In fact, Nina barely had time to get homesick. Soon the red-roofed, mission-style buildings, the palm trees, and the breezes off San Francisco Bay were all pleasantly familiar. The only thing she couldn’t get used to was her roommate, Ashley. Ashley came from Georgia and supposedly ran six different organizations at her school. She spent her time in incredibly odd ways, like practicing back bends for half an hour at a stretch or nibbling at the corks that she kept in a bag on her desk. She’d down a few caffeine pills with a can of Red Bull and then spend strung-out hours talking on her cell phone, chomping away on a cork, wearing only the tiniest pair of lingerie shorts and a low-cut tank top. This was her minor concession to wearing some clothing while she was in the room—she always slept naked.
At this moment, late on a Tuesday night of the second week, Ashley was sitting on her bed, considering a large, deeply ripe avocado. Nina didn’t know where she’d gotten it; it was just the kind of thing that Ashley turned up with when she had enough stimulants in her system. She focused her clip lamp on it and stared at it as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Her foot tapped furiously on the metal bed frame and she scratched compulsively at her neck. Nina was sure ribbons of skin were about to come streaming down on the mattress.
“Hey, Nina?”
Nina didn’t look up from her microeconomics textbook.
“Yeah?”
“What are you?” Tap, tap, tap, tap. Scratch, scratch, scratch.
“What?” Nina asked.
“What’s your … heritage?”
Since her mother was black and her father was Cuban (and white), no one ever knew where to place Nina on the spectrum.
“Swedish,” Nina said.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“On both sides?”
“Yeah.”
Ashley thought this over for a moment, then jumped off her bed and took off running down the hall. Nina could hear her bare feet smacking the linoleum. Since she was sitting cross-legged, the backs of her knees were getting too warm and the heavy book was growing uncomfortable. Nina shoved it off her lap and stretched out her legs. Then she flopped down on her back and threw her legs up against the wall and stared at her toes. It took her a minute to realize that someone was standing in her doorway staring at her. She tilted her head back to get an upside-down view.
The guy in the doorway was Steve Carson, a hard-core environmentalist from Oregon. His room was down the hall from Nina’s, and from a few glances through the open door, she saw that he lived with all the flamboyance of a monk. He’d brought only a bike, books and music, some special environmentally safe detergent and lightbulbs, and a small bag of clothes. He generally kept to himself and could usually be found sitting on his bed, reading, or working on his laptop. Even when the whole hall would go together for meals, he often sat at the end of a table and read the little laminated menu tents over and over.
“Sorry,” he said.
“For what?” Nina slid her legs down and went back to her cross-legged position. “Come on in.”
“Nina?” he said. “It’s Nina, right?”
Nina nodded.
“My computer is going crazy,” he said. “The battery or … I don’t know. Can I use your computer to check my e-mail for a second? I’m waiting for a message. There’s this thing we’ve been doing for the Savage Rapids Dam on the Rogue River and … It would take a long time to explain.”
He spoke quickly, in an insistent mumble.
“Don’t worry about it,” Nina said, waving a hand in the direction of her computer. “It’s no problem.”
Nina pulled the book back onto her lap. Out of the corner of her eye, though, she watched him. Steve had a strong, slim build, probably from his constant biking. The red T-shirt he had on had bled out in the wash, and his dark blond hair looked like it had been cut at home. He typed away at full speed without looking at the keyboard. Then he began to scrutinize her bathroom basket, which sat on the bureau, filled with a full line of aromatherapeutic shampoo, conditioner, body wash, moisturizer, and facial scrub. As he turned back, he caught her watching him.
“I was just looking at your shampoo,” he explained, as if that were the most normal thing in the world.
“Oh.”
“You have a lot of the organic stuff, all the same brand.”
Steve reached up and plucked out Nina’s green tea facial wash and examined the label. He turned the bottle over and examined it, then replaced it.
“All these big companies are jumping on the organic bandwagon,” he said, typing away again, still without looking at the keyboard. “And then they put soap in a plastic bottle. Then sometimes they put the bottle inside a box. The amount of packaging they’re using is insane. You must like it, though. You’ve got the whole line there.”
“I get it for free. My dad works for the company.”
“Oh,” he said. A curious “oh.” An “Oh, your dad works for a major chemical conglomerate” kind of “oh.”
“In product development,” she added, rather deliberately. “He’s really proud of the organics line. It took a while to get it made.”
“I’m third-generation hippie,” Steve said. “I notice these things. My parents grew up on a famous commune in New Mexico called the New Buffalo. They lived in teepees in the desert. Everyone in my family has always used natural remedies and organics. It’s just strange to see them in Wal-Mart.”
“I guess you can thank my dad for that.”
“I’m not saying it’s bad.”
Nina went back to reading and he returned to typing for several minutes. She saw him pause again and stare thoughtfully at the screen.
“We live alongside a berry farm,” he said suddenly. “Berries love our kind of weather. I’m used to eating them every day, so I’m kind of jonesing for them. Do you like blackberries?”
“I guess,” Nina said, once again stunned by the strange turn of the conversation. “I can’t remember if I’ve ever had them.”
“Really?” Steve shook his head incredulously. “I’ll send you some jam. We make it at home. It’s incredible.”
It was too much. He had just gone through her toiletries, subtly accused her dad of wrecking the environment, then launched into his life story. Now he was offering to send her some of the family jam? Maybe he had been too busy chowing down on tempeh and chaining himself to redwoods to have developed social skills.
Suddenly there was an enormous boom from down the hall. Before Nina and Steve could get up to see what happened, Ashley swung through the door and shut it behind her.
“Did you hear that?” she gushed.
“Everyone heard that,” Nina said. “What was it?”
“I put it in the microwave.” Ashley laughed. “It blew up.”
“Your avocado?”
Steve looked at Nina in confusion.
“She had an avocado,” Nina explained. “I guess she blew it up.”
“I did.” Ashley belly flopped onto her bed, which gave a threatening creak. Steve shot a glance at Nina before going back to his typing.
“You’re Steve, right?” Ashley asked.
“Yep.”
“You’re like a nature boy, right? Are you with Greenpeace or something?”
“No. Smaller group. We work with them, though. What do you do?”
“Oh, you know.” Ashley sprawled herself over the bed and started braiding her hair loosely. “Food drives, stuff like that. Sort of. I lied about half the stuff on my application. They don’t care, anyway, as long as you pay. It’s all bullshit. You want a Red Bull?”
“No thanks.
“Ashley remembered her manners and reached down into her mini-fridge and halfheartedly offered a Red Bull to Nina as well. Nina shook her head. She didn’t really feel the need to increase the number of hours she was awake with her roommate.
Steve typed. Ashley braided. Nina watched her visitor out of the corner of her eye. He had a deep tan and just a bit of a shadow on his chin, an
d his face was becoming more and more intent on the screen. Then his fingers stopped moving on the keys and he turned around slowly.
“What’s bullshit?” he asked.
“This. Schools. Admissions are all bullshit,” Ashley said, clearly bored by the discussion already. “Schools just want money. Give them money, they let you come. Get some bullshit recommendations. Whatever.”
Steve regarded Ashley with a curious cock of the head. Nina, however, had to step in. She had to.
“It’s not bullshit,” she said. “I do everything I put on my application, and I’m here to learn how to run things.”
“Oh,” Ashley replied. She seemed completely content with her own thoughts; the opinions of others didn’t affect her at all. She dropped the braid and let it unravel, then she sprang up, tugged her tiny shorts into place, and flat-footed it out into the hall.
Nina jumped off of her own bed and firmly shut the door. She could feel her pulse racing.
“I’m not going to make it,” she said. “I can’t live with her for nine more weeks. Can we switch rooms?”
“Some people are like that,” Steve replied.
“You mean assholes?”
“The thing is,” he went on, “if you let it get to you, you can never get anything done. But you can come down anytime, if you want to escape.”
“Thanks.”
He turned back around to his e-mail. Nina settled herself back down to her reading.
Steve suddenly interested her a lot. Maybe it was because he had expressed a mutual dislike of Ashley (the enemy of your enemy is supposed to be your friend, after all). Maybe it was because he seemed real—from his conversation, right down to his worn-out clothes. And maybe it was just because he was flat-out muscle-bound and appealingly rugged.
He thanked her quietly when he was done, then gave another quick glance at Nina’s bath basket before smiling and backing out the door.
Later on, as she walked down to the bathroom, she passed Steve in the small kitchen nook. He had the door to the microwave open and was using a piece of cardboard to scrape out the green slime that coated the already nasty interior. She stopped and watched him, but his head was actually in the microwave, so he didn’t notice. There was a bottle of some kind of environmentally friendly orange cleaner on the counter, which Nina guessed was his.
She hadn’t liked what Ashley had done, but it hadn’t occurred to her to clean the mess up, either. In fact, in a whole hall full of leaders and activists, Weird Steve was the only one who appeared to care about the fate of the cleaning people.
Independence Day
June 29
TO: Mel; Nina
FROM: Avery
Our manager, Bob, gave me my first point today because some people complained that I ignored them. (Eight points and you’re fired. Either that or you get Valuable Prizes.)
I AM THE VERY FIRST P. J. MORTIMER’S EMPLOYEE TO GET POINTS! I WIN!
Later on I caught Bob sitting out back by the Dumpster reading PC Gamer on his break. I had a cigarette, and he gave me one of those “ew, you smoke?” kind of looks. So I gave him one of those “sex with your Sims girlfriend doesn’t count” kind of looks back.
June 30
TO: Avery; Mel
FROM: Nina
You know, on TV the people you fight with are always the people you end up dating.
Speaking of, there’s this guy on my hall who’s either v. cute and cool or totally out of his mind. I can’t decide which. I think living with Strange Ashley is affecting my idea of what “normal” means.
June 30
TO: Nina; Avery
FROM: Mel
Ooh! Explain. Who is this guy?
And Bob’s not that bad.
July 1
TO: Avery; Mel
FROM: Nina
His name is Steve Carson. He’s kind of very different from me, sort of an eco-warrior but really, really nice. We study together a lot now. He works really hard—harder than pretty much anyone else here. He doesn’t hang out or watch TV or anything. When he’s not doing work, I think he sits in his room and coordinates an environmental campaign.
I am getting used to the Birks and the hemp shorts and the kind of choppy haircut because under all that he is seriously smoking hot. He’s way healthy and rides around on his bike all the time, so he’s got the biker legs going on.
This is really weird to me. I never thought I would like a guy who is so crunchy—not that I like him. I’m just kind of … intrigued.
Okay. Go ahead, Ave. Insert comment here.
July 1
TO: Mel; Nina
FROM: Avery
I smell a sitcom!
July 2
TO: Mel; Avery
FROM: Nina
Today’s SAB (Strange Ashley Behavior): SHE STOLE ONE OF MY BRAS (the tiger-printy one I got on clearance at Victoria’s Secret last year) and then denied it. I found it sticking out of her bag. She said that she thought it was one of hers. I know I always find my underwear hanging over the back of other people’s desk chairs and carry it around to class.
3
It took Avery about a week to conclude that her entire job at Mortimer’s consisted of (1) lying and (2) selling. That was it. Lie and then sell. It was kind of fascinating to watch the whole process. She felt like she had the smoking gun on the whole conspiracy of life.
First of all, the P. J. Mortimer’s ads stressed that people were supposed to come and sit and stay for a long time, enjoying the warm Irish hospitality. This was the first big lie that Avery uncovered. One of the main issues emphasized in training was that she was selling experience, not product, which was some weird way of saying that she was supposed to entertain people. She was supposed to be cheerful and friendly, as if she actually lived at P. J. Mortimer’s and the people at her table were unexpected but welcome guests in her living room. At the same time, she was told she had to get people out the door the minute they stopped ordering. If someone turned down a dessert or another round of drinks—bam!—she was to drop that check.
Then there was the selling. The entire existence of P. J. Mortimer’s seemed to depend on appetizers, desserts, and frozen drinks—and these were the things she had to push. When people first sat down, she was supposed to interest them in some pub fries or onion blossoms or Paddy’s Frozen Peppermint Patties. And when they were done, after Avery cleared away the plates of bones from the baby back ribs and the remains of the half-pound hamburgers, it was time to put her hands on her hips and say, “Okay. I know somebody wants dessert!” She should have just passed out the phone number of a good cardiologist.
Just to make things a little more unpleasant, management kept a scoreboard in the staff changing room (a hallway with some boxes in it), charting exactly how much money every server made each shift. Most of the guys, she noticed, got really competitive about it, like selling piÑa coladas and Paddy’s Frozen Peppermint Patties was some kind of sport that required skill and prowess. Avery saw it as badgering people to buy things she didn’t feel like waiting for at the bar all night, so she didn’t bother too much. She felt that her soft stance on the frozen drink issue allowed her to keep a little bit of her dignity, which was rapidly eroding because of the very worst part of her job: the birthday jig band.
There was no way Avery could have known that by answering “yes” to the bizarre question “Can you play the piano or accordion?” on her job application, she would commit herself to becoming one of the official—and few—members of P. J. Mortimer’s Birthday Jig Band. She soon came to the conclusion that her thirteen years of piano lessons were probably the only reason she was hired in the first place, since she didn’t exactly seem to have the personality that Mortimer’s was looking for. She was called into action when she heard a whooping noise and then the heavy beat of a mechanical bass drum that was mounted on the wall by the front vestibule.
She was hearing it right now, as a matter of fact. This was the P.J. Mortimer’s Birthday Jig Alert.
Mel was right on her heels. Avery stuck herself in the corner, next to the ice cream freezer, and jammed her hands into her apron pockets.
“I’m not doing it this time,” she said under her breath.
“But this one’s my table,” Mel pleaded.
“I’ll make you a deal.”
“What?”
“Come with me to Gaz’s tonight,” Avery said.
The alert was still banging and whooping in the background. Mel glanced through the doorway nervously and looked at the group of other servers, who were clumping together and all looking a little pained at the thought of having to sing.
“Come on, come on, come on….” Avery scrunched up her face. “You know you want to.”
Big parties always freaked Mel out, and she tried to get out of them whenever she could. But now that Avery had Mel on her own, she’d found that she had a lot of leverage. It had gotten incredibly-easy to convince Mel to do things in the last week or so, now that Nina wasn’t around to protect her.
“I guess …” Mel said.
“Say you promise.”
“I … promise.
“Okay,” Avery said. “Let’s go.”
Mel borrowed Avery’s lighter to light the candles on a small green-and-white cake that was waiting on the prep counter. Avery headed out onto the floor and took her seat in front of a keyboard on a small raised platform in a corner of the room. The jig was a very simple tune that just about anyone with the most basic piano skills could play. Avery banged out the chords automatically, keeping her eyes trained on Mel as she brought out the cake. The other servers fell in behind her, letting her lead them to the birthday table. You could always tell which one it was by looking for someone trying to slide down out of sight or covering his or her face with a pair of hands. Sure enough, there was a group of women in one of the booths, and one was slinking down, looking like her cover in the Witness Protection Program had just been blown.
The Bermudez Triangle Page 2
