Amy & Roger's Epic Detour

by Morgan Matson

  “But sometimes,” I said, feeling my throat begin to tighten, but forcing the sentence out anyway, “sometimes you don’t say goodbye and you never see the person again anyway. Sometimes that happens.”

  “I know it does,” he said quietly, and from his expression, I knew he knew what I was talking about. “I guess it’s just my residual guilt for the grandparentcide.”

  I felt myself smile at that. “You didn’t kill your grandparents.”

  “I know that now. But you try telling that to eleven-year-old me.”

  I looked out the window at the darkening purple mountains and thought about that. Good-byes didn’t seem as important to me as they once had—I’d found out that when you’re never going to see someone again, it’s not the good-bye that matters. What matters is that you’re never going to be able to say anything else to them. And you’re left with an eternal unfinished conversation.

  “Anyway,” Roger said, turning down a street that was lined with small houses, most with Greek letters nailed to their doors, “I’m sorry to lay all this on you. I should have told you earlier why I wanted to come here.”

  “It’s fine,” I said.

  Roger smiled at me, then pulled the car over to the side of the street and parked in front of a dilapidated two-story house with peeling white paint and a half-inflated plastic palm tree drooping on the lawn. “Want to check out our digs?”

  We found the common area of the Colorado College International House deserted, except for a skinny, shirtless guy sprawled on the couch. He had spiky black hair and appeared very involved in a video game. It seemed to be set in a forest and featured a much more buff version of the guy on the couch.

  “Hey, Leonard,” Roger said.

  “Hey, Sullivan,” the guy—presumably Leonard—said, raising one hand for a fist bump without looking up from the screen.

  “How’s Honour Quest treating you these days?” Roger asked.

  “I made it to the Forest of Doom,” he said.

  “I see that,” Roger said, leaning over the couch to look at the TV screen. “Impressive.”

  “What are you doing here?” Leonard asked. “I thought you were in California for the summer. Are you here till school starts?”

  “No,” said Roger. “Spending the summer in Philadelphia.”

  “Bummer,” Leonard said. The virtual him stomped around a bit, waving his sword.

  “So we’re crashing here tonight,” Roger said. “I talked to Bron and she said it was fine. Mind if I take the extra bed in your room?”

  “Sure,” said Leonard. “The more the merrier, and all that. Just put your stuff anywhere. And I heard there’s going to be a little fiesta tonight at the Quiet Dorm. Should be pretty rocking.” He glanced up and seemed to notice me for the first time. “Oh. Hey,” he said. “Leonard Cho.”

  “Amy Curry,” I said.

  “Charmed,” he said, turning his attention back to the screen. “Whatever you do, Sullivan, avoid Conrad’s room. He’s been keeping a rabbit in his closet, and it’s turned on him.”

  “A rabbit?” I asked, not sure I’d heard right.

  “It’s turned on him?” Roger echoed.

  Leonard shook his head. “It’s not pretty. Just do yourself a favor and avoid the whole sitch.”

  “Sure,” said Roger. “Thanks, man.” He raised his eyebrows at me and headed into the kitchen. I followed, looking around. There were signs that a number of people shared this kitchen, and not all harmoniously, with charts on the wall for trash and cleanup duties, cabinets secured with padlocks, and the words JUST EAT YOUR OWN GODDAMN FOOD AND NOBODY GETS HURT painted on the wall.

  “So,” Roger said, crossing the kitchen, “welcome to the International House. My friend Bronwyn’s the RA here for the summer, and she said we could crash for the night. She said you could stay with her.” He headed up a narrow, dark stairway with shoe treads worn into the carpet, and I followed.

  “She won’t mind?” I asked, realizing that I now understood the BRON CALLING on his phone earlier. Roger stopped in front of a door with a whiteboard attached to it. It was covered in messages, most of which seemed to have to do with a rabbit.

  “Not at all,” he said. “I’m across the hall in Leonard’s room.” He pointed it out. “He’s barely ever off the couch, so I’ll probably get the room to myself.” Roger opened Bronwyn’s door to reveal a small, messy room that seemed to be one giant closet—clothes were hanging everywhere, and the small set of drawers was overflowing and stacked with piles of shirts. There was what I assumed was a bed pushed against one wall, but it was hard to know for sure, as it was covered in clothing.

  “Wow,” I said, looking around.

  “I know,” he said. “She’s got a bit of a shopping problem.” He looked down at me. “Are you okay with this?” he asked. “I mean, we can always get a hotel if you’d be more comfortable….”

  I shook my head. “It’s fine,” I said. It wasn’t, really. I didn’t want to have to stay with a stranger, some college girl who was probably going to resent the fact I was there. But this was so clearly where Roger wanted to be, I didn’t see any way I could get us out of it without disappointing him.

  He smiled at me, seeming relieved, and I knew that had been the right answer. “Great. Well, I’ll go get the bags out of the car. Be right back.” Before I could reply, Roger was out the door.

  Even without the stacks of clothes, it would have been a tiny room. The stuff everywhere just made it feel that much more claustrophobic. There was basically just the bed, a tiny space of floor next to it, and a desk with science textbooks piled around and on top of it. There was another bulletin board above the desk, and, recognizing Roger in a picture, I stepped inside the room to look at it.

  “Hey there!”

  I turned around at the sound of the voice and saw a girl standing in the doorway. She had long brown hair and bangs that swept almost into her eyes, and she was around my height and build, if maybe a little curvier. I assumed this was Bronwyn, only because she was wearing the outfit of someone who cared about clothes deeply, as the owner of this room clearly did. She had on jeans and a T-shirt, like me, but that was where the similarity ended. She seemed to have that thing that I’d noticed in girls at school—a way of putting together clothing so that everything just worked, and seemed special and pulled together but also casually effortless. Her white T-shirt was fitted but somehow also loose. She had a few delicate gold necklaces layered on top of each other, and these seemed to coordinate perfectly with her gold flats. I looked down and saw that on my own T-shirt, there was what looked like a blob of jam from the toast I’d had at lunch.

  “Hey,” I said, sticking my hands into my pockets, hoping she wouldn’t notice the jam.

  “Are you Amy?” she asked, looking at me closely. She walked over to me, somehow managing to avoid stepping on any clothes or shoes. She was looking at me with the friendliest expression I’d ever seen on anyone who wasn’t a flight attendant.

  “Yes,” I said, sticking out my hand to shake hers, figuring that maybe this was the thing to do at college. “Hi.”

  She didn’t even acknowledge my hand, just took a step closer and hugged me tight. I immediately felt myself stiffening. I hadn’t really hugged anyone in a long time. A few people had hugged me at the funeral, but those had been quick, barely touching, two-pats-on-the-back hugs. This girl wasn’t letting go. After a moment, I tried to extricate myself, but that only seemed to make her hold tighter. It was strange to feel, since we were about the same height, but it seemed like I was being hugged by a much bigger person. I felt something inside me weaken, a splinter or two popping off the dam I’d put up in front of everything I didn’t want to feel. The second I felt this, I took a step back. Bronwyn took a step back of her own and smiled at me.

  “So nice to meet you!” she said, and I heard a faint, twangy Southern accent in her words. “You,” for example, seemed to have more syllables in it than I was used to hearing.

  �
�You too. Um …” I said, just to check. “Are you Bronwyn?”

  “Oh my goodness!” she said with a laugh. “I’m so sorry! Yes, I am. Bronwyn Elizabeth Taylor. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Elizabeth Taylor?” I repeated, not sure I’d heard correctly.

  Bronwyn laughed again. “Yes, I know. Blame my older sister. She was obsessed with National Velvet around the time I was born. Girls and horses, you know,” she said, and I nodded, like I was able to follow this. “So she suggested it as a middle name, and here I am. That’s why you don’t let a five-year-old pick your name, am I right?”

  “Right,” I said, a bit stunned. She spoke fast, seeming to go against all the things I’d heard about the slow Southern drawl. Reeling a bit, I tried to drag the conversation back to familiar ground. “Thank you so much for letting me stay here tonight.”

  “Oh, pshaw!” she said. I had never heard anyone actually say this word aloud before, but there it was: puh-shaw. “I’m thrilled you all are staying here. I am just starved for some good conversation. And Roger is one of my top ten favorite people in the world.” She said this like it was truly an honor. I believed her immediately.

  “Oh,” I said. “Yeah. He’s really—”

  “And I am just sick,” she continued on, “about what that girl has done to him. Such a sweet boy. Nothing but practice to someone like Hadley.” I noticed that Bronwyn pronounced her name in the opposite way that Roger had, practically spitting out the syllables. “She took one look at him and saw someone she could sharpen her claws on.” I nodded dumbly, feeling a bit like I’d just walked into a tornado. I tried to sift through what she’d just said, tried to think of a proper response to any of it. “So …,” I began.

  “My goodness, where are my manners? Please sit down.”

  I didn’t see any place where this seemed possible, but Bronwyn swept some clothes off the bed and patted it, then crossed the room and hopped up on her desk. I lowered myself carefully onto the space she’d cleared. She was looking at me expectantly, so I decided to try again. “So,” I said, then waited a moment. When she didn’t jump in, I continued, “So you’re the RA here for the summer?”

  “I am,” she said with a groan that somehow managed to also seem good-natured. “It’s free room and board, keeps me from having to be home all summer and provide slave labor at my aunt’s day care. But enough about me!” She leaned forward. “I want to hear all about you! How’s the drive been so far?”

  “Oh,” I said, feeling a little uncomfortable now that the full force of her attention was turned to me. “Good, I guess. So far.”

  “Has she come up yet?” The way Bronwyn said “she,” I had no doubt who she meant.

  “No,” I said. “Not really. He hasn’t really talked about it.”

  Bronwyn nodded. “I thought as much. No worries, darling. I’ll get it out of him.”

  “Um,” I said, “I think that’s why we’re here, though. One of the reasons,” I added quickly. “He said he was looking for Hadley—he thought she might be on campus this summer.”

  Bronwyn snorted. “Well, she’s not. Believe me, I’d have known about it and sent out an all-points bulletin.” She turned to her desk and lifted a framed photo off it. “You want the visual?” Before I could reply, she crossed the room and handed it to me.

  There were four people in the picture: Bronwyn on the left, standing next to a cute, stocky guy with close-cropped curly black hair, then Roger standing next to a striking blond girl. I figured this had to be Hadley, and not only because someone had drawn horns on top of her head with red marker. I looked closer. She was almost as tall as Roger, willowy, with small, perfect features, evenly tanned skin, and pale blond hair. She was smiling absently and looking off-camera, but Roger, who was smiling right at her, hadn’t seemed to notice. “Huh,” I said, not sure what the proper response to this was.

  “I know,” Bronwyn said. “Totally, right? Can’t you just see it on her face?” She took the picture back from me. “But look at Jaime,” she said, smiling at it, her finger resting on the guy standing next to her. “Isn’t he just the sweetest? Don’t you just want to eat him up?”

  “Mmm,” I said, as neutrally as possible, figuring this was probably not something to agree to with too much enthusiasm. “Is he your boyfriend?”

  “He is,” she said, sighing happily. “And pretty much Roger’s best friend around here. That’s how I got to know him, you see. And her,” she added darkly, after a moment.

  “So,” I said, feeling like I was on the verge of uncovering a mystery, “what exactly happened between them?”

  Bronwyn shoved another armful of clothes onto the floor and sat down next to me. “Honey, if I knew that I could have fixed this two months ago. I think the problem is that there isn’t any there there. I think she just got bored and wanted to be free in Kentucky for the summer. But I don’t know,” she said. “We’ll have to ask RS….” She paused and looked around, as though she had just noticed Roger wasn’t in the room. “Speaking of, where is that boy?”

  “He’s getting the bags,” I said. I realized that he really should have been back by now, and I wondered if he was taking his time on purpose, so that Bronwyn and I could talk.

  “Gotcha. Well, we should start getting ready anyway. There’s a party at the Quiet Dorm tonight. You’re coming,” she said, and I noticed that she didn’t phrase it as a question, or wait for my answer. “We’ll get dressed, and …” Her eyes shifted to my outfit. “Well, maybe you can borrow something of mine. It’ll be fun!”

  And you’re doing fine in Colorado.

  —Jackson Browne

  The Quiet Dorm did not live up to its name. Roger had explained, on the walk to the party, that the houses that were for specific things during the school year—like the International House—became just regular housing during the summer for the students staying on campus. Apparently, the wildest parties over the summer happened at the Substance-Free Dorm.

  We could hear the party when we were still down the street from it: the steady, pounding beat of music mixed with laughter and the occasional yell. The Quiet Dorm was walking distance from the International House, in another run-down house—this one looked like it might have been an old Victorian. When we got closer, I could see that there was a fake beach in front of the wraparound porch, an expanse of sand with a volleyball net strung up across it. It didn’t seem like anyone was going to be playing tonight, though, as a small campfire had been made next to the net. There were people standing around it, couples talking on the porch, and a guy passed out over the railing, still clutching his bottle of beer. It was all very familiar—replace the bottles of Mile-High Ale that were scattered around with Dos Equis, and it could have easily been the parties I’d been to at College of the West. I’d only been to a handful, and always with Michael. I had tended to stick next to him, sipping the warm keg beer out of my red plastic cup and smiling when someone spoke to me, trying not to say anything that would identify me as a high school student.

  Charlie, on the other hand, had been going over to campus since we were in middle school, when he was apparently treated like a mascot at the parties. By the time we were in high school, he was just accepted as a fixture. And often, he was the one who was providing the party, or at least the one who knew who was holding. It had always been jarring to look across a dorm room or a house as I sat on the sidelines and see my brother, front and center, holding court.

  As I followed Bronwyn and Roger up the stairs, I grabbed onto the railing, avoiding the passed-out guy, trying not to lose my balance. I was perfectly sober, but I was not wearing my own shoes. This had not been my choice, but apparently “no” was not a word Bronwyn readily understood.

  “Of course you’re coming!” she’d said after I’d protested and Roger had reappeared with my suitcase. She’d said hello but then shooed him out again so we could begin to get ready. Which is when I found out that I was, most likely, not getting out of going to the party.


  “It’s really okay,” I said.

  Bronwyn, who had been humming something under her breath and rummaging in one of her drawers, turned and looked at me. “Of course you have to go,” she said. “Don’t be silly.”

  “I’m fine here,” I said. “Really.”

  She waved my words away again. “You’re coming, sugar,” she said. “And what’s more, it’s going to be fun.” She straightened up and looked at me closely. “I think we could change this up a bit,” she said, gesturing to my flip-flops, loose T-shirt, and jeans. “I understand you had to dress for travel and all.”

  “Right,” I murmured. I didn’t want to tell her that this had become my uniform. It wasn’t planned, just what I kept gravitating toward. Somehow, clothes that were too fitted felt like they were suffocating me, skirts made my legs feel too cold, bright colors drew too much attention. So I’d ended up with an ensemble that let me hide a little, and let me fade into the background, and it was working just fine.

  “But,” she continued, “to every season. Am I right? A time to be casual and a time to dress up. And this is the latter.” She pulled out a pink one-shouldered top, looked at it, then me, then tossed it on the bureau. She rummaged farther in, gave a little gasp of triumph, and came out with a long, sky-blue top edged with yellow. “Perfect,” she said.