The Roommate Situation (9 page)

His bedsprings creak. When he speaks next, his voice is clearer, like he’s facing the middle of the room too. I picture him propping his head on his hand. “What’d they think about you spending it on a stereo instead?”

“They were cool with it. In fact, my mom…”

My mom.

Shit.

I was going to say she’d taken me to Best Buy to pick it up, but it was more than that. I’d been wanting a stereo for a while—all I had was a pair of powered speakers that plugged into my iPod. But she’d waved it off whenever I brought it up, saying what I had was plenty for the size of my room. And then, shortly before I got my stereo, she’d put the Best Buy circular in front of me.
“Is this a good deal?”
she asked.
“It looks like a good value for the money, and Sony is a good brand, isn’t it? It would fit nicely on a bookshelf, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know your parents,” he says, his bedsprings creaking again. “I could just be overthinking things. My own mother’s a piece of work, so…”

“Damn it,” I say in the dark.

“You like your stereo, though, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So there you go. You wound up happy. I don’t suppose you’re allowed to bring that to college either, huh?”

“No.”

“Sorry.”

I let the information sit, the weight of it settling on my chest. Being played by my folks is not a new thing, but sometimes—
sometimes
—I like to think things are just what they seem. Sometimes I like to think they see me for who I am and acknowledge it from time to time. You know, like they like me, maybe, and don’t just see me as a project to manage?

I bet my bike wasn’t totaled in the jump. I bet it was just banged up, maybe a bent rim that could have been replaced.

Damn
them.

“Don’t spend too much energy worrying about it,” he says. “You’re an adult now. You get to do what you want.”

My laugh has an edge to it.

Now I’m really not going to sleep, not with this chasing through my head. To distract myself, I say, “So you’re uncle’s gay?”

“Dan? Yeah.”

A stretch of seconds pass while I try to think of something else to say, which winds up being just, “I don’t have anyone gay in my family.”

“How big is it?”

“Just me, my mom and dad, my aunt and uncle and their kids. My grandparents are dead. I guess I have, like, second cousins in California, but I’ve never met them. How about you?”

“Just me, my dad, and Uncle Dan.”

“Neither of whom would have thrown your bike out if you got a little banged up riding it.”

“I’d probably have gotten an ear twisting for banging myself up going off a homemade jump, but no, my bike would be sitting there on the porch, waiting for me to fix it.”

“If you had gone off a homemade jump…would you have been wearing a Styrofoam bike helmet at the time?”

He laughs. “Probably not.”

“I hate you and your perfect childhood.”

Chapter Nine

The day’s clear and bright, crisp enough to call for a jacket. The brick buildings stand out against the cloudless blue sky like a postcard photo. The only thing ruining the morning is I’m on my way to an astronomy lecture.

“Hey!” I hear from off to my side. “Guitar guy!”

I slow and look over my shoulder.

“I thought that was you!” says the guy from the party—Craig. He has an arm around one of the girls who’d been sitting on the bed with him. She’s as tall as he is and model thin, with a wispy dress under a cardigan and fur-topped suede boots. It’s her hair I like the best, caramel in the sun. She draws some loose strands from her face with long, thin fingers and smiles at me.

“How’s it going?” I say to Craig.

“You hook up with Jason yet?”

“No. I mean…without a guitar…”

“Fuck that. Get in touch. I think he’s about to take on this guy who’s a major pain in the ass. Save him from that. Seriously.”

“I’ve never been in, like, a real band or anything.” Jamie, Tay, and I had gotten a few shitty free gigs, and losing battle of the bands probably didn’t count for much. “So—”

“No one’s ever been in a band until they’ve been in a band, dude. And if you don’t play in a band, you’ll never play in a band.
Capisce?
Why do you make everything so complicated?”

I laugh. “Yeah, I don’t know. Genetics, I guess.”

“Well, outgrow that shit. You still got his number?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then. Get the fuck on it.”

I give him a little salute as he and the girl head on past.

I’m not gonna text this guy. It’s easy for Craig to say just
get in touch
when he’s not the one who’s going to look like a moron.
“Uh, hi, I heard you needed a guitar player. I don’t actually have a guitar. You interested anyway?”

Astronomy starts with the return of the tests we took last class. I’m half afraid to get mine, in case the hours of studying have been for naught. Studying and getting a C- would be a zillion times worse than playing foosball and getting a C-.

But I made an A.

I made an A.

I try to pay attention to the lecture, but my eyes keep stealing back to the peak of the A sticking out of my book.

* * * *

When I let myself into the room, Derek’s hunkered over his workbench.

“Working on the harness?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t look up. “I’ve got some scraps I might try a new idea on too.”

“Another harness?”

“Something else. I’ll show you when it’s done. Might take a few pictures if you’re up for it.”

“I’m up for it.” If it’s something new that sells, it’ll put me that much closer to a new amp, and I’m getting a new
amp
because I’m getting my fucking grades up.

I walk between the lockers into the sunshine on his side. “Those cuffs sell yet?”

“Nope.”

“Damn.”

“How was your day?” He picks up a tool that looks like a cross between a steel C-clamp and a giant pair of vise grips.

I wince. “That looks like a torture device.” Probably the one Chuck had seen when he’d peeked in that first day. There’s a can of Pepsi on the desk too, some rivets and snaps spilled about.

He smiles with just the corner of his mouth as he uses the clamp to set a snap in the harness strap.

“Hey,” I say. “I aced my astronomy test.”

“All right! You’re on your way to being the world’s first astronomical economist.”

My grin widens. “Something like that.” I slip my phone out and check the time. “I’m gonna call home.” Give them the good news.

He sets another snap with a little pop. “Have fun.”

I clamber down the stairs, listening to the line ring. My mother answers as I’m pushing through the front door. “Hey, Mom, how’s things?” I say.

“Oh, you know. The allergies this time of year.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m trying a new medication,” she says. “but it’s drying out my nasal passages.”

“Isn’t that what it’s supposed to do?”

“How are you doing?” she asks.

“I aced an astronomy test.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful. You can do anything when you put your mind to it. I’m thankful you’re able to concentrate, even with your roommate.”

My shoulders tighten a little. She can’t just bask in a good thing for a few minutes. “It’s not like he makes a lot of noise or anything,” I say.

“The cigarette smell doesn’t help, I’m sure.”

“I don’t notice. We’ve been studying together, actually.”

“Oh? I thought he was in a higher grade than you. Why would he be taking freshman classes?”

“We don’t study the same
thing
together. We set a timer and work on our own until it goes off, then take a break, then set the timer again for another hour and get back to work.” I totally leave out the beer. I’d be a moron to mention the beer.

“Well, whatever works, honey. You know, I’ve been meaning to tell you, the school says you’ll need to put in a room-change request yourself if you want to move, and—”

“What? I don’t want to move.”

“It’s not good for you, living in a virtual cave.”

“I’m not in a cave. The curtain’s usually open. I get plenty of light.”

“And the cigarette smoke and who knows what else he brings in on him. Is he old enough to drink?”

“He doesn’t smoke in the room. He doesn’t even smoke on campus. Mom, I’m fine. I don’t need to be playing musical rooms every other week.”

“Well, if you change your mind, they said you just have to go to the student housing office and fill out a form.”

I blink into the sun. Jesus fucking Christ. She called the school about having my room changed. It’s fifth grade all over again, when she called to have me moved into a different class group because she felt I’d “blossom” better in that one, whatever the fuck that had meant.

“I just think you should consider it, honey, that’s all,” she says.

“I’ll put it on my list.”

“Well. Is there anything else you needed?”

“No. I’m good.”

“All right. Call if you need us.”

I need you to butt out. Does that fucking count?
I’m about to tell her to say hi to Dad and hang the fuck up, but “Can you not call the school again?” launches out of my throat—which is a wonder because my throat is clenched at the moment.

“What, honey?” she says, as if she has no fucking idea.

“I don’t need you calling the school. If I have a problem and can’t get it solved myself, then I’ll come to you. Don’t call the school on my behalf without even talking to me first.”

“I did talk to you,” she says. “We sat right in that restaurant, the three of us talking about your room situation.”

“And did I ask you to call the fucking school?”

“Shane! I was being helpful. That’s what a mother does. That is my job.”

“Ask me if I need help first. Okay? Please?”

“I’ll tell your father about your A when he gets home.”

“Thanks.”

“It’s obvious you worked hard for it.” Finally! But then: “It’s obvious you’re putting yourself under a lot of pressure to do well. We appreciate that, but please make sure you’re getting plenty of rest and eating well. You sound like you’ve been staying up too late with these study sessions. Maybe you need to manage your breaks a little better.”

“Tell Dad I said hi,” I say.

I stand in front of the building with my phone in my fist, the beautiful day sliding quickly into evening as storm clouds push in. The wind that carries them tugs at my jacket. I don’t feel like going back inside or going to the student lounge or standing here like an idiot. I shove the phone in my pocket and start walking, head down.

I wasn’t even able to bring up the goddamned guitar. I wish I’d earned it with my own money; they’d have a harder time holding it hostage if it was incontestably mine. I think of all the Hardee’s burgers I’d bought while I was working, or the gas I’d put in my car to drive a mile I could have walked.

At least the school didn’t play along with their bullshit. And if they did, I’d just fucking refuse to move. Just sit down on my bed with my arms crossed. They’d have to carry me out. Fuck them. If I have to be here studying the shit my parents picked out for me, I’m at least going to have a say in who I do and do not fucking room with.

I punt an empty Sierra Mist bottle off the edge of the sidewalk. It lobs into the air and smacks against a tree before dropping to the ground.

“Fuck,” I say at nothing. At everything.

And I’m fucking cold too.

Chapter Ten

Derek’s not at his desk when I let myself back in, but I can sense him around the other side of the locker. I throw my ID, phone, and wallet on my desk and pull up Uncle Acid and the deadbeats on my computer, punching the volume up as much as the tiny speakers can handle. I take a step and a half across the room to my bed and slump against the wall, my chin on my chest.

He appears between the lockers. “Sounds like Black Sabbath.”

“Yeah, kinda.”

“You look less chipper than when you left. Did they take your A away?”

“Fucking parents,” I say.

He rolls my chair away from the desk and straddles it, resting his forearm across its top. “Wanna talk about it?”

I pull in a deep breath, then let it collapse back out of me, my shoulders sinking.

Derek switches the toothpick to the other side of his mouth.

“There’s this band,” I say.

“A new old-sounding one?”

“I don’t know what they sound like. The guy at the party, with the guitar? He said they were looking for a guitar player and gave me the guy’s number to text about it.”

“And?”

I bump my head on the wall. “I don’t have a guitar.”

“Right.”

“So I ran into the guy from the party today, and he asked me if I’d gotten in touch yet, and I said, no, I still don’t have a guitar, so there’s not really much point. But he said to text anyway because the guy’s about to take on some other guy who’s an asshole.”

“So did you?”

“No.”

“Are you going to?”

I swallow. My hand is clenched into a fist. I flatten it against my thigh. “I don’t see the point unless it’s an air band.”

He shrugs. “The guy said to anyway. Maybe he knows what he’s talking about.”

“He seems cool, but he also seems like the kind of guy who comes up with great ideas that don’t have a lot of thought behind them.”

Derek smiles, the toothpick jutting between his molars.

“Anyway,” I say. “So that’s where I’m at.” I don’t want to get into how my mother is waging a campaign to move me into a room with someone who comes from a more socioeconomically compatible background—and I know that’s all it fucking is. She took one look at Derek, and her interior self curled its lip at his obviously blue-collar background. Meanwhile, she turns a completely blind eye to Jamie Douglas, son of Dr. and Dr. Douglas, and Jamie’s a fucking pothead who’s probably paying people to write his college papers. I tap my head against the wall and say, “You?”

“I finished my experiment. Want to see?”

I sit up. “I want to do anything that’s not what I’m doing right now.”

Instead of getting up, he works his fingers into his jeans pocket. I enjoy watching his bent head, the way his muscles move in his arm as he roots around for whatever it is he’s looking for. As he lifts his hand, an inch-wide strip of leather drops down. About a foot long, it has a D-ring on each end.