This cute new guy asked me to a party! I said yes! Even though I totally shouldn’t have!—but for some reason I don’t. Which I know probably doesn’t bode well for our friendship—or roommateship—if I’m already playing games by making her wait, but there you have it.

  Babysitting is a horror show. Vivian is in the worst mood possible, constantly chewing on her hand, and just looking at her makes my teeth hurt. She won’t let me put her down so I don’t have any time at all to fix my hair or do my makeup or eat or anything. Finally, she falls asleep on my lap in the glider in her room and I’m able to transfer her into her crib. But her parents come home five minutes later and Mark is already waiting, his car idling in front of the house.

  “Your mother know about this?” Mrs. Schroeder asks.

  “Yes,” I lie.

  My mother is out on another date with the man she thinks is married. I’m not supposed to know that but I do. I figure that makes us a little bit even.

  When I get to the car, a guy gets out of the passenger seat. “Mark told me you’ve got shotgun,” he says, and then he shakes my hand and adds, “I’m Vic.”

  “Elizabeth,” I say, leaving out EB again; then we both climb in.

  Mark says, “Hey,” and glances in his rearview mirror. “That’s Emily.”

  I turn to the girl in the backseat, with her super-tight purple tank dress and black nail polish, and think I couldn’t look more boring in my denim skirt and black tank top if I tried. “Hey,” I say, and she says, “We better motor, Mark. We’re already way late.”

  Whatever, I think. Bitch.

  Why are so many people so hard to get to know? And what if Lauren dresses like that?

  Mark pulls out into the street and we drive for a while—windows down and wind whipping through the car over the sounds of a song I’ve never heard before. It’s one of those songs that’s sort of sad but also full of something like promise and I almost feel a lump in my throat. My phone buzzes and I look down and see a text from Justine that says, Sorry about the other night. Hope ur on ur way?

  Her birthday party. Which I completely blanked on when agreeing to babysit, and when saying yes to Mark.

  There’s nothing I can say in a text that will improve this situation and anyway I don’t feel like dealing, not with this song playing and doing strange things to my heart.

  I look over at Mark and think about Alex’s hot breath on my ear, and my mom on her date with some random married guy, and Justine thinking about losing it after her party, and I wish I’d written back to Lauren already so that I’d have an e-mail to look forward to—something that involves the future and not the past—even if it takes weeks or months. Then Mark smiles at me and I wonder if he could’ve been the future, too, if I weren’t leaving.

  We wind through some woods after we get off the highway, then pull off onto a gravel road and park. Behind a bunch of cars all facing this one house, the bay is a big black void. Mark gets out of the car and Vic and Emily do, too, but I find my phone and start typing.

  Sorry for not writing back sooner. I had a huge fight with my best friend last weekend, mostly because she seems to be turning into this lush who is hell-bent on losing her virginity. I am out right now with this guy, and we’re at this big party with some of his friends and I have no idea what I’ve gotten myself into. Did you go to that party? Wait. It’s this weekend. Are you going? If so, have fun! More soon.

  EB

  Mark is at my window, knocking with his index finger, and when I look up from my phone he says, “You coming?”

  “Yeah,” I say, opening the door. “Sorry.” And as I follow him up the front lawn to the house, I hit Send and put my phone away. “I’ve been e-mailing with my roommate for fall,” I say.

  “Yeah? What’s she like?”

  “I don’t know yet,” I say. “It’s weird. You know. E-mail.”

  “Yeah. I think I got an e-mail about mine but I haven’t reached out. You know. Guys.”

  I smile. “Yeah.” After a pause I ask, “Where are you going?”

  “Northwestern,” he says. “In Chicago?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know it.” It’s a good school; I’m impressed.

  “My older brother just graduated from there and he got a job so he’s staying in Chicago.” He nods excitedly. “I think being near him again could be cool.”

  “That’s awesome,” I say, wishing for a second that I were also moving toward a sibling and not an estranged parent.

  He turns and looks at me a little bit like he’s afraid to say what he’s going to say; then he asks, “Do you want a beer?”

  And the thing is, I do. I want to drink a beer and feel loose and free and not have it go warm in my hands while I sit by a bonfire alone. I nod and say, “I would love one.”

  “Good.” He seems to relax a little around the shoulders. “Me too.”

  Inside, the house is crowded, smoky, loud—everything I usually hate—but it all feels a little exciting. Especially when Mark looks back and takes my hand and says, “Follow me,” and leads me through the crowd to a cooler full of beer, where he doesn’t drop my hand as he grabs two bottles by the neck. He leads me out the other side of the house, and there is something about his pulling me forward that feels so incredible. Because I wish that I were being guided a bit more through life, that I didn’t always feel as if I were drifting, like an untied balloon that someone didn’t even realize was slipping away.

  We end up on a big deck that overlooks the bay and the dock, where I can see some pasty bodies, clearly naked, doing repeated cannonballs and jackknifes and generally whooping it up.

  “This isn’t my usual scene,” Mark says, “for the record.” He opens one of the beers and holds it out to me, and my hand is warm from his touch.

  “No?” I take the beer. “What is?”

  “Good question,” he says; then he takes a swig of beer and I do the same and already I don’t want the night to end.

  MONDAY, JULY 15

  SAN FRANCISCO

  I don’t want to go to work.

  I really and deeply do not want to go to work.

  But I have to. I can’t avoid Keyon forever.

  And of course I need the money and
would never leave Key and his dad, Joe, in the lurch with no notice, et cetera whatever, but if I could get away with faking a broken arm and not have it not be an obvious avoidance tactic, I would.

  It’s muggy out, for San Francisco, and the ride downtown on the L Taraval (aka the Hell Taraval) is gross. When I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window, I feel like I’m gross, too. My hair isn’t growing out its last cheap cut very gracefully and is basically a frizz ball. The dark-red polish I put on for the party is already chipping. I didn’t have time to shave my legs this morning, or yesterday morning, or the morning before that, and the hairs prickle against my jeans.

  Mostly I feel gross inside.

  On the train, I narrate to Ebb in my head….

  So, yeah, I went to the party. There were way too many people packed into Yasmin Adibi’s little Bernal Heights house, music bumping, and within like five minutes of getting there I already had a headache. Zoe drove but immediately peeled off when she saw Melissa Birch, one of her arty friends who graduated last year. “Mel!” she screamed (when I say “screamed” I mean it), and that’s basically the last I saw of her until we left.

  It felt like half an hour before I squeezed through the crowd and made it to the back door so I could escape into the yard. Typical San Francisco summer night weather—cool and foggy, enough to keep the outdoor crowd pretty thin, which, you know, fine by me.

  I found a rusty lawn chair away from the cluster of smokers, and sat on that, and looked up to the sky and, I don’t know, just felt so lost all of a sudden. Okay, not all of a sudden sudden, because I’d felt that way most of the day. We went to Trader Joe’s—yes, the whole family at once, it’s what we do on Saturdays, and I’m sure it’s a frightening sight for the other customers—and P.J. opened a bag of chili-lime pistachios (have you had those? they’re yumm-eee) and got them all over the floor. I picked them up while this young, hip couple stepped over the whole scene, looking at each other like “And this is the problem with our country.” (Do you know that look I’m talking about? It’s pretty common around here. I don’t know about in NJ.)