“Of course I’m mad at him,” I say. “That’s entirely beside the point.”
He puts his hands in his shorts pockets. Maybe I do sound insane. I wrap my arms around myself, like a straitjacket, trying on the feeling for size. “How did I end up with such disastrous parents?” I shake my head. “I mean, Lauren’s parents sound amazing. Like normal, stable, loving people.”
“Well, mine are no prize, either.” He is looking at the water, not at me.
“At least you have relationships with both of them, though. My dad can’t even spare a pillow and a sofa.”
He looks right at me when he says, “Did you really think he’d say yes?”
I absorb his words and realize I’ve known all along that my father wouldn’t come through. I look down and start crying and Mark slides an arm around my shoulders. How did I get to be so needy? So desperate that I thought a practical stranger would take me in? Like that would somehow make things better? I’m about to go out into the world on my own and I still have all these ridiculous ideas?
He says, “Hey, at least she told you. What if she hadn’t and you thought your dad was in Italy this whole time and kept this fantasy of becoming best buds or whatever?”
I have to wipe away tears and hold back a scream when I say, “Whose side are you on?”
“Your side!” he says. “Always. I think Lauren is, too.”
We haven’t crossed “have a fight” and “make up” off our list yet and I was hoping we’d never get to it. But he is still talking and all I want is for him to shut up.
“She did the right thing,” he says. “Even if it sucks to hear it.”
“She betrayed me!”
He groans. “But not really intentionally, or I mean, not maliciously. And as soon as she knew something you needed to know she came clean.”
An older couple is walking by with a large, happy dog, and the sight of it—that big brown bounding fluffy thing, with its tail wagging and tongue hanging out of its mouth—makes me want to cry until I’m all cried out. After they pass, I say, “I want you to be mad with me.”
Mark sighs. “I am. At your sorry-ass father. Not your seemingly kick-ass roommate. She caught him red-handed. He can’t bullshit you anymore.”
“What do I even say to her now?” I ask, annoyed that Mark is echoing stuff my mother said the other night.
“You say thanks.”
He’s never going to get it. Two wrongs don’t make a right. I stand up and say, “I’ve gotta go.”
He gets up, too. “Elizabeth, come on.”
I stand and face him. “I want to be alone.” I have my car keys in my hand and am walking away.
“No you don’t,” he shouts after me. “You called me. You just want me to agree with you.”
“We’re talking in circles,” I shout back to him as I open my car door and get in.
He comes to my window and knocks on it, so I roll it down even as I put the car in reverse. He says, “I’m not the bad guy here!”
“No, you never are,” I say. “It must be nice to be so perfect. Maybe you and Lauren should get together.” I pull out and my ears are buzzing and they stay that way all afternoon, while I hole up in bed feeling sorry for myself.
I show my mom the video later that night, when she gets home from her first-ever Zumba class, and figure she at least will be as incensed as I am. Instead she is… disappointed? There is a funny nonchalance in her voice when she says, “What an ass.”
“What do I do?” I ask her.
She is standing by the sink, guzzling water from a bottle. I swear I have never seen the woman drink water before.
She swallows and says, “Call him. Make him explain. If it really matters. Or you pat yourself on the back for getting by all this time without him and move on.”
This is the same advice she gave me over popcorn, in addition to telling me to think hard about who I’m mad at before responding to Lauren or doing anything rash. It seems like ever since then she seems to be acting a bit more rational in general, almost as if my asking her to be the grown-up has turned her back into one. I wonder, though, if she’s going to be able to take her own advice when I leave. Will she reward herself for getting by so well without me or backslide into misery?
It’s not my problem. And it doesn’t matter that no one else understands my anger but me. So up in my room, I search my in-box for the e-mail I got way back when, from Helen Blake in Student Housing. I open it, hit Reply, and dash off my message before I change my mind:
Dear Ms. Blake,
For reasons too complicated to explain, I am wondering if it is possible for me to get assigned a new roommate (someone other than Lauren Cole, as named in your original e-mail below), or a single.
Please respond at your earliest convenience,
Elizabeth Owens
After I hit Send, I open up Lauren’s last e-mail and it gets me mad at her all over again. Because the snark is undeniable:
Maybe it is a mistake. Maybe this guy isn’t your dad.
Maybe this isn’t his gallery.
Maybe you don’t have to be such a bitch about it!
I type Maybe you should mind your own business. Maybe we shouldn’t be roommates.
And off it goes.
When I lie back on my bed, I stay very still and wait to see if anyone will respond right away, and to see if Mark will text me to say sorry or good night. Then I call my father’s number, which I stupidly programmed when I got his e-mail—what a joke!—but he doesn’t pick up and I don’t leave a message.
When no new e-mails or texts arrive, I feel tired, as in exhausted, and also tired in general of people telling me what to think and how to feel. I’ve definitely had enough of that for one day. I turn my phone off and try to get some sleep.
SATURDAY, AUGUST 17
SAN FRANCISCO
I’m awakened by a hand on my shoulder and a whisper. “Lauren.” It’s my dad. He’s got one finger on his lips and the other crooked and beckoning me up. I follow him, glancing out the window as I go. It’s still dark out. Briefly, I wonder if I’m being called into a discussion about how he would prefer I not date Keyon, and in fact not date at all.
When we get to the kitchen, Dad clicks on the light. After my eyes adjust, they fill with tears.
“Dad.”
There’s a fresh pan of cinnamon rolls on the table, and a glass of orange juice with the heart-shaped straw he got me for my seventh birthday. The rolls aren’t homemade or anything—just those ones you get from the frozen foods section of the grocery store. The same kind Dad used to make every Saturday back when it was the three of us, him, Mom, and me, before he started feeling like he needed to cook epic three-course breakfasts, before Mom started worrying about us eating too much sugar, before Saturday mornings were overtaken by trips to Trader Joe’s.
I look at him and he can see I’m about to lose it.
“My intention wasn’t to make you cry, honey,” he says with a little laugh, putting his arms around me. That makes me cry harder and pretty soon I’m soaking the shoulder of his pajama top and afraid the tears will never stop. “Lauren, Lauren,” he says, quiet. “My first baby girl. It’s hard to let go.”
And I know that’s his apology for being distant from me since he found out I might have a boyfriend.
“I don’t want to leave.”
Even as I say it, I know it’s not true. There aren’t words to say what I’m feeling, this mix of being so ready to strike out on my own and at the same time wanting to be ten again, eight, six.
Ready, not ready, it’s happening in a week and a half. I can’t stop it or hit the Pause button to figure out the mess that’s been piling up. I clutch Dad’s pajama top and a couple more sobs escape.
“Shh. The goal here is time with only you, so let’s not wake the rest of them.”
He smells like cinnamon rolls.
“I remember the day we brought you home,” he says. “I looked at your mom and said, ‘I don’t want to me
ss this up.’ We were like deer in the headlights. You were an alien. We were so… young.”
“You didn’t mess it up.” My breath is settling down now. Dad tries to pull away but I hang on.
“Everything was new with you, for better or worse.” He forces me to lean back a little so he can look into my eyes. His face is so sweet, even with the saggy smile lines and receding hairline. “We love all you kids—”
“I know.” My parents are good at telling us they love us. That’s never in doubt.
“Let me finish. We love all you kids. But you’ve given us a lifetime of firsts, Lauren. I don’t think you’ll ever have any idea how special you are to me and your mom.”
I nod, to show I’m listening, to show I hear him. But I don’t want to cry anymore, so I step back and wipe my face, and tease, “You’ll probably say the exact same thing to Gertie when she goes to college.”
He laughs, and tears a paper towel off the roll over the sink. I take it and wipe my face, blow my nose. Mom comes into the kitchen, squinting. “I’m sorry,” she says. “But I couldn’t get out of bed fifteen minutes ago when I was supposed to.”
“It’s okay,” I say, managing a smile. “Let’s eat.”
Later in the morning, I’m in bed sleeping off my juice- and-sweet-roll hangover while Gertie and P.J. play in the living room. I relisten to the voice mail Berkeley left me a couple of days ago:
“Lauren. This is the housing office at Berkeley. We wanted to let you know that your assigned roommate, Elizabeth Owens, has requested a change. Unfortunately, the only way to accommodate her request is to put you in a triple or a single. Please give us a call to let us know which solution is going to work for you.”
I haven’t called back yet. Now that it’s the weekend, there are just two more days to figure this out. Come Monday I have to make a decision. I also haven’t responded to EB’s e-mail. Everything is out of control, and I’m in full avoidance mode. I’m avoiding saying good-bye to Zoe, who’s leaving for Seattle in four days. I’m avoiding talking about the future with Keyon. We’re still hanging out, acting like boyfriend and girlfriend, and also acting like everything isn’t about to change.
This coming week is our last at the sandwich shop, and I don’t want to think about that, either, because it’s become a crowded, mustard-smelling second home to me. Joe has already hired our replacements and they’ll be training on Friday.
A major contributing factor to my avoidance can be summed up by one word:
Shame.
That I acted in anger. That I wanted to hurt EB. That I succeeded. That I haven’t apologized.
Not for telling her about her dad, because I still think I did the right thing, but for how my motivation became proving myself right. It didn’t surprise me when she dropped the maybe-no-roomies bomb. How else could she respond?
And shame to realize it’s very possible I’ve taken the excellence of my own parents for granted. My dad made me freakin’ cinnamon rolls. Hers acted like a weasel to get out of seeing her.
Shame is why I haven’t told Keyon or Zoe about the latest episode in this drama.
“Shit,” I groan, and roll onto my side, pulling the covers up over my head.
Two seconds later, a small body lands on me and I stand—or lie—accused of “saying a swear.” It’s Jack. How did he hear me? Where did he come from? These kids are like ninjas sometimes. He pulls the blanket off my face and proceeds to burp in it.
“I love you, too, Jack.” His bedhead is adorable, even if his burp smells like cat food.
“You said ‘shit.’ ”
“So did you. Now we’re even.”
He knits his little brows together but cannot deny my logic. “We won’t tell,” he concludes.
“No, we won’t.”
My phone, on the floor by my bed, rings. Jack looks at it, picks it up, and says, “It’s your boyyyyyfriennndddddd.”
“Give it.”
Jack giggles. I lunge out of bed and grab the phone out of his hand before the call can go to voice mail. “Go away,” I say to Jack, clicking the Answer key.
“Hi?” Keyon says, confused.
“Not you.” I shoo Jack out and close my bedroom door behind him, then crawl back into bed. “Hi.”
“How’s my girl?”
Melt.
“Okay. Not awesome. But okay.”
“Anything you want to talk about?”
“Not right now.”
“Are you sure?” Keyon asks.
“Yeah.”
“Maybe you’ll feel better after you hear this. Remember that radio you found at the Goodwill?” There’s a touch of excitement in his voice.
“The Bakelite?”
“Yep. Guess who just sold it for nine hundred dollars.”
My jaw drops. “No shit?” Then I cover my mouth and glance toward the door, hoping no minors heard that.
“Dude at the antique store offered me seven-fifty at first, but I told him I knew it’s worth over a thousand. We compromised.”
“Do I get a finder’s fee or what?” He pauses and I think, Oh, way to ruin a nice moment by talking about money. “Kidding,” I say. “Good job on the sale.”
“No, no, here’s the thing. I have this crazy idea….”
“Yeah?”
“You might not be into it, which is cool.” That edge of excitement in his voice has turned to something else. Something softer, more tentative. “I’m kinda nervous even saying it but I gotta put it out there or I’ll feel like a punk later.”
“Go ahead,” I say.
“The money… it could be, like, a special fund.”
“Yeah, to put back into the business.” I don’t know why he’s so nervous, seeing as we’ve already discussed this.
“No. Like. A visitation fund. A Key and Lo visitation fund.”
I sit up in my bed and stare down at the blue- and-white polka-dot blanket. “Really?”
“Unless you don’t want to,” he says quickly. “I mean, I got all kinds of other things I could do with four hundred fifty bucks. But I thought if we set it aside then at least money’s not an excuse.”
Not an excuse. To not see each other. Which means we will be seeing each other. Maybe. “We might have other excuses.” I say it like a flirt, like a tease, not like someone who actually expects to have any excuses at all.
“We miiiight.”
“But we might not.”
“That’s what I was thinking,” he agrees.
I imagine him sleeping on the floor of my dorm room, next to my bed. Or in my bed. The two of us, in my potential single. How would that work in a triple? What if I get two roommates and they hate me? All these weeks I’ve been picturing Ebb as the one I’ll get to like or not like or love or hate. Now…
“That money is probably worth eight visits,” I say to Keyon, to bring myself back to the present.
“I figured seven. Allowing for gas prices going up like they do.”
“They do.”
We smile at each other over the phone.
In the afternoon, I walk down to Ocean Beach and sit on the wall. The green-gray waves roll in, one after the other. It’s a little cold today, not unusual for Ocean Beach in summer, but there are a few people with dogs, some walkers, a couple of surfers decked out in neck-to-ankle wet suits.
I pull my phone out of my pocket, along with the scrap of paper on which I scribbled EB’s phone number. It was in that very first e-mail from Berkeley, letting me know my roommate’s name and contact info. It’s funny—not funny ha-ha, but funny-really?—to think about how upset I was that I didn’t get a single, and now that I’ve been offered one I don’t know if I want it.
What a shitty way to start college, in a fight with your roommate before you ever meet her! College is supposed to be a clean slate, a fresh start. How sad to go there with an already gossip-worthy past. EB can tell the whole story to her new roommate on their first night, and I’ll be the surly, self-righteous bitch in a single who apparently
doesn’t want friends.
On the other hand, what if you could have a fight and make up before even meeting? In a way, wouldn’t that make a nice, open path for the kind of friendship where you know you can get through anything? Not having to be brand-new. Letting something be on the slate. Something messy and slightly embarrassing but belonging to the two of you.
I punch in her number.
What if she answers? What am I actually going to say?
I hit the green Dial button before I can chicken out. It rings about a zillion times, and I swallow a lot before I get her voice mail:
“Hey, it’s EB. Leave a message. Or text me.”
I’m so startled and mesmerized to hear the voice of this person I’ve been e-mailing all summer—a voice pleasantly alto and not Jersey Shore—that I just kind of breathe into the phone a couple of times, then hang up.
Stalker.
Or text me.
Okay.
Using my 9 key and predictive text, I manage:
That was me. Lauren. Should we talk?
After sending it I stay sitting on the wall, watching the ocean, and I think about friendship. Before EB came along, I’d barely given any thought to the question of that aspect of college. Of making new friends, and being a friend. I know I can’t go through college the way I went through high school, with only one friend who really knew me and thinking that was enough. I think my dad might be wrong about only needing a couple of people to be close with. Not that I have to get online and be friends with everybody in my zip code, but I think a slightly bigger circle is better. That way, whichever direction you turn, there’s a friendly face.
As much as I love to imagine being alone in an orderly lab, I also know you can’t stay in there forever and expect to do good work. Life is one of those experiments meant to be conducted in a stimulating, messy environment.
So no matter what happens with EB, whether we wind up being best friends or merely good roommates or neither, I have to make sure she’s not the only one on campus I share a connection with. I have to promise myself I won’t use my family or work or studying as an excuse to avoid a social life.
Roomies Page 19
