He Must Like You

by Danielle Younge-Ullman

  “I’m allergic to both your houses. I’d be wheezing twenty-four-seven.”

  “What about Boris? No pets there, and—”

  “No! And not Noah, either. No way.”

  “Why not Noah?”

  “Just not comfortable, okay?” I say, glad she can’t see my face. “And look, I can apologize for my actions—the ones that were out of line. I can live with that if it gets me the job and my independence back. I don’t have to grovel or tell him he’s a saint or anything.”

  “Don’t count on it.”

  * * *

  —

  Wednesday morning Emma practically bounces up to me at my locker, as though none of the barking or side-eyeing of our fellow students even exists.

  “Good news,” she says.

  “Did Perry get abducted by aliens?”

  “Sadly not,” she says. “But you didn’t sound too excited about the places we’re going to see, and I have something that’ll hopefully cheer you up. I hope it’s okay, I invited Yaz to come too.”

  “Of course,” I say, then frown. “Is that the good news?”

  “Oh, no, the news is that when I told her, she remembered she has this new neighbor, a city guy, who’s bought that old B&B and is renovating it. Apparently he’s planning to rent one of the rooms out full time . . . and so she emailed him last night, and he said we can come see it today.”

  “Oh, amazing!”

  “You’re getting first dibs on it ’cause he’s still renovating. The rent would also be cheaper to start—because of noise, obviously. Yaz says he’s a really nice guy. It is a basement,” Emma admits, “and I know you don’t want a basement, but . . .”

  “Hey, if that’s what I have to do, I’ll do it.”

  * * *

  —

  The first apartment is at the back third of the second floor of a meticulously landscaped, cranberry-colored Victorian house I’ve always admired.

  “It’s not all three of you trying to rent?” the landlady says, looking at us skeptically as we stand on the front porch.

  “No, just me,” I say. “They’re here for, um . . .”

  “Moral support,” Yaz says.

  “All right,” she says, not moving to open the door any farther, and suddenly peering at me with new intensity. “You’re the girl who threw a fit at Ackerman.”

  “Well, yes. But I promise I would not throw any fits . . . as your tenant. I’m actually a very quiet, responsible . . . uh . . . person.”

  “She totally is,” Yaz says.

  “And there were extenuating circumstances,” Emma adds.

  “Yes, I’ve seen Perry’s extenuating circumstance,” the woman says, and finally cracks a hint of a smile. “I’m Sarah.”

  We head upstairs to the small-but-cute bedroom at the back of the house. Everything seems fine until Sarah informs us that I can only rent the room if I agree to let her cover the windows overlooking the backyard with black garbage bags and duct tape, from the outside.

  “I could just bring some dark curtains,” I suggest.

  “No, I don’t want the feeling that people could be looking down on me when I’m out there naked. That’s why I haven’t rented the room until now.”

  “Oh!” I say, trying very hard not to look at Emma or Yaz.

  “Naked?” Emma squeaks out.

  “Yeah, sunbathing or gardening or whatever. I’m a part-time nudist.”

  Sarah is a very pale-skinned redhead, like Yaz, and should probably be slathered in a very high SPF all year round, not cavorting naked in her backyard, but I say, “Cool.”

  Yaz has turned beet red.

  “Do you ever worry about drones?” Emma asks, her lips twitching.

  “Drones! I shot two of them down last summer and I haven’t seen any since. Whether it’s drones or grabby-handed perverts, you can consider us well protected on this property,” she says, like this is a bonus she should be charging extra for.

  We extricate ourselves quickly and somehow manage not to collapse into shrieking, crying laughter until we’re a full block away.

  * * *

  —

  The next place is better, in the sense that it has a seemingly normal landlord, and again isn’t a basement.

  It is, though, above the fish market.

  I’ll just keep the windows open. And bring extra blankets for winter . . .

  Then I see a line of massive ants when I open the cupboard under the kitchen sink.

  I’ll just get some ant traps . . .

  Yaz and Emma march me out of there, grim-faced.

  * * *

  —

  “You cannot move to either of those places,” Emma says as we head toward Yaz’s street.

  “Yeah, no,” Yaz says. “Bad vibes at the first place, bad bugs and smells at the second.”

  Yaz’s neighbor, and the potential landlord-to-be, is Trevor—a fit, thirtysomething Eeyore, with a fashionable shock of hair, expensive-looking jeans, and a permanently woebegone expression on his face.

  We tour the entire house, surveying the renovations in progress, before heading to the basement. On the way Trevor tells us the story of how he moved here from the city after his wife left him and at the end of the ensuing breakdown-slash-midlife crisis. He’d quit his job and taken off to wander around in Australia and then New Zealand, where he’d briefly considered starting a Lord of the Rings commune, then come back to finalize his divorce and finally get his capital from the sale of their house.

  And then on a visit out to his friend’s hobby farm just outside Pine Ridge he saw this neglected B&B.

  “It was lonely, like me,” he says, “and the town seems pretty idyllic.”

  “Maybe if you haven’t lived here your whole life,” I say doubtfully.

  “Keep in mind, we’re in high school,” Emma says. “High school is the opposite of idyllic.”

  “There’d still be some work going on when you move in,” Trevor says as we make our way through the completely gutted kitchen. “You’d have to put up with some noise, some dust . . .”

  “I’ll just get some earplugs,” I say.

  “I’ll just get . . .” is threatening to become my phrase of the day.

  Still, I’m feeling optimistic until we go to the basement.

  “Some of it’s unfinished,” he says as we cross a dark, cavernous expanse, “but you’d have the whole space down here to yourself. It’s just the room you’d be paying for, but if you wanted to use this zone, that’s cool too. I only come down here to check the furnace filters and, you know, turn off the electrical or the water when needed.”

  He pauses to pull on a chain attached to a bulb and harsh, bald light floods the area. Something skitters away just behind him and Yaz stifles a gasp.

  “See?” Trevor says, clueless. “You could get a rug to define the space, then some bean bags, a lava lamp . . . and you could hang out down here. You could even have some low-key social events. I wouldn’t mind.”

  The only kind of “social event” I could have down here is a Halloween party, with the basement acting as a haunted house. Still, Trevor is so earnest that all I can do is nod.

  The bedroom is small, with a dropped ceiling, yellowish-beige carpeting, baseboard heaters, and one small, filthy window, and the walls are a dusty salmon color that cannot be improved with art.

  “Damned spiders,” Trevor mutters, batting at the air in front of his face.

  I shudder.

  “Although,” he says, shifting gears like he’s just realized he’s not being the best salesperson, “they say spiders in a basement mean it’s dry—no mold. And of course they eat other bugs. Not that I have other bugs. And I got rid of the mice already. Some people just put poison traps out and consider it done, but then they keep coming in. You have to find the entry points and seal the
m. Believe me, they are not coming back in. And there was only the one rat.”

  “Rat?” Emma squeaks, looking like she’s going have a panic attack.

  “They’re supposed to be really sweet, and I swear I went into a depression over having to kill it,” Trevor says. “I almost tried to make it into a pet.”

  “Maybe . . . try a dog?” Emma ventures.

  Trevor, missing the irony gene, looks at her with the utmost seriousness, and says, “I might. Anyway, you’re welcome to paint. Any color you want. I think it’s important to have your surroundings reflect what you want to manifest.”

  I shiver. It’s hard to imagine what I could manifest here, or spending any time at all in this place without becoming warped and depressed.

  The worst thing is that of the three places I’ve seen today, this is actually the best—a creepy, unfinished basement with spiders, skittering things that are hopefully mice, and the ghost of a dead rat.

  As nice and unintentionally comedic as Trevor is, I can’t live here.

  * * *

  —

  But I can’t keep living at home either, as I’m reminded when I get home to find my father, back on his feet and in my room with a large book of paint swatches.

  “I’m moving my office out of Jack’s room,” he announces as I stop in the doorway, “and I found my color wheel! I’ve gotta get these rooms ready.”

  “You said end of June,” I say, feeling slightly panicked. “We’re still in April.”

  “Yep, end of June. You might need to park on the couch for a few nights before that, though, to avoid the paint fumes.”

  “You’re not really going to put your office in the kitchen, are you?”

  “I had a better idea,” he says with an enthusiasm that should be infectious, but is instead just worrisome. “I’m setting up behind the bar! All the computer stuff fits perfectly up there, and I remembered that old stool—the tall one. I think I’ll like being high up like that, with a bird’s-eye view.”

  “The better to spy on your renters coming and going?”

  “I’ll be discreet,” he says. “I won’t bug them. I could even make a screen.”

  “No one will find that creepy,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning on the doorframe.

  Dad starts looking peeved. “A little positivity would go a long way, Libby.”

  I imagine myself lifting my fists in a cheer, giving a deadpan recitation of every cheesy inspirational quote ever written. Be the change you want to see. Believe in yourself. You can be anything you want. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

  “I’m sure it’s all going to turn out fine, Dad,” is the best I can do.

  “Exactly.” He pulls me into the room, then flourishes the color wheel. “Look at all these grays! You might think gray is just gray but you would be wrong. I have fourteen shades of gray here, including Designer Gray, Gray Wisp, and Lily of the Valley Gray. You have to choose your gray carefully because people who know about these things really know about them. Gray is a serious matter. Want to weigh in?”

  I stare at the plethora of grays and feel a sudden pang. Dad and I have stood looking at this color wheel before. It was maybe three years ago after that life-changing field trip to the museum. I came home buzzing about it, and though Dad wasn’t too interested in my new career aspirations, he offered to help me transform my room. He even checked out books on fine art and museums from the library, and we pored over them together. I chose Starry Night as the inspiration, but we stood here with this same color wheel, trying to figure out which color was closest before deciding it would need to be a mix of two different blues. Then we painted the room together.

  I wonder if he remembers. I wonder if he feels sad about it too.

  “I don’t know, Dad,” I say. “They kind of all look the same to me.”

  “Maybe we can paint it together,” he suggests, giving me another pang. “If I recall, you and I are a pretty great painting team.”

  “Great and terrible at the same time,” I say with a pained chuckle.

  “Exactly. Whaddya say?” he says. “Tell you what, you help me with this, and then I’ll help you if you need to paint your new place.”

  “Uh, maybe,” I say, thinking grimly of Trevor’s basement.

  “Oh ho,” Dad says, catching something I didn’t intend him to hear in my tone. “You okay?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Yeah?” He turns his eyes on me and they’re like ice-blue tractor beams—piercing, keen, and perceptive. For good or bad, and whatever else my dad is, he’s a force. And when he turns his attention to something, or someone, it’s undeniable. “How’s the apartment hunt going?”

  He can also be freakishly perceptive when he’s paying attention.

  “Funny you should ask,” I say with a heavy sigh.

  “Well?”

  “I need to make a lot more money.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  “That’s the answer, though.”

  “Oh,” he says, and rubs his palms together like he finds this totally exciting. “You see a couple of dives?”

  I flop down on my bed, now covered in the overwrought duvet set that makes me feel like I’m about to be attacked by flowers, and stare at the ceiling.

  “You spend some time living in a dive, and it will be the making of you! It’ll be so character-building.”

  “If I don’t die of tuberculosis first.”

  “I know you feel that way now,” he says, and comes to sit on the edge of the bed, “but I’m telling you, it’s going to be great.”

  “Yeah, it’s amazing,” I say. “The world is my rat-infested oyster.”

  “You know rats are apparently very nice creatures. Smart, friendly . . .”

  “You are the second person to tell me that today!”

  “Then it must be true.”

  I just look at him, one eyebrow raised.

  “Aw, it’s just a little adversity,” Dad reaches out to grab my hand as if we’re going to have a heart-to-heart in which he says something that’s actually wise and helpful, and then says, “Adversity will make or break you.”

  “Really?” I say, too tired and overwhelmed for a moment to keep my inner voice on the inside. “What has it done to you, Dad—make or break?”

  Dad lets go of my hand and stands, suddenly unable to meet my eyes, then grabs his color wheel and heads to the door.

  “Gotta get to the hardware store and get them to mix this for me,” he says. “I’ll do Jack’s room first.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Have fun.”

  And then he’s gone.

  * * *

  —

  I try to focus on homework after that, but something is worrying me—specifically, my dad being out and about in Pine Ridge is worrying me.

  Yes, he’s become antisocial, but on the other hand anyone who saw him would assume he knows about the Perry issue already, which means they might bring it up. And this is the type of thing that’s almost guaranteed to bring my dad out of “retirement.”

  While my Dad Problem spidey senses are tingling, I decide to go to Emma’s.

  “I have a worry,” I say without preamble when she opens her door.

  “Just one?” she says, one corner of her mouth quirking up.

  “Ha ha.”

  “Come,” she says, and we go inside. We pass through the kitchen, where the slow cooker, no doubt set up by Emma’s dad before he left for the library this morning, is cooking something delicious, and Albert is sitting at the island punching numbers into a calculator and making notations.

  “Hey, Albert,” I say. “Nice shirt.”

  Albert has a substantial T-shirt collection, and today he’s wearing a black one with a gallery of Star Trek captains in multicolored neon bubbles across the chest
.

  “Thanks,” he says, barely looking up.

  “I still have first dibs if you ever decide to get rid of the one with the Jack Russell terrier Patronus, right?” I ask him.

  “Sure, sure,” he mutters, still not looking up.

  “Good luck with that,” Emma says, then leads me up to her room. “He threatened to vaporize me when I borrowed his ‘The Answer Is 42’ shirt without asking last week.”

  “Oh, he has vaporizing powers now?”

  “You never know with him,” she says with an eye roll. “But they would be scientifically based powers, not magical.”

  “Of course.”

  Emma goes to put music on while I wander toward her desk and stop short. All the charts are gone, and in their place on her magnet board is just one thing—a photo of Emma’s top choice school . . . which I recognize because it is/was also my top choice.

  “You got in!” She’d never put a photo up otherwise—she’d be too afraid to jinx it.

  “I got the email same day as you,” Emma says gravely, and studies me. “But that was Sunday night, and you were having an epically bad day so I didn’t want to say anything.”

  “Em, you’re allowed to be happy. You should be celebrating.”

  “I am happy. Of course. But it’s hard when I know you got in, too, and maybe can’t go.”

  Because of tennis, in combination with her grades, Emma has serious scholarship money coming to her, not to mention her pick of schools. Plus her parents have good jobs, so even without that she’d be fine. Still, we always planned to go together. We made Pinterest boards for decorating our dorm room and everything.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  “It’s not your fault,” she says, but tears are suddenly welling in her eyes.

  “Oh, Em . . .”

  “Still, everything’s changing.”

  “I know.”

  “I mean, that’s life,” she says, trying to blink the tears back. “But now and then it just hits me. I mean, I shouldn’t complain. Not with everything that you’re going through.”

  “It’s not a contest,” I say. “It’s not like because I have this crappy drama going on that you therefore don’t get to be sad and feel conflicted about the fact that our entire lives are about to change forever. It’s hard.”