Auctioned to Him

by Charlotte Byrd

  “You’re going to be okay, Alice.” My mom holds me on the way downstairs. I try to wipe away some tears when the elevator stops at different floors and more people get in.

  “Oh don’t worry, honey. It’s just first day jitters. You’re going to be just fine.” A helpful woman about my mom’s age pats me on the back of my head.

  “I’m here dropping off my third one and it never gets any easier, does it?” she asks, turning to my mother.

  Mom shakes her head.

  “I’ve done this twice already, but this is the first one that went so far,” she says and goes on to talk about what it was like to take my older sisters to college.

  Stephanie went to USC and Jacqueline went to UC Berkeley. I dry my tears and wait for the elevator to finally get downstairs. The process takes forever as kids are moving in and out and the elevator has to stop at practically every floor. On top of all that, my mom makes a new friend at every stop.

  By the time we reach the ground floor, I can’t control the flow of tears any longer. It has only been two weeks since Tristan dumped me over an arduous six-hour conversation. I’m not anywhere close to getting over him. He has been my life for the last two years of high school. He has been my love for way longer than that. No, I can’t even think about this now. Not if I don’t want my eyes to puff up to the size of tomatoes and me to be walking around like some sorry homesick kid the rest of the day.

  “It’s going to be fine,” I say to Mom as we exit the building. The humidity outside envelopes us in a thick blanket. It’s so thick that I can practically taste the water as we walk through it.

  “Of course you are.” Mom takes my hand. Many kids are embarrassed of their parents, but I’ve never been. Until this moment, that is. I suddenly become keenly aware of the fact that I’m crying and holding my mom’s hand on the first day of school. I drop her hand immediately. She either doesn’t notice or doesn’t make a fuss.

  The block is overflowing with humanity. There are wide-eyed college freshmen flooding both sidewalks and spilling out onto the streets. Their proud parents are double parked in their cars, helping their kids unpack their bags and thousands of other Bed, Bath, & Beyond products into large containers on wheels.

  At the Housing office, a long line of eager and tired freshmen wraps the outside of the building. We wait in silence for close to an hour until it’s finally our turn.

  A freckled, tired girl with a tight bun greets us with a lackluster enthusiasm.

  “How can I help you?” she asks, barely looking up. Her nametag says Tina.

  “Hi, Tina. My daughter has been assigned to a suite with her ex-boyfriend. The whole situation is very complicated and she can’t possibly stay there.”

  “Okay, let me see what I can do.” Tina asks for my name and ID. I still don’t have my student ID, so I hand her my license. She types and scrolls and hums and then types again. Mom and I just wait.

  “No, I’m sorry. We don’t have anywhere else to relocate you.”

  “What?!” I don’t believe it. “How can that be? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, every dorm is filled.” Tina shrugs. She clearly doesn’t understand the direness of this situation.

  “But you don’t understand. I can’t live there! He’s my ex-boyfriend. It was a bad breakup. I can’t see him again. Not every day!”

  Suddenly, something I said gets Tina’s attention. “Do you have a restraining order against him?”

  “Restraining order? Why would I have a restraining order?”

  “Was he abusive?” Tina clarifies. But she’s still talking in Sanskrit.

  “Abusive? No, of course not.”

  “Well, then there’s nothing we can do. You two were matched according to our compatibility algorithm. Those things are typically pretty accurate.”

  “Well, of course they were compatible.” Mom steps in. “That’s why they dated for two years. But they’ve broken up. You can’t really expect my daughter to live with her ex-boyfriend for a whole year?”

  “There’s no need to get an attitude, ma’am,” Tina says sternly. “And no, I don’t expect her to live there for a year. Just one semester. In November, you can apply again and get reassigned. So that will be only four months.”

  “I can’t live with him for one semester!”

  “Alice, there’s a lot of people waiting. That’s your only option. Unless your mom wants to rent you some crappy, bed-bug infested studio apartment on Amsterdam for $1500 a month.”

  Before I can reply, the guy waiting behind me in line pushes his way past me to the counter and starts complaining to Tina about the size of his mattress.

  I look at my mom. She shrugs. Defeated, we head toward the exit.

  A big part of me wants to stomp my feet and insist on that studio on Amsterdam. Maybe if I make it a big enough deal then my parents would cave. But $1500 a month is way more than the dorm. And after casually looking around Craigslist the week before, I know that Tina’s not much off on that price or the quality of the possible places.

  “So what do you want to do?” Mom asks.

  “I want to get a latte and go to sleep. Then I want to wake up and find out this was all just some bad dream.”

  She hugs me. I don’t pull away. She smells of Chanel No. 5, as always, her favorite perfume, and it reminds me of home.

  “Daddy will be really happy if you suddenly decide to transfer to USC,” she whispers.

  “I know. But I won’t be.” I smile. “Okay. Okay. Enough with the pity party.”

  I pull away from her.

  “It’s just one semester, right? One semester. I can do that. I think. How bad could it be?”

  4

  That night I went out with my parents to a fancy French restaurant on Riverside Drive. My mom’s choice. It had white linens, small square tabletops, and tiny portions of food. I thought that my dad would complain about the disproportionate size of the salad in comparison to the price of the plate, but he surprised me. Instead, he seemed to really relish the experience. And even ordered a bottle of wine to celebrate. They didn’t card me, so I had a glass too.

  My parents have always been good like that. It’s not that they condone underage drinking, but they have let me have an occasional glass of wine with dinner since I was 15. When I was younger, they would also bore me with an extended discussion of the horrors and dangers of binge drinking and drinking poor quality alcohol. But today, the three of us enjoyed the wine in peace.

  “I wonder what it’s going to be like to have a glass of California merlot when it’s below zero and snowing?” my dad wonders out loud.

  Again with the weather! Yes, it gets cold here. Yes, I don’t like the cold. Yes, it seems like New York is an odd choice for someone who hates the cold and has to wear long sleeves when it’s below 75 degrees. I want to say all of these things out loud, but miraculously, I’m able to keep my mouth shut.

  “You know what your grandmother says, right? It’s not normal for human beings to live somewhere where it’s colder than in her freezer.”

  Gram, my mom’s mom, grew up in Chicago and moved to Los Angeles when she was 18. She just got up and moved. No job. No friends. No man. I’ve always admired her for that. My family has a lot of strong women. For some reason, I’m the only one that’s a little weak now and then.

  “So, it was a kick to see Tristan again, wasn’t it, Sharon?” Dad asks. Thump. My mom’s heel kicks him in the knee.

  “Ouch, why did you do that?” he turns to my mom.

  “Because you deserved it.” She rolls her eyes. “Honestly, sometimes you can be so insensitive, Eliot.”

  I don’t say anything. I don’t really know what to say. I know my dad didn’t mean anything by it. He has known Tristan practically all of my life. We have been friends since the 5th grade. Best friends since 7th grade. Boyfriend and girlfriend since 11th grade. Exes since 2 weeks ago. And now roommates.

  Roommates!

  “I feel like the universe is conspiring again
st me a little bit,” I finally say.

  “Oh sweetie, don’t be like that,” my mom says. “Don’t think like that. This was just a glitch. An accident. I’m sure it will work out. I mean, how often do you have to see the other suite mates anyway? When we came back from Housing, no one was there at all. Maybe you’ll have different schedules? Different routines?”

  She’s mumbling now. But it’s making me feel better. She’s right. I have to believe that she’s right. Maybe there is some way to avoid him.

  “My roommate, Juliet, seems nice.” I change the topic.

  Both of my parents nod in agreement. And then my dad manages to stumble onto another topic that makes me uncomfortable.

  “And what’s her major?” he asks.

  Ah, the never-ending topic of majors. From what I’ve learned from my sisters, majors are an important topic of conversation in college. It’s almost like there’s nothing else. Your major puts you into some sort of classification. A particular phylum, order, or genus. According to my oldest sister, that is.

  “Not sure.” I shrug.

  “None of you are sure, are you? What is it with this generation, Sharon? Were we like this?”

  “Yes, many people were. You? No, you weren’t like this.” She smiles. She’s making fun of him, but it all comes from love.

  “No, I wasn’t.” My dad beams with pride as he says that. “I knew right away that I wanted to be a doctor. I can even remember my first semester’s course schedule. Can you believe that? All these years later? I took Biology, Chemistry 101, Physics 102, Calculus 1, and Western Civilization 1. The last one was some sort of inane requirement, of course.”

  “Yes. Who could imagine that anything about Western Civilization would be useful to any human being alive?” I say sarcastically. I’m joking, but not really. And my dad knows that.

  “Ah, I see, we have a smartass, here. Okay, then, smartass, what courses have you decided on?”

  I sigh. But not because I don’t know. I’ve been pouring over the course catalog for the last month. I’ve got it practically memorized. And the only conclusion that I’ve come to is that there are just too many fascinating courses to narrow them down to just four or five. Some of my favorites are “The Writer’s Process,” “The Art of the Essay,” “Intro to Fiction Writing,” and “The Victorian Age in Literature.” But I can’t really come out and say that. Not if I want to have a full blown argument on my hands.

  “I don’t know; I still have to meet with my advisor,” I say. “But probably some required electives and an English class or two.”

  English sounds more professional than writing. At least in my mind.

  “English? Again, with this?” My dad rolls his eyes. “Honey, I know you like to read and write, but what are you going to do after graduation? Now, if you pursue pre-med then at least you’ll have some prospects.”

  Now, it’s my turn to roll my eyes. Pre-med. For some reason, my father is obsessed with the notion of me studying pre-med. Perhaps it’s because he’s a doctor and my mom’s a doctor, but they both wanted to be doctors. Isn’t it unreasonable to try to convince someone to become a doctor when it’s practically the last thing that she wants to do with her life?

  “I don’t want to talk about this, Dad.” I shake my head and concentrate on the tiny piece of salmon and feta cheese before me.

  If I don’t pace myself, I’m going to be done with dinner in two bites. Oh how I wish we went to some cheap, chain restaurant instead with unlimited breadsticks and other things to munch on. That way I would’ve at least had something to munch on during this interrogation.

  “Oh, I know you don’t. But I feel like it’s necessary before you spend $50,000 a year at this fancy ivy-covered school on basket weaving or reading books you can read for free at the library.”

  “Eliot, please,” my mom says, and the conversation is over. I’ve been waiting for this statement ever since the topic of majors came up, and I welcome it with open arms. Everyone in my family knows that when Mom says, “Eliot, please,” it’s time for my dad to stop beating a dead horse.

  5

  When I was young, I thought nothing could hurt me. I thought I was invincible. My whole life was ahead of me and I had a lot of plans. Plans for high school. Plans for college. Plans to be with Tristan the rest of my life. He was my perfect match. My soul mate. Or so I thought.

  But then I got older and realized that it was all crap. I was living a lie. Lost in my own delusion. Tristan was not my soul mate. He was just my boyfriend. Someone who had broken my heart. And now, I don’t know if I believe in the whole idea of soul mate.

  And for all the reasons that I hate him, that’s the thing that makes me hate him most.

  “Hey, hey,” I hear someone saying far in the distance. “Hey, excuse me.”

  I turn away from the window and come face-to-face with tall, blonde, blue-eyed hottie.

  “Are you my new roommate?” he asks. His eyes twinkle in the sunlight that streams in through the living room’s window. I nod. He gives me a warm hug. Introduces himself as Dylan Waterhouse.

  Dylan is from Connecticut. I’ve never been to Connecticut. Immediately, I think of the Gilmore Girls and an old romantic comedy with Julia Roberts called Mystic Pizza. I imagine Dylan growing up in one of those picturesque coastal towns where leaves turn gorgeous colors of red and gold every fall.

  “No,” Dylan laughs when I tell him. “I grew up in Greenwich. It’s a bit different. No fishing for me. We spent our summers in the Hamptons and my dad has an apartment on Central Park.

  “So, where are you from, gorgeous?” he asks, tilting his chin toward me. His arms hang loosely on his sides, but I can still see that he’s ripped. For a second, I don’t get it. And then, it hits me.

  “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Yeah, maybe. Why?”

  I roll my eyes. I pretend that I’m annoyed, but too effectively. I hate to admit it, but I like the attention. Dylan is very cute. And rich, apparently.

  “Because we’re roommates, remember?” I say, pushing him aside slightly. My hand lands on his chest. His pecks are hard and warm. I linger there a little too long.

  “Hey! You’re back!” Juliet walks out of our room. “Oh, and you met Dylan!”

  I nod. There’s a knock at the door and a man who’s old enough to be Dylan’s father walks in, laden down with expensive looking suitcases. He’s got jet-black hair and serious eyes. He’s clearly out of breath.

  “Oh, you must be Dylan’s father. Hi, it’s nice to meet you,” I say when the man puts down his bags. Dylan doesn’t make a move to help him. I wait for his dad to reprimand him, but he doesn’t.

  “Oh, no, miss, I’m not Dylan’s father,” he says.

  “You can just put the bags in there.” Dylan points to his room.

  “He’s not your dad?” I whisper.

  Dylan flashes a crooked smile. “No, he’s the chauffeur.”

  “You’re chauffeur dropped you off? Shit, and I thought my parents were uninvolved,” Juliet pipes in.

  She proceeds to go on a rant about how ridiculous her parents are for not even coming to the school. She’s from Staten Island and apparently taking a ferry over and then a cab all the way up to 116th Street is too much trouble.

  “What’s the problem?” Juliet mimics her mom, giving her a raspy smoker’s voice. “You don’t think we’ve been to Upper West Side before?”

  “Eh, your parents at least have the ferry as an excuse. My parents are separated and my dad’s been living in his Park Avenue apartment. Still didn’t bother to come by. But he did act like him lending me his chauffeur was a big deal this morning.”

  What I quickly learn is that in New York, there’s a big difference between old and new money. Juliet’s dad owns a chain of laundromats and a few apartment buildings. Her dad went to CUNY for a semester, but dropped out to start his business. Her mom is way younger than her dad, and his fourth wife. Dylan’s parents met at Princeton. He’s rebelling
by not going to Princeton. His dad runs some sort of pharmaceutical contract company and he’s also a practicing attorney. Graduated from Yale Law School.

  I have no idea why both Juliet and Dylan give me a breakdown of their parents’ education and background immediately upon meeting me. Is this an East Coast thing? Probably, I decide. Back in LA, people are different. Education matters less than people you know.

  “So, what do you think you’re going to major in?” I ask Dylan. He laughs. I think he knows that I’m just following standard operating procedures of meeting someone new at college. What other way is there to evaluate the person from head to toe and make all sorts of inappropriate assumptions of who they are as human beings?

  “Not sure yet. Leaning toward history, I think. I’m planning on going to law school after. So history sounds good, I guess.”

  “Hey, me too!” Juliet says. “I just love Roman and Greek civilizations. They’re so fascinating, right?”

  Dylan’s unimpressed. “I like 20th century better.”

  “Is that history or poli sci?” she asks.

  We take a moment to consider the notion. I hate to admit it, but I agree. In school, we didn’t even reach the 20th century. Instead, we kept learning about Columbus, the founding of America, and the 1800s.

  My eyes wander over to the back and I see Tristan standing there. His hair is falling slightly into his face. He casually leans on the doorframe the way models do in magazines. Look at me, aren’t I hot? But not in that totally obvious way? I’m hot, but I don’t really know it. Except that I do. That’s what that look says. Even if the guy doesn’t say it out loud. Especially if he doesn’t.

  Dylan and Juliet continue their banter, completely oblivious to us. I stare at him. He says nothing. I can’t believe that less than three weeks ago, I could just go over there and plant a big wet kiss on those luscious and utterly kissable lips. And now I can’t. It’s feels so arbitrary. It hasn’t been that long at all and just because our status has changed, suddenly we’re strangers with nothing to say to each other. No. We’re strangers with a million things to say to each other. A million things we can’t or don’t say.