The Secret Side of Empty

by Maria E. Andreu

  I like the roommate already.

  “Where’s your other roommate, Siobhan?” asks Chelsea.

  “The other one went home for the weekend,” says Siobhan. Her ears flame red again in a flash and I remember the Spanish roommate from the Bronx. Her bed is covered in a plain blue comforter that looks too short. A chunk of bare sheet shows at the bottom.

  Siobhan and Chelsea are off and running talking about holidays, dinners, family stuff. I take a minute to look around the room. I get a wild urge to put my nose up against her walls and take a long sniff, to inhale them, to suck this place in, to make it live in my lungs when I get found out for the imposter I am and get escorted off the premises, out of the state, and out of the country.

  “So, do you, M.T.?” It’s the first time I’ve heard Siobhan say my name not-reluctantly.

  “Do I what?”

  “Do you need to take a shower before we go out?”

  “I . . . guess.”

  “I hope you brought flip-flops like I told you to. Those swim team girls are brutes with mushrooms growing between their toes.”

  I don’t own any flip-flops. Maybe not so much with the shower, then.

  “It’s okay, M, you can borrow mine,” says Chelsea.

  We shower and change into jeans and T-shirts with hoodies. We’re only a couple of hours north of the city, but it’s way colder, and the damp spot in my hair by the nape of my neck gets icy cold on the walk from Siobhan’s dorm, across the quad, down a path behind some buildings, around a bend, and into a building and a big, vaulted ceiling room. It looks like a church gone rogue, all the architecture but none of the statues designed to make you feel guilty. There is a fire burning in an enormous fireplace tall enough to walk into.

  There is a little wooden stage and a bunch of uncomfortable-looking wooden chairs arranged facing it. A cluster of guys is standing between the stage and the chairs. Siobhan goes all “happy girlfriend” mode on us. “There’s Josh,” she whispers, like she’s just told us the juiciest secret ever.

  I can only describe Josh as a blond bear, with a big, almost squarish chest and beady blue eyes. It seems he is covered with blond fur. I’ve never seen a blond furry person. I associate furry with dark hair.

  Blond Bear walks over and intertwines his fingers with Siobhan’s effortlessly, almost like scratching his forearm. A couple of his friends follow him. They’re all in white button-down shirts.

  “Josh, this is my cousin Chelsea and her friend M.T.”

  “Chelsea.” Josh nods in her direction. Then he looks at me. “Empty?”

  The friends make that weird man-giggle that guys do. I know Josh is not being particularly nice, but I kind of like “Empty.” I’ve never thought of that before, surprisingly. For all my stellar grades, I actually stink at word games and figuring out what initials stand for. I seriously think it’s, like, the one “English-as-a-second-language” quirk I’ve got. I’m a little disappointed in Quinn “Is-her-name-Mousy-Rat” Ford and her crew for not coming up with this one.

  Empty. It could mean a lot of things. Devoid. Unburdened. Without baggage.

  “Yeah, it’s a big, existential statement, my name,” I say.

  Chelsea says, “M. Period. T. Period.”

  “Oh, so you’re, like, too T. S. Eliot to have a whole name?” says one of the friends.

  “Maybe you just haven’t scored high enough to hear it yet,” I say, deadpan.

  The friends laugh nervously, and one of them backhandedly smacks Josh in the chest and says, “Let’s go, it’s time to get started.”

  Siobhan grabs Chelsea and drags her to the front row. I follow reluctantly, only because I know I won’t be able to find my way back to Siobhan’s dorm on my own.

  In a little bit, the white-shirted bunch gets up on the wooden stage. It’s only about as tall as a milk crate. It creaks.

  They begin. Some of them start saying, “A-wee-mah-weh, a-wee-mah-weh, a-wee-mah-weh, a-wee-mah-weh.” Some other guy starts wailing, “Weee.” All of a sudden, Josh belts out with something about a lion and a jungle.

  I sideways glance at Siobhan. She’s got a rock-star-is-in-the-house glow in her eyes.

  There’s an awkward retro weirdness to the whole thing. If I didn’t want to leave so much, maybe I’d think it kind of sounds cool. It’s amazing how they all sing different parts but sound like one whole song, almost like an orchestra of voices. But what kind of guy wants to sit around with a bunch of other guys and sing without instruments? If you can sing, shouldn’t you do some kind of chick-magnet rock-band thing? Instead of this barbershop quartet, super-unhip gig? I glance around as much as I can without moving my neck to see if anyone is laughing at them, but everyone seems to be into it.

  Strange land, this college.

  I will always be a stranger everywhere. With my parents, I am too American. With Americans, I am a spectator with my nose pressed against their windowpanes, watching their weird rituals and rites of passage, never quite understanding them completely. A little chunk of me will always be a stranger everywhere, different chunks of stranger in different situations.

  They do a pretty cool “Bohemian Rhapsody” and a downright sweet “California Dreamin’.” Nothing from this century. Finally they step off the stage and there is some polite clapping. I am surprised at the little flame of “Come back” that jumps up in my heart before I remind myself how stupid the whole thing is.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Josh and a couple of his a cappella friends come back with us to Siobhan’s dorm room to pass time before the frat party. It turns out it’s some kind of academic frat Josh belongs to, so whatever visions of keggers Chelsea had are now being replaced by the reality of these somewhat geeky guys with the Blond Bear for a leader standing around looking awkward.

  His friend, a mousy dude with a voice that cracks so much I’m sure he’s putting it on, pulls a joint out of his pocket and lights it up. He takes a drag and passes it on. Siobhan holds it out to her right without taking any. Blond Bear takes a healthy dose. Chelsea has a little. She’s not much of a smoker. I’ve seen it at parties and even had some once at Tyler’s house (Tyler, female) after the class trip sophomore year. It did absolutely nothing to me, so I figure I can take a drag of this and it will have the same non-effect. So I do. It smells like fire pit.

  I lose track of how many times it goes around, and then someone says it’s time to go to the party. We leave single file, very quiet. I notice the spots on the carpet have some kind of meaning I didn’t realize before. They point the way to something. They tell some story. I reach in my mind and can’t seem to find it. Box. Violin. Eel. Beach ball? No, wait, Venus. Venus in the dark. It means something.

  Chelsea looks at me, “M, you okay?”

  “It’s not cold like before.”

  “It’s still pretty cold,” she says.

  “I mean, yes, it’s cold,” I try to explain. “But not the same kind like before, you know? Like, this cold kind of lifts your arm hairs out of their follicles and then gently puts them back. You know what I mean?”

  She laughs. “I have no idea what you mean.”

  The Blond Bear walks over to me. “So you’re kinda messed up, huh?”

  “No. I mean, am I?”

  “You don’t smoke much?”

  “No.”

  “What do you guys do for fun in New Jersey?”

  “We hunt bear,” I say. And laugh. Damn, I’m funny.

  “Ha. I wouldn’t have taken you for a redneck,” he says. “Where in your toxic waste dumps do you find bear?”

  “Where are you from, anyway?”

  “Around here. Connecticut born and bred.”

  “Well, if you’re into that kind of thing.”

  “I’m not, particularly, but I haven’t figured out anything better. How about you? Have you always lived in New Jersey?

  “You’re quite the census taker.”

  “Siobhan says you’re Spanish.”

  “Does she.”

>   “I’m a Spanish literature minor. Have you read Bodas de Sangre?”

  I ignore this question. Instead I ask, “What’s your major?”

  “Classical Civilization and Latin American Studies.”

  “So . . . going for the practical stuff.”

  “My dad wants me to be a lawyer.”

  Maybe I am high, I start to think.

  “So, you speak Spanish?” he asks me.

  “No,” I lie.

  “Ah. Losing touch with your roots?”

  “Yeah.” Trying to, anyway. “You?”

  “There’s no escaping WASPiness.”

  “So what’s with you and the Spanish literature anyway?”

  “I spent a few summers building schools in Guatemala with my Unitarian church. Amazing. The Classical Studies thing . . . I just like old things.”

  Suddenly, Siobhan hops in between us. She freaks me out a little. I wonder if she sees me jump. She’s still Red Bulled to the max.

  “So, you guys are getting to know each other?” she says, hooking Josh’s arm with her elbow.

  “She doesn’t speak Spanish,” says Josh in an I-told-you-so kind of way. Sounding weirdly disappointed.

  “I thought you did?” Siobhan cocks her head, reminding me of a cocker spaniel. A really red-nosed cocker spaniel.

  “Nope,” I say. And it’s a good thing I don’t have to explain the lie, because we’re at the party.

  IT TURNS OUT BEER GOES PRETTY WELL WITH WEED. I LIKE THAT about it. I sit in an ancient wing chair, which might have once been nice, but now is covered in purple stains and a couple of spots where gum stuck and developed into a black blotch.

  It seems that frat parties are events where three boys act really loud and stupid and everyone else sits around talking. I don’t feel much like talking. There is a fascinating commentary going on in my head. It makes everything profound. Or hilarious. Or sometimes profoundly hilarious. Chelsea talks to Siobhan across the room, laughing, telling a story with her arms down by her sides but her shoulders moving. Siobhan hangs on Josh, who holds a red plastic cup and swigs from it. An emo chick makes out with a frat boy in the corner.

  I hold my cup of beer and stare at it. A world of wonder, this cup of liquid.

  I go outside to the balcony, drink my beer slowly, and relish being alone.

  After ten minutes (or maybe two hours, I can’t be sure), I hear the door to the balcony creaking. I look. Josh again.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “Staring off into space,” I say.

  “How’s that going for you?”

  “It’s pretty awesome.”

  “You’re funny when you’re high.”

  “Okay.”

  “So why are you really out here?”

  “Not a fan of the music in there.”

  “What’s wrong with the music?”

  “I’ve never heard of any of those songs.”

  “That’s Hendrix playing right now.”

  “I don’t even know who that is.”

  “Wow. There have been serious gaps in your education.”

  “No one I know has heard any of these songs. I guarantee you.”

  “So what?”

  “I mean, this is not playing on the radio.”

  “Getting played on the radio makes songs better?”

  I know there is an answer to that, but I can’t seem to find it in my brain. It’s like someone turned off some lights in there.

  Josh is quiet, looks down the street. I wonder what his deal is. It would not endear me to Siobhan if her white-shirted, singing boyfriend were coming on to me. But he just seems to be talking.

  “I think I need to mentor you musically.”

  “A bit soon,” I say.

  “And I think I’m going to call you Puffer Fish from now on.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe Puff for short.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You puff up and get all spiky when someone gets too close.”

  “And you arrived at that diagnosis after three minutes of talking to me?”

  “See what I mean, Puff?”

  I want to laugh, but I’m certainly not going to give him the satisfaction. So I glare at him. But impaired as I am, I’m pretty sure I don’t look too intimidating.

  “Although, yes, I did turn into my mom just there,” he says.

  “How?”

  “My mom is a shrink. You’ve probably actually seen her. She’s the shrink on a bunch of those bad reality TV shows, addicted celebrities, that kind of thing.”

  “Your mom is Dr. Drew?”

  He laughs. “Something like that.”

  “Well, I’ve got you beat. My mom is Oprah.”

  “The family resemblance is uncanny.” He laughs, takes a swig of beer, opens the door, and motions inside with his head. I follow him in.

  I WAKE UP TO SIOBHAN POKING ME.

  “Are you coming to class with me?”

  It’s like she made some blood oath to Chelsea to take me with her and she’s going to keep it, no matter what. I would absolve her of her duty, but my tongue is covered in cotton.

  “Mmmm.”

  “Class is in five minutes.”

  I really dislike this girl, so I’m not sure why I want to do something just to please her, but I pry myself off her absent Spanish roommate’s bed and hope I haven’t drooled on it. For a moment it flashes in my mind that there is a Latino quota in this room, and with her roommate gone, I have filled it.

  I laugh to myself a little. Siobhan looks at me strangely but doesn’t say anything.

  I slip on yesterday’s outfit and pull my hair up in a ponytail. Siobhan is completely dressed and carrying a messenger bag. For a split second I feel like I’ve forgotten my stuff, but then I realize I’m just an observer. Someone who can look but can’t touch. I don’t need to take notes.

  We walk in silence to class. I am grateful for two things: one, Siobhan has the sense to not try and talk to me. Two, the building that the class is in is close.

  We walk into the room. All but one of the students are female, and the one guy looks like the class didn’t turn out to be what he thought it would be about. I follow Siobhan to the back of the class—funny, she doesn’t strike me as a back-of-the-room kind of student—and she finds two seats together for us.

  I figure I should say something. “Why didn’t Chelsea come?”

  “My friend is taking her to soccer practice.”

  That shuts me up. I guess I’ve always known that Chelsea would go to college even though I can’t, but seeing this place, so far away from Willow Falls, makes me get it in a whole new way. I’m almost mad at her, a little. Like she’s betraying me, leaving when I can’t. Next year, Chelsea will be starting the new part of her life. So will everyone I know. Only I will stay frozen.

  I run the checklist of possibilities. Go to a lawyer. No, I know that’s pointless. Go back to Argentina. That feels like being buried alive, somehow, going to a country where I’ve never lived and in which, by my parents’ descriptions, I don’t particularly want to live. Tutoring business? That’s not quite right, but I can’t remember why. My brain is still in stupid mode from yesterday. Note to self: no more weed.

  As I contemplate this, one of the students gets up and starts talking.

  “Okay, so, let’s talk about the reading. The powerful role of women in ancient ritual. What did you think?”

  Oh. That’s the professor. She doesn’t look very professorial, with a streak of blue dyed in her temple and baggy khakis.

  People shuffle in their seats. No one seems to have an answer to her question. Heartwarming to know that people in college don’t think much either.

  Finally, one girl, a mousy one you wouldn’t expect to speak, speaks.

  “I mean, honestly, the first thing this does for me is makes me mad.”

  “Good. Why?” says Blue Hair.


  “Because they never said anything about this in any history class I ever took.”

  “Well, remember earlier in the semester when we talked about peeling back the anthropocentric onion? Much of what passes for education on history is told through the prism of the male historians who could only see what they considered relevant.”

  “I don’t get it,” pipes up another girl.

  “Tell me why,” says Blue.

  “Because it’s like you’re saying that there is no history. That there is no truth. Like, in this week’s reading, it was all about how women participated politically through the designs they created on pottery in Africa. I mean, seriously? How can we even know that?”

  “Anyone?” says Blue.

  The first girl speaks again. “Because we’ve just been taught about what war happened when and who won and who lost. And that’s not the sum of political and historical influence.”

  Wow, mousy girl. I glance at Siobhan’s textbook, which she’s quietly taken out of her messenger bag. I feel the wild urge to steal it. Instead, I memorize the title and the author. I bet I can get it on Amazon for a couple of bucks.

  Another girl says, “But how do we know that this is any more valid than what we’ve already learned? That this isn’t any more biased?”

  “Of course it’s biased. That’s the point,” says Blue. “Everyone has a right and an opportunity to explore things through their bias, to shake up and question what’s accepted belief. We need to get out of our own Euro-American need to idealize the past and see men as competitive and competent and women as docile and domestic.”

  “I totally agree with that,” says the lone dude in the class. “I really liked the part about the pot makers and how they shaped what people believed politically through the images they chose to represent.”

  Yep, that dude is definitely here to hook up.

  “We have a student auditing class today,” says Blue unexpectedly, jutting her chin out at me. Heads turn in my direction. “Tell me, guest, what do you think about the role of women in antiquity?”

  I feel a tingle of electricity through me. “I’d like to learn how pots can be political.”

  “I’ll see you in this room next year, then, I hope,” she says. And winks.