“Sorry. I got tied up,” I said woodenly.
On my way to the door, when I had walked past him, I had caught a whiff of something—a vat of
cheap cologne. Skylar was a pretty boy from Australia—the sandy-blond, tanned kind of pretty.
But he was also a really big granola; he wore Birkenstock sandals, with socks, and corduroy
pants year-round. He was a strict vegan and refused to put anything in his body that wasn’t
natural—whatever that meant. So for him to wear a smelly chemical substance on his pure granola
body … something was definitely up. And I had a hunch of what that might be.
I avoided his stare and lifted the rubber mat, revealing the hidden key.
“Since when do you guys bother to lock the door?” he asked, standing way too close to me while
I jiggled the key in the lock.
“I’m by myself for the summer,” I said with a shaky voice. From my peripheral, I could see
his wide smile turn wider as I said this, confirming my suspicions, my fears.
I left Skylar on the couch and went upstairs to have a shower.
This isn’t a big deal, I kept telling myself, the hot water sprinkling over me. But my throat
was swelling shut and my skin stiffened; my body was rejecting the mere idea of being with
Skylar, alone, without any tormenting or distraction from my roommates.
I would have normally been in and out of the washroom in ten minutes, tops. Our communal
washroom was the most disgusting room in the house and there was almost always someone banging
on the door, yelling at you to hurry up. Today though, I was going at a snail’s pace, taking my
sweet time at detangling my wet hair and brushing my teeth. I got dressed and patted my dripping
hair with a towel until not a drop fell from the ends. I thoroughly examined my knees; they were
already turning a dark shade of purple. Then, I looked at my reflection in the mirror for half a
second longer than usual or necessary. If I would have owned makeup or a hair dryer, I could
have extended my bathroom stay for five, maybe even ten minutes more; but even after searching
the washroom, I came up with nothing else to do. So I put my hair up in its standard wet ball,
and with an elongated sigh, I unlocked the door and stepped out of my hiding place.
When I got back to my room, Skylar was lying on my canary yellow bedspread with his legs
dangling over the edge. It was a good thing I didn’t make a habit of prancing around in a wet
towel.
I threw my running clothes in the overflowing hamper. I would have to do laundry soon or run out
of socks … again.
While my mind was distracting itself, Skylar had flipped to his side. “So, what do you want to
do tonight, E?”
I was named after my grandmother, Burt’s mother; this was the same grandmother who could still,
to this day, never remember my name. Since I was born not-a-boy—one who could have carried on
the recreated family name—naming me after the matriarch of the family was, in Isabelle’s mind,
a way to legitimize her affair with Burt. My big brother Bill used to call me Emmy … mostly
because it irritated the hell out of Isabelle, his stepmother. I liked it, mostly for the same
reason.
I didn’t really care that Skylar called me E. Anything was better than Emily. But I had a
feeling that his reasons for doing so had nothing to do with any kind of special attachment he
might have had to me; it was just easier to keep girls’ names straight if he only had to
remember first initials. Maybe I could teach that trick to my grandmother.
I took my time dragging one of the Rubbermaid bins from under my bed and pulling out clothes for
work.
“Umm … we could go see a movie,” I finally offered. “I think the one you were talking about
the other day is out.”
He sat up, clasped his hands between his knees. “Or we could just stay here and spend a quiet
night in.”
I held my breath … and the growl in my stomach saved me. “Are you hungry? I’m starving!”
“No, I’m not … but you go ahead.”
He had looked thoroughly disappointed, and I had already made my way past the curtain door
before he had even finished his sentence.
The kitchen was a disaster zone. The counters were crusted with a year’s worth of grime, and
dirty dishes were, as always, piled in and around the sink. The only way to get a clean dish was
to wash it right before using it—which I did before putting the freshly cleaned pot of water on
the stove to boil. I drew a sink of soapy water and started doing dishes, almost excited by the
fact that the dishes I cleaned would actually stay clean for longer than a minute.
Skylar just loitered by the fridge.
“You know I’m leaving in a few days,” he reminded me for the thousandth time. “I don’t even
know yet if my student visa will be renewed next year.”
“Yeah, I remember you telling me that. Hope they’ll let you come back,” I said, pouring the
contents of the Kraft Dinner box into the pot of boiling water.