Читать книгу Fishbowl - Sarah Mlynowski - Страница 12

JODINE

“You’re here! You’re here!” Through the open passenger’s seat window of the Happy Movers truck, I hear a girl squeal. She’s short, has an incredibly long brown braid, and is wearing gray jaggedly uneven cutoff sweat shorts and a red cotton T-shirt. Is it possible? Can someone look more like Pippi Longstocking?

She was waiting for me on the porch of 56 Blake, my new abode, and is now jumping up and down, trampoline-style. “You’re really here!” she says. Jump. Jump, jump. Each jump is punctuated with a clap of her hands. “It’s you!”

I hope she doesn’t lose her footing and topple down the stairs. “It is I,” I answer, and she runs, no, skips toward me. “You must be Allie.”

“That’s me!” Her wide, overjoyed smile overtakes at least fifty percent of her face. “And you’re gorgeous!”

I am? “Thank you.” Terrific. A suck-up.

“And your eyes are so green! They’re like the color of grass!”

“Um…thanks?”

“Mine are blue. And Emma’s are brown. Isn’t that cool? We’re like a rainbow!”

I raise an eyebrow. What in the world is this person rambling about?

“And you have a fish! I’ve always wanted a fish.”

She is referring to the glass bowl I am carrying, which contains one medium-size, mouth-agape goldfish. “You can have mine,” I tell her.

Adam snorts as he walks to the back of the U-Haul. “Don’t take it. She already tried to pawn it off to both me and our parents.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” she asks.

“Nothing is wrong with it. My brother makes it sound as if it’s nuclear.”

“She got it as a Valentine’s Day present and has been trying to pawn it off on someone else,” he explains.

“But it’s so cute!”

I watch as Allie pokes the bowl with her—what is that revolting thing? Her finger! It’s her finger! What is wrong with her finger? Why is it bleeding? Is she diseased? “What happened to your hand?”

She hides her hands behind her back. “Nothing. I bite.”

Nail-biting makes no sense. Why would someone mutilate her own body parts? “You did that to yourself? Let me see.”

“No.” She keeps her hands behind her back. “I’m stopping.”

I didn’t mean to offend her, but really, no one should be causing herself that kind of pain. “Good. It’s disgusting.”

“So no one else in your family wants your fish?” she asks, changing the subject.

“I’d take it,” Adam says, “if I didn’t think it was infinitely more amusing to force Jo here to take care of it.” He laughs.

I hate when he calls me Jo. “If it has an unfortunate accident down the toilet, it will be your fault.”

“Poor fish,” Allie says, looking at it as though it was Little Orphan Annie.

“Oh, he doesn’t take it personally,” I say. “He knows I’m not discriminatory—I hate all animals.”

“But I’m sure you’ll like Whiskers.”

Whiskers. What’s a whiskers? My body begins to feel clammy. Any chance her boyfriend is named Whiskers?

“My cat,” she says, smiling. “Adam told you about my cat, didn’t he? You’ll love him. He’s adorable. All black with gold whiskers.”

I swallow. Cat? Allie has a cat? I can’t have a cat. I can’t live in the same vicinity as a cat. I hate cats. They scratch and bite and meow and do nasty things in the moonlight. Terrific. “Um. No one mentioned a cat.”

She giggles.

Dread has manifested itself into a vacuum cleaner, sucking the moisture out of my mouth. Why is she giggling? This is the most horrendous news I have ever heard. I can’t live here. The move is off. Turn the truck around. Back to the parents.

“I’m kidding, Jodine!” she says, and giggles again.

Huh? What? What kind of a sick joke is that? “You’re kidding?”

“I don’t have a cat. Don’t have a heart attack. You just turned white. Are you okay? I’m sorry. I was kidding.”

Kidding? Is this funny? This isn’t funny. Certainly not ha-ha funny. Maybe this is some kind of new Olympic sport, the how-fast-can-she-make-me-dislike-her event. Or maybe all new roommates have to undergo this kind of inane ritual, as though initiating for a sorority. What a way to begin my next life stage. With a heart attack. I hate being teased.

“I’ll take care of the fish,” she says, attempting a peace offering. “I like animals. We’ll keep it in the kitchen. Maybe even think about getting him some playmates. You know, some roomies of his own.” Again, she giggles.

“Okay.” Amity reinstalled. Can I still accidentally drop the fish down the drain?

“What’s up?” she asks my brother as he opens the back of the U-Haul, fish story concluded. “It was nice of you to come help.”

It’s hot. I rub my arm against my hairline and feel beads of sweat. I hate sweat. I have a minor sweating problem. There are certain shirts I cannot wear because I get stains under my arms. It’s because I work out so often. Despite what comedy sketches and character impersonations seem to imply, when your body is accustomed to working out, you break a sweat much faster than if you’re out of shape.

“Not much, Al,” Adam says with a wave. “What’s up with you?”

Allie turns pinkish, possibly at the comfortable way he throws around the name Al, as if they’re best friends. Does she go by Al? When she called, she used the name Allie. But Adam talks to everyone as though they’ve been best beer buds since tenth grade.

“Nothing’s up,” Allie answers, smiling. “I’m just excited that your sister is moving in.”

Is that smile for him or for me? Are they flirting? Oh, God, listening to my brother get it on with my new roommate would be about as pleasurable as having a tooth pulled.

“Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you,” he says. “Jo is a pain in the ass.”

“Don’t call me Jo,” I say. I hate when he calls me Jo.

“Oh, come on, Jo. Al is practically family.”

I hate when he gets like this. But at present, I am unable to publicly be angry with him, as he was decent enough to help me move. “That doesn’t mean that shortening our names should become a tradition.”

“What’s wrong with Jo?” Allie asks.

“I prefer Jodine.”

“If my name were Jodine, I’d prefer Jo,” Adam comments. “What kind of a name is Jodine? What is a Jodine?”

I ignore him as he unloads the boxes off the truck. If I’m going to make him angry, it’s wise to do so after he has unpacked.

“What took you guys so long?” Allie asks, picking up one of my two wicker baskets. “I was getting worried. Did you fly in today?”

“No. I flew in last week. The flight was surprisingly on time. And Mom even remembered to pick me up on time from the airport,” I say to Adam. “But loading the truck took longer than I anticipated.”

Adam shakes his head. “Your new roommate insisted on checking off every item on her list as it entered the truck. And then she double-checked it all. Three times.”

“I had to make sure I didn’t forget anything. And by the way, double-checking three times would imply that I checked it six times, which I most certainly did not.”

“No, it would imply that you’re neurotic, which you most certainly are. So what if you’d forgotten something? You’re not in Siberia. Mom would have brought you it eventually.”

“You are always mocking my list system. Yet you’re the one who is constantly forgetting things, whereas I am on top of things.”

This time, he ignores me. “How’s Marc?” he asks Allie. I deduce that Marc is Allie’s brother. Adam and Allie’s brother were friends in university.

“He’s great. He and Jen just bought their own place. It’s in Belleville, about five blocks from where I live.”

Interesting the way she says where I “live,” not “lived” or where “her parents live.” She obviously considers her Belleville house her home. My parents’ house is just that—my parents’ house. And I’ve been on my own for less than ten minutes.

“His umbilical cord was always sewn on too tight,” Adam says. “At school he drove home every week to see his parents and Jen.” Incredulity is written all over his face, as though he has just realized that Marc’s preferred mode of transportation was his unicycle, or that he ate only food that was beige. My brother, unlike his family-oriented friend, came back maybe at Christmas, if we were lucky enough to be blessed with his company. As soon as he graduated, he moved back to Toronto and rented a place downtown.

I suppose I could have rented my own place, too, rather than have to put up with roommates. Except for one small factor: I can’t afford it. My parents can’t afford to subsidize me, either, not that I would have asked them. As for Adam, he can’t really afford his own two-bedroom apartment downtown, but he took out loans, which is something I would never do. Presently, he owes his life to the bank.

Still, even though I have roommates, at least I have a place I can call almost my own. And I can afford it. And unlike Allie, I consider this to be my main residence. My parents, however, don’t agree with me on this. For example, they refused to let me take my bed, dresser and night table with me, claiming they want me to have a place to sleep and unpack when I come “home.” They tried to placate me by surprising me with a new double futon and a box filled with pieces of a put-together-yourself dresser. Yes, of course I was thankful for their thoughtfulness and monetary help, but letting other people pick out my furniture is about as pleasant as rubbing bug repellant into a skin irritation. Why not surprise me with money and allow me to do my own choosing? Your bed is where you spend—in an ideal world eight hours but in reality you’re lucky if you get six—a large portion of your time. Having one’s bed chosen by someone else is too personal. And by your parents, unthinkable. What could be worse than having someone else pick out your bed?

“I can’t believe you haven’t even seen the place yet!” Allie gushes as she hoists a duffel bag of my clothes over her shoulder, and unknowingly sparks a far greater concern in my mind and stomach: an apartment. An apartment is far more personal than a bed. It’s where one spends all of one’s pre-school/post-gym waking and nonwaking hours. Someone else picking your apartment is far more invasive than having someone else picking one’s bed.

Terrific. What have I done? Why did I let my brother convince me to take this apartment sight unseen? I would not even purchase a dictionary sight unseen! What if it contains hyphenated words that have since become closed compound nouns? Unthinkable.

How did I let this happen? I suppose, like the evolution of language, some things are unavoidable. I think back to the e-mail my brother forwarded me in New York. Dappled with exclamation marks, it was accompanied with pictures of this supposedly huge, too-good-a-deal-to-pass-up apartment at only five hundred a month. I wasn’t planning on moving out of my parents’ place in Toronto, but the more I tossed the idea around in my head, the more agreeable it became. I e-mailed Adam, asking him to take a look at it, knowing I was making his day—he’d been harassing me for years to move out on my own. His e-mail reply said that the apartment was solid, and that although Allie was a sweetheart, she needed to know right away. Suddenly I got cryogenic feet. I told him I’d think about it. I needed to see it for myself, which was not feasible, considering that I was in New York.

Adam e-mailed that some other girl was interested, and it had to be a yea or nay immediately. He also said I’d be an idiot to go with the latter. “Are you actually going to give up one of the nicest and cheapest apartments I’ve ever seen in this city, in one of the coolest areas for a twenty-something to be living in, right off Little Italy, to spend at least a year on the subway and having to listen to dinner stories about our father’s hangnails?”

It’s true. My father repeatedly refers to his hangnails.

“Be spontaneous,” Adam said. “It’s good for you.”

I’m not the spontaneous type. For instance, at coffee shops I always order regular black coffee with one Sweet’n Low. But in spite of this character flaw—or strength, depending how you view it—I found myself answering, “Okay. I’ll take it”—and then immediately questioning my rash decision. What did I do? Sight unseen, I fully put the fate of my happiness into the hands of my big brother.

From inside the truck, he hands me a box and then lets out an elongated burp.

Terrific. Why did I listen to him? He has no concept of refinement. I’ve seen his apartment. He has beer cans overflowing in the garbage. My apartment is going to look like a smelly, rat-infested frat house.

“Let’s go inside! I can’t wait for you to see!” Allie says. I am afraid that at any minute she will break out into a chorus of “Follow the Yellow Brick Road.” The street is pretty, I admit, although there are no yellow bricks. Impressive maple trees line the one-way road, dwarfing the small homes that look like white-and-red Lego houses.

Allie turns the handle of the unlocked front door, and Adam and I enter the foyer to face two additional doors.

“Is it 56A or 56B?” Adam asks. For some inexplicable reason, I find myself rooting for 56A.

Allie takes her key chain from her pocket and opens 56B. I deem this as a bad omen.

Welcome to hell. Here it comes.

The first thing I notice is the brightness. The door leads into a small entranceway off a sun-drenched den. The white blinds are pulled up and the windows are open. Soft air wafts through the room.

“We’re lucky there’s a breeze outside right now. It gets hot here in the summer,” she says.

Terrific. I’m going to have permanent sweat marks. Mercifully I’ll be moving out before next summer.

“My last roomie sponge-painted the walls yellow. We can repaint if you don’t like it.”

If she starts referring to me as her “roomie,” I may have to throttle her. The word itself makes me think of “goomie”—the colored rubber bracelets I was obsessed with in grade school. I used to have over a hundred of them, and I would choose my colors meticulously every morning to match my outfits. We’re not sharing a room, anyway. It’s more of a flat. Flatmate sounds too British. “Housemate”? What about “floormate”? No, it sounds too much like “floor mat.”

“I like the yellow,” I say, surprising myself. “The room looks sort of sun-kissed.” Amazingly, my brother was right about this place. It is solid. It’s fabulous. The ceilings are high, the floors polished wood. The kitchen, which is self-contained and to the left of the living room/dining room area, is white-walled and filled with silver appliances. “I’m impressed.”

“See? You should always listen to me,” Adam says, heading back out the door. “I’m getting more boxes.”

I follow Allie down the corridor. “That’s Em’s room,” she says, pointing to the room on the right. She’s already Em? When did Emma become Em? “And here’s yours,” she says, pointing to a bedroom that’s only slightly larger than Em’s. It’s not as large as my room at my parents, but it’s big enough. I think everything will fit.

This is it. My new home.

I exhale the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

After we finish unloading the boxes, we escort Adam back to the truck. “You sure you didn’t forget anything?” he asks as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “Should we consult your seven hundred lists?”

Allie giggles.

Wonderful. My new roommate, who hasn’t even known me an hour, is already aware of my neuroses.

“She’s slightly sensitive,” Adam tells Allie. “Especially about the lists. Eh, Jo?”

“I like my lists. Get over it. And stop calling me Jo.”

Allie giggles again. Quite the giggler, this girl. Although I’m not quite sure what it is that’s so giggle-worthy. And I wish Adam would wipe that patronizing smile off his face.

“Okay, Jo,” he says. “If you say so.”

“Why do you call her Jo if she hates it?” Allie asks him.

“Excellent question,” I add.

“My sister was supposed to be a boy.”

I can tell by her wrinkled nose that Allie needs further explanation. “He wanted to name me after Joe Namath,” I offer, sighing.

“Who’s Joe Namath?”

“He was a quarterback for the New York Jets,” Adam says.

“My parents attempted to appease him by naming me Jodine. He decided to ignore the Y-chromosome factor in my DNA and refer to me as Jo.”

Allie giggles again. “That’s cute.”

“No, not really. He told his friends he had a brother. They used to make fun of me for looking like a girl. I’d appreciate it if you stick with Jodine.”

Allie’s eyes widen as if her shower just ran out of hot water. “I’m sorry.”

Am I a bitch? “I’m sorry if I sometimes come across too abruptly, but on this particular issue regarding my identity, I’m a little sensitive.”

Adam smirks and starts the engine. “Enjoy her, Al,” he says. “Jo, remember, if you make her cry she’s going to ask you to go back to our parents.” He drives off.

“Sorry,” I say, forcing a big smile to reassure her that, no, I am not Psycho Bitch. “I just hate when he teases me.”

“Hey, I have an older brother too, remember?” Her eyes return to their previously un-Frisbee-like proportions and squint in a smile. Her lips smile correspondingly. “He used to call me Hyena. For no reason at all.” She puts her arm through mine. “Hungry?”

After finishing a cheese-and-salsa omelette—apparently Allie likes to cook—I’m anxious to start organizing. I’m glad I managed to convince my parents not to come along. My mother begged to help me unpack, but I am truly looking forward to attacking it on my own.

“It’s going to take me hours to unpack everything,” I announce, hoping Allie will insist on doing the dishes and send me on my way. Technically it’s my responsibility to do them, since she cooked and it was all her food, but I assume these are special circumstances. And the kitchen is a mess, which I did not partake in the making. She can cook, fine, but the ingredients seem to have exploded all over the countertop. For instance, how, specifically, did salsa get on top of the refrigerator?

“Don’t worry, it won’t take us that long. We’ll do one box at a time. We should start with your bed stuff. Then, if we don’t finish everything today you’ll be all ready for tonight. Of course, if you want to paint the walls or something, you can always sleep with me in my room. Whatever you want.”

What was all this “we” talk? What “we”? This stranger is not going to rummage through my stuff. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I can take care of it. I’m sure you have better things to do than be stuck in my room all day unpacking crusty boxes.”

“Umm…not really.” She giggles again. I will have to throttle her if she doesn’t lose that giggle. Or start calling her Hyena. “I guess I shouldn’t say that, eh? You’ll think I’m a big loser and you just met me.”

“Why don’t you do the dishes and I’ll start unpacking?”

Her eyes widen the way they did when I chastised her for calling me Jo, only this time it’s because I’ve brought about a concept utterly alien to her, the concept of cleaning the kitchen. “Don’t worry about the dishes,” she says. “I’ll do them later. First, I want to set you up. That’s what roomies are for, right?”

My definition of roommate is someone who shares a kitchen and a bathroom—although from the present chaotic state of this kitchen I probably should have negotiated my own bathroom.

In order to avoid crushing her obviously frail feelings, I allow her to help me unpack my bed (“What nice green-colored sheets! They match your eyes! I love them! They’re gorge!”), my shampoo and conditioner (“You use Thermasilk? Does it work? Can I smell it? Wow! It smells awes!”), and my clothes (“Too bad you’re so much taller than me! These pants are fab!”), until I can no longer handle any more abbreviated acclamations and need to take a pizza break. Anyway, all that remains is building a dresser, putting away clothes and hanging a few posters.

I realize that I am a complete freeloader—I have nothing to contribute to the rest of the apartment. Wait! Not true. I have a salad spinner. My parents had two for some inexplicable reason, so I took one.

I’m hoping to finish organizing when Allie is asleep. I’m going to try and fake her out. You know, pretend I’m going to sleep but then continue working? She’s sweet, really, just as Adam said. It’s just that she has so many questions and comments and I’m tired because I was up all night packing and I don’t feel like revealing my life story at this particular moment.

At ten she invites me to watch TV in her room, but I decline. “I think I’ll just read a magazine in bed.”

“Okay. We don’t have to watch TV. Let’s read. I’ll get my book and we’ll read together.”

Haven’t we spent enough time together? Is she ever going to leave me alone? Will we have to get bunk beds? “You know what? I’m exhausted. I don’t think I can even keep my eyes open. I’m going to go to sleep.” I can leave my light on for a bit to read without getting caught, can’t I?

“Okay. Tell me when you’re ready for bed and I’ll tuck you in.”

She has got to be kidding.

“Nightie-night,” she says ten minutes later as I climb under the covers. She pulls the sheets up to my chin and turns off the lights. “What do you want for breakfast?” she asks, popping her head back in the doorway.

Breakfast? She’s already thinking about breakfast? “Whatever.”

I hear her muffled voice speaking on the phone, and although I want to tell her to keep it down, I decide to turn on my recently unpacked stereo and try to drown her out.

A knock on my door awakens me. The sun pours into the room because of my lack of curtains, the glare blinding me from seeing the numbers on my alarm clock.

“Jodine? Are you awake?”

“Mmm.”

“Can I come in?”

“Mmm.”

Allie opens the door with her right hand while balancing a tray with her left. “You’re up?”

A little late for that question, isn’t she? “I am now.”

She strides into my room. “I made you breakfast in bed!”

I am somewhat surprised, as no one has ever made me breakfast in bed. Even lovesick Manny never made me breakfast in bed.

Using my elbows, I prop myself up into a half-stomach-crunch position. Allie gently places the silver tray onto my lap and then sits cross-legged on my bed.

This disturbs me for four reasons: 1. She will now proceed to watch me eat. It is always odd when a person is eating and another one isn’t.

2. No one is allowed to eat in my room, for fear of lingering odors, unsightly crumbs and potential spillage. Perhaps this rule would be expunged during emergency circumstances such as…I can’t think of one at this moment, but I will concede that possible situations could arise.

3. More significant, no one is ever allowed to eat in/on my bed. Ever. No emergency could ever require food to be eaten in/on my bed, including but not exclusive to whipped cream and/or edible food paint. I’ll admit that I’ve indulged in these sumptuous delicacies from time to time, but we were on Manny’s bed, thereby leaving no sticky lactose residue on my sheets.

4. Allie is sitting on my bed without socks. And she did not wipe her feet prior to sitting on my bed. She walked, walked, walked along the floor, accumulating the germs and dust bunnies and whatever other bacteria ferment amid the crevices, and has now contributed these germs to my chosen area of rest. Instead, she should have worn slippers, removing them prior to sitting on the bed, or at the very least, used some sort of excess material to wipe clean her polluted body parts. (I really, really want to ask her to wipe, but I don’t want to embarrass her for her barnyard behavior.)

She uses her left big toe to scratch her right ankle. Scratch, scratch. I can taste the food I haven’t even eaten yet regurgitate in my throat. She is spreading germs all over my bed. I can’t take it any longer, and so I say, “Thank you so much for the breakfast. One favor?”

She nods continuously as though the top of her head is attached to an elastic band built into the ceiling. “Sure, spill it.”

Which is precisely what I wish to avoid (the regurgitation of breakfast). “I have this anal obsession about clean feet in or on my bed. Can you wipe them? Just use the newspaper that’s on my chair.”

The look she gives me makes me think I just told her that Santa was really her dad in a rented costume. There is about a thirty-five-percent chance that she will start to cry.

But no! She leans off the bed, picks up the newspaper that only hours ago was in charge of protecting a family picture in the U-Haul. “Oh, sure. No prob. Sorry,” she says, wiping her feet.

Where’s the catch? Why is this girl so damn nice? I look at her feet. They’re now stained with black newspaper ink. This, I admit, is my fault. What could I have been thinking, suggesting a newspaper? (This is how I sometimes get when faced with a dilemma concerning other people’s hygiene habits. Flustered. Irrational.) I can’t ask her to clean them again, can I? I’ll just have to rewash the linen when she isn’t around, so she doesn’t get offended.

When is she not around?

The blue clay bowl on my lap is filled with Rice Krispies and strawberries. Cut-up strawberries. Who has the time or the patience to cut fruit into tiny cubes for the sheer purpose of improving my breakfast experience?

“I didn’t want to wake you, but Emma will be here soon.”

“What time is she coming?”

“Noon.”

“What time is it now?”

Allie looks at her watch. “Eleven-thirty.”

Already? “I want to take a shower before she gets here.”

“Finish your breakfast first.” Yes, Mom. “I can’t wait for you to meet her. Did I tell you she looks like a model?”

Wonderful—a model. Isn’t that number one on the roommate checklist right before nonsmoker and no pets? When I finish eating, I lay my breakfast dishes on top of yesterday’s omelette dishes in the kitchen sink. Apparently not having a dishwasher will be more of a liability than I originally anticipated.

Emma is going to think she’s living with two pigs. “Can you wash up while I shower?” I ask.

“Oh! Good idea. No prob.”

After an in-and-out shower, I find Allie on the phone and the dishes still in the sink. Terrific.

I get dressed and search for my favorite scrunchie to tie my hair back. Where is it? I always leave it beside my bed. Apparently, in my confusion of living in a new environment I’ve misplaced it.

I head to the kitchen and begin washing the dishes. A yellow sponge is leaning against the side of the sink. At least it used to be yellow; it is presently part yellow and part decayed brown.

“No, don’t do them! I was just getting off the phone. Mom, I’ll call you later.” She hangs up and rushes over to the sink. “You wash, I’ll dry?”

“Sounds fair.” Although since she originally offered to do it all, it’s not completely fair. “Do we have any extra sponges? This one is pretty grungy.”

“Let’s see.” She pulls out a crisp new one from the cupboard under the sink. “Here you go.”

Interesting. Why would one continue using a disgusting sponge when there was a new, clean one under the sink? And what other germs are living on this counter? The thought that we’re sharing a bathroom returns, this time frightening me. We’re going to require some serious disinfectant.

The buzzer sounds.

“She’s here! She’s here! I can’t wait for you to meet her. You’re going to love her!”

Allie leaps to the front door, unlocks it and disappears into the hallway. “Hi!” I hear her say. I walk toward them just as they kiss each other on two cheeks. Double-kiss? Are we movie stars?

Emma pushes her bronzed sunglasses on top of her gold head as she walks into the apartment. Is she Rapunzel? What’s with the gold? She couldn’t pick a more natural, normal color?

“Emma, this is Jodine. Jodine, Emma.” She pronounces Emma’s name with a flourish. I almost expect her to give a little hand twirl and bow.

“Hello,” I say. Emma is at least five-seven. Maybe not quite five-seven. Her brown boots add at least two inches to her.

“Nice to meet you.” She saunters into the living room and ogles my head. “You have gorgeous hair. Is that color natural? It’s so black!”

“It’s natural,” I answer, pleased with her flattery regarding my hair yet at the same time exasperated with how willing I am to prostitute my opinions of someone in exchange for a hair compliment.

She reaches out her hand and touches a strand. “And it’s so shiny.”

“Thanks, I, uh, like yours, too.” Okay, so I’m a prostitute.

“Thanks.”

Allie claps her hands. “I love it down, too! You should wear it down all the time, Jodine. It’s so gorge!”

“I might have to, Allie,” I say, and point to the black scrunchie that is perched on the bottom of a braid extending from Allie’s head. “If you keep stealing my elastics.”

Allie blushes. “Whoops. Is this yours?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want it back?”

Yes. “You can use it today.”

“Thanks, Jodine!” Allie’s smile widens. “I’m so happy!” she squeals. “I have two roomies again. This is totally fab!”

Emma’s eyebrows rise, I’m assuming, in amazement of what a cheese ball her new roommate is.

My neck is getting itchy. I want my scrunchie back.

“So what should we do now? When are your movers coming?” Allie asks with a jump. She’s back on her imaginary trampoline.

“In about an hour.”

“Should we play get-to-know-you games?” Allie asks.

What does she want to play? Pictionary? Hide-and-seek? I’m sure my eyebrows are raised as high as Emma’s. (Or at least one of them. That’s my one party trick—I can raise each eyebrow separately.)

I visualize the upcoming year as clearly as if I am remembering it: Emma and I hanging out in her room, rolling our eyes at each other every time Allie says something ridiculously cheesy or abbreviates a word. Two’s company and three’s a crowd, correct? When three people live together, inevitably two will bond and one will end up the odd woman out. It makes sense.

Emma opens her purse, pulls out a hard-shelled sunglasses case, replaces her sunglasses, then slams the case shut. “I have to shit.” She throws her purse onto a table and heads toward the bathroom.

Thanks for sharing.

She opens the bathroom door and disappears inside. The door remains open.

She is using the bathroom while leaving the door open.

She has left the door open. Open, the opposite of closed. (Actually, wouldn’t the opposite of closed be opened with an “ed” tacked on? I mean, you wouldn’t describe a door as being close unless it was in near proximity, or unless you were emotionally attached to it, would you?)

A pack of du Maurier Light cigarettes have slipped out of her purse and onto the kitchen table.

She smokes, and she leaves the door open when she defecates. I feel mildly vomitous, as in full of vomit.

Okay, I volunteer to be the odd woman out. I wish Allie and Emma a blissfully happy life together. I am living with a munchkin and a truck driver.