by Lisa Acerbo
I guess he does because Jeremy drones on about drugs and opportunities at big pharma companies. My eyes begin to close as his voice fades in and out.
“Danielle, are you listening?” he asks before he continues talking.
I nod, my long brown hair covering the pillow. But I’m not listening. A few hours prior, I had high hopes this year would be different. A series of PG-rated romantic tragedies mar my college career during the previous three years, but this is senior year. On the outside, I have it all together: grades, a stellar resume, friends; but on the inside I’m a mess. The one thing I lack is love.
That’s how I ended up here, I think to myself. I don’t want to have a one-night stand, do I?
“I’m really hot, and I can never stay in bed with my clothes on. We should just take them off.”
“Excuse me?” My eyes pop open.
“We should take our clothes off. I never get into bed with them on.” Jeremy suddenly gets out of bed and does just that. He slowly unbuttons his blood- and gore-encrusted white Ralph Lauren button-down and throws it to the floor. He slips off his shoes and undoes his belt. His distressed jeans slide down around his ankles. I blink, unbelieving.
He gets back in bed with his make-up still on, takes my hand, and places it on his stomach. It’s smooth, without any hair, and I wonder if it’s natural. If not, what did he do to get it that way?
My attention arrives back in the present when Jeremy snakes a hand across my leg. He’s gone quiet, intent on trying to get his fingers under my skirt. I have one leg crossed over the other, my skirt a second skin glued to my thighs. It thwarts his plans.
While he fumbles, zombie face intent, I try to clear my head of the hard cider alcoholic buzz that fills my brain and rehash how I ended up in this situation. Oh, right…I wanted to have fun, to be normal. Not one to be deterred, a few seconds later, Jeremy puts his hand over mine and begins to guide my hand lower, down his stomach to his engorged penis. I touch it.
I read his alarm clock: One-oh-four AM.
I plan my escape.
#funnight
Chapter 3
October 1
You watch the news some days and ask yourself how that could happen to a person. You would never put yourself in that position. And then one day, you find yourself there.
* * * *
One-oh-five AM.
Step one, sit up. Step two, run.
“Well, this was fun and all, but I have to go.” The words rush out of my mouth. I manage to crawl over Jeremy, drunk walk out of the bedroom, fumble down the steps in the dark, and find my way out without using the window. I wobble outside on my platform heels, taking deep breaths as I go.
Luckily, I only have to cross a small swatch of grass and a path in the woods to make it to my apartment. I stumble twice. I tremble when a dark, shadowy figure hangs between some trees, but when I squint against the darkness, it’s gone. I sure hope Jeremy hasn’t called Uncle Ed from the grave. He was enough trouble when alive. My imagination loves working overtime.
I barely make it through the front door, engage the lock, when I’m startled by a text.
“Why’d you leave?” Jeremy writes. “I can come over there if it’s better.”
I shudder, recheck the door to make sure the deadbolt is engaged, and head for the shower.
“I’ll see you Thursday in the Union? Let’s say six,” Jeremy texts again, even though I haven’t replied.
“Sorry?” I write back confused.
“Organic Chemistry help. You’re tutoring me.”
“Right.” How could I have forgotten? “Sure.”
After twenty minutes in the hot water, I rest under the covers, snuggled deep in the bed. My previous three beds at college saw woefully little in the way of exciting experiences, and tonight hasn’t changed that. I make a vow this year will be different, but then stare at the ceiling as my buzz fades, sleep far away.
* * * *
“Hello?” my voice is gravel when I answer the musical tone of my ringing cell phone.
“I’m so sorry I was miserable last night.” Mom’s voice is clear in my ear. “Uncle Ed’s death was just such a shock.”
“I was sleeping, Mom. I’ll be home later, okay?” I sit up, clammy and hot under my comforter in my overheated apartment bedroom. My hair damp and lank from the early morning shower.
“No. That’s why I’m calling, dearest. I’ll visit you instead.”
“Don’t you have things you need to organize? I mean for the funeral.”
“I don’t want you to make the trip home if you don’t need to, but it would be lovely to see you.” The words are forced but cheerful. “How are you?”
I try to match her fake bravado in my own tone. “I feel fine” has become my mantra. I say it into the phone. What I don’t say is how I laid awake for hours, rehashing all the mistakes I made with Jeremy. The first being sitting on the couch with him. I should have never let Kyle set us up.
“What’s a good time, dearest?” Mom asks.
“Three? And then we can get an early dinner.”
“I’ll bring those winter clothes you packed up.”
“Thanks, Mom. Sorry I was rude last night about Uncle Ed.” I feel bad. She’s lost her brother, and I’m not helping her feel any better.
“It’s fine,” she says, sadness in her voice. “Love you.”
I sigh. “Love you, too.”
I snuggle back under the covers. I want to sleep away the previous night. But that will not to happen. My mind, overrun with an endless stream of thoughts, chides me for getting intoxicated and ending up in Jeremy’s apartment. It will not stop hounding me, so I leave the bed and shower again, sip coffee, and stare listlessly at homework that needs to be completed. I wait for my roommate to wake or my mother to show up.
I go outside to check our mailbox. When I open the screen door, a wrinkled, ripped piece of paper flutters to the ground. I retrieve it.
Whore is scrawled in black marker, the cursive shaky. I stare.
It takes me a minute, but I recover. I laugh, crumple the note, and throw it to the ground. It’s likely one of Tanya’s many ex-boyfriends despairing their break-up.
A card from Grandma Julia waits for me. Back at the kitchen table, I open it. The face of a wolf stares back at me. A check for fifty dollars falls out. I love her dearly and make a mental note to give her a call later in the afternoon.
My roommate gets up before my mother arrives. I had it at a fifty-fifty split. After a night of partying, Tanya often sleeps in the entire next day. Today, her petite frame is lost in the kitchen chair, except for the wild orange hair, which stands straight up. Usually, it contrasts her bright green eyes, but this morning, they are puffy and red. She’s loud, with lots of opinions and a high tolerance for alcohol. I love her dearly and we’ve been enjoying our senior year together before course work and stress takes over.
She’s a thankful distraction from my phone. I make her coffee, all the while filling her in on my night. She howls in delight, but then hugs me close for comfort. Alcohol leaks from every pore in her body.
“How are you and Ron?” I ask.
“We’re good. He might stay over tonight if that’s okay?”
I shrug. They can get pretty loud, but it’s her room. She can do what she wants. “There was a note in our door this morning.”
“What’d it say?”
I pause for a moment before spitting out the word. “Whore.”
“Oh.” Shock registers on Tanya’s face. “It’s obviously directed at you.” She makes a goofy face, tongue hanging out of the corner of her mouth. We both know she’s the only one getting any action. “Where is it?”
“I threw it out. Should we be worried?” I ask.
“I don’t think so.” Tanya appears unsure, but not concerned.
“Should we tell someone?”
“Like who?” she asks. Her green eyes meet mine.
We both recognize that little can be done in a case lik
e this. Psycho ex-boyfriends aren’t really campus police problems. I say it anyway.
“The police?”
“No, it’s probably a prank.”
“Should I tell my mom?”
“If you want to.” Tanya shrugs. She loves Norma, her mom being cold and distant. “But you realize she’ll get super clingy. I mean more than she is right now.”
I weigh the options over. “I’d rather tell her the truth, even if it means having to check in every day.”
“Your life, sweetie.”
Later, after Tanya pulls herself together and takes a shower, I’m in her room, helping her fold clean laundry.
“It’s like Macbeth,” I say.
Tanya’s eyes dart up from her pile of thongs she’s collecting. She doesn’t really fold them, just shoves them in a drawer after she gets all of them together. There are a lot. “Your almost one-night stand with Jeremy is like Macbeth?”
I nod. “The witches gave Macbeth a prophesy that he’d be king, but they never said to kill the current king, King Duncan.”
“I remember the play from high school, but not understanding the connection here. There’s no throne in your future unless it’s a porcelain one.” She sticks her tongue out at me.
I frown at her and throw a sock her way. “You’re funny. Like I told you when I got back, my therapist said to date.”
“Dating is different than what you did last night. Don’t get me wrong, I applaud your balls, but still different.” Tanya pats my head.
“While Sandra didn’t say have a one-night stand, she put the idea into my mind just like the witches put the thought in Macbeth’s head. After that, there was no stopping him or me.”
To me, the logic fits.
Our conversation is interrupted when my mom plods up the stairs. She has a key in cases of emergencies, code for when I can’t deal with life anymore. The breakdowns don’t happen a lot, rarely now as I’ve learned many tricks over the years thanks to skilled and not so skilled therapists and medications, but one of the conditions of getting my own apartment was giving my mom free access. As always, Tanya is a good sport about things. It’s one of the reasons I love her so much.
I drop unfolded jeans and leggings back onto Tanya’s unmade bed. As I head out her bedroom door, my roommate calls after me.
“I forgot to tell you that the Bogeyman stopped by.”
I pivot. “Bogden?”
“If you prefer to call him that. He just wanted to say ‘Hi.’ You were at class. Be thankful you missed him.”
“He’s a nice guy. It’s a good thing we can still be friends after breaking up in sophomore year.” I head out her door.
“Bogeyman,” she calls out to me as I depart.
My mom doesn’t have a clue about the previous night, and never will, but she understands big changes like Uncle Ed’s death often ramp my anxiety into overdrive.
I follow her downstairs so she can point out the batch of her homemade chocolate-chip cookies on the kitchen table sitting amid utensils, cleaning solution, and Tanya’s overstuffed school bags.
She sits in one of our hand-me-down kitchen chairs. I join her. “How are you handling the news?”
“Fine.” I shrug off the question.
“Really?” Her eyes refuse to leave mine.
“Maybe?”
“Do you want me to make an appointment with Sandra?” she asks. “Do you need to go on meds again, even if it’s only short-term?”
“No! I told you, I’m done with medicine.” Defensive, angry she would push, I glare.
“Just asking. Don’t chew my head off. While you weren’t close to Uncle Ed, it’s still a shock.”
I nod, just to be agreeable. “Sorry.”
She gazes around the kitchen, trying to decide what to say next. “Let’s grab some food. We can talk more in private.”
We head to The Brunch Spot, a small diner off campus. As soon as we are seated, I wait for Mom to discuss “me,” but she surprises me by relating the details of Uncle Ed’s death.
“I feel responsible,” she begins. “I should have been watching him closer.”
“Why would you feel responsible?” I ask.
“Remember how we went to Walmart for that Harley Davidson kid’s scooter?”
“How could I forget?” I take a sip of water. “At least he didn’t buy it.” I wait for her to continue.
She peers up, puts on her big, fake smile, and starts again. “True, but when we dropped Ed off, he was so sad. I knew Ed longed for a car, but it would be too costly and unsafe for all the other people on the road. So, the day after you headed to school, I got him a mountain bike.”
“The bike?”
“Yes, the bike he was riding when he got in the accident and died.”
I feel awful now. I might not have had warm-fuzzy feelings for Ed, but I do love my mother. “Oh, Mom. I’m so sorry.” I cover her hand with mine. “His death is not your fault.”
“The funeral is in a week. Will you make it home?” she asks.
“Of course.”
She doesn’t say anything else, and I decide not to tell her about the note on the door. It was probably a prank, and she has enough on her mind.
She finishes her last bite of her tuna sandwich and gets up to pay the cashier.
We head to the car, I buckle up for safety, and we drive back to the apartment.
* * * *
I survive the emotional rollercoaster ride of the funeral, and life resumes some semblance of normal. I go to class, study, stress, and study more to relieve the stress.
In Genetics Lab, a sterile class full of lab tables and silver stools, we begin bacterial transformation. I grab the equipment we need from the cabinets, including a heavy microscope.
My lab partner, Rickey, is wearing a Marvel superhero shirt today. His glasses dangle from the edge of his nose. I’m tempted to push them up before they fall off and destroy our sample, but I’m scared to. I don’t want to go near his hair, which has so much product in it that his bangs hang in slathered spikes on his forehead. He has a nice smile, but acne scars dimple his cheeks.
We work mostly in silence. When his hand snakes out to rest next to mine, I pull back. He’s a decent lab partner who does his share of the work, but I wish the teaching assistant would switch things up occasionally. I believe Rickey has a crush on me, and the idea makes me nervous. While I can recognize it, I, in no way, understand the best way to deal with it.
Rickey leaves class with me. I’m heading back to my apartment to meet with Kyle.
“You want to grab a coffee?” Rickey asks. “We can get the report started.”
“Sorry, Rickey. I have to clean my apartment before a friend stops by.”
He scowls. “The data is fresh in my mind. This is the best time to work on the lab.”
I don’t want to hurt his feelings. “Why don’t you work on it and email me? We can meet tomorrow at the Union and finish it.”
He smiles, and I assume the compromise makes him happy.
“What time?” he asks.
“Not too early.”
We decide on noon and head our separate ways. I go to my apartment to clean.
It’s an unkind late October sun, weak with warmth, that shines through the haze of curtains in my bedroom window as I hang out with Kyle. He sits on my bed amidst the chaos that is now my bedroom, helping me organize. At least that is what I believe he’s here to do. Actually, he’s more concerned about hearing what happened with Jeremy after the “bedroom” date. He spins a plastic carton full of toiletries while I arrange and rearrange my belongings. A monthly ritual. Snuggles paces around, winds between us, occasionally issuing a meow, demanding some attention.
“God, Dani, it smells as if you chemically attempted to kill every roach and mouse scampering through the place.” He scratches Snuggles behind the ears.
I sniff. “I like the place to smell clean. Put Yankee Candle on my list of things to buy.” I point for him to write that on th
e pad of paper by the bed. The list is already more than a page long. I grab a pink shirt to hang in the closet. “Thanks for hanging out today.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be. But you have to tell me why you and Jeremy flamed out. I thought you’d be so good together.” The carton he twirls slips sideways on my bed, spilling its contents. “Woops.” He laughs as my tampons and toiletries fall out.
Luckily, Kyle and I share most everything, so I can’t claim embarrassment. He’s my back-up husband. If I haven’t found Mr. Right by the age of thirty, and Kyle is still available, we’ll tie the knot.
“The problem with Jeremy…” I pause. “There were no flames, not even a flicker. I mean, I kissed him a couple times. To be honest, more than a couple times, and we did a lot of homework at the Union. But I don’t know…” I shrug.
“What was it like, the kissing I mean?”
I shrug. “Like kissing you.”
“We’ve never kissed!” Kyle, hopeful, scoots closer. “We should try.”
“No, thank you.” I shove him away playfully. “Kissing Jeremy was like kissing a relative at an awkward holiday gathering.”
“Maybe you need a woman instead? Doesn’t your grandma believe you’re a lesbian because you don’t date a lot?”
“Can we please not repeat that to people?” My cheeks burn, and I lower my head so the blonde ends fall in front of my cheeks. My grandmother on my father’s side, who happens to be seventy-eight, has a better social life in North Carolina than I do and is probably having more sex than I am.
Kyle is not all that concerned. “What are we doing tonight?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject. It’s a trait I’m used to by now. His mind jumps around like a rabbit. He runs a hand through his thinning hair. It’s light brown and shaved down to a crew cut, which accentuates his widow’s peak. “Now that Jeremy is out of the picture.”
“He was never really in the picture. Tonight?” I pause. “I don’t know. Tanya’s not getting back from her hike until tomorrow, so no roommate to tag along.”
