My Roommate's Girl

by Julianna Keyes

  “Yeah, he was here, but barely. Really distracted with exams and everything. Kept checking his phone and stuff. Anyway, I guess I’ll keep calling him. Thanks, Aster.”

  I hang up and stand frozen in place for several long minutes, letting the implications sink in. As much as Aidan grumbles about Frisbee baseball, he’s never missed a game. Never let his team down. Being there for people is something he does, even when it’s not mandated by the PPP.

  If Aidan’s not at the tournament, it’s because he’s in Vickers.

  And if he’s in Vickers, it’s because he made his choice.

  He chose them.

  Not me.

  Deep down, I already knew it, but the confirmation knocks the breath from my lungs. I cling to the stair rail to steady myself, trying not to sob.

  “Aster?” comes a familiar voice.

  I swipe tears from my eyes and look around, searching for Aidan’s strong build, T-shirt, jeans, boots, scowl, guilty face. Everything. Anything. I’ll take anything.

  But it’s not Aidan approaching.

  It’s Jerry.

  47

  Aidan

  Vickers has two bus terminals, one on either end of town, and as we pass the first and travel down the four-lane road that cuts through the center of the city, I peer out the window at the increasingly rundown buildings and shifty people that signify home.

  I was supposed to come here tomorrow, Monday, but late last night Wes got a text saying there’d been a change of plans. The deadline had been bumped up and they wanted their money in twenty-four hours. He and T.J. woke me at three a.m. in a dead panic, begging me to do the job today instead. Explaining that I had a Frisbee baseball tournament to attend didn’t exactly sway them. So now I’m in Vickers ahead of schedule, and they’re off somewhere scrambling to scrape together the remaining cash.

  The PPP doesn’t forbid students from going home for any reason, but it’s strongly discouraged. Still, I know lots of people go back for holidays, and they seem to manage just fine, returning to Holsom and continuing on their chosen path. Sure, heading home for Thanksgiving is a little different than going back to steal cars to help pay off your friend’s drug debt, but as long as I stick to the plan, get in and get out, I should be okay.

  Well, mostly.

  I’m still a fucking heartbroken mess.

  I press my hand to the window and count the smattering of people waiting at the depot. I make mental note of the cars in the lot, cataloguing them by value, popularity, ease of entry.

  Old habit.

  I spot my parents waving eagerly from the edge of the crowd, tall and thin and beaming, just like always. They never change.

  I shoulder my duffel bag and force a smile as I get off the bus. The expression feels foreign and wrong, even as genuine happiness fills me at the sight of their faces, the familiar weight of their arms as they do their best to smother me with hugs.

  “Goodness!” my mom exclaims, clutching my face. “Look at you! Look at you! You’re the most handsome thing I’ve ever seen!”

  My dad gives me a once-over. “Yep,” he concurs. “The most handsome thing.”

  I laugh and duck my head. “Please, stop.”

  “Are you hungry?” mom asks, leading the way through the parking lot toward the street. “Do you want some lunch?”

  “I could eat.” I follow my parents, taking in their too-thin frames, the threadbare clothing. My dad has always worn a suit, even on weekends, trying to maintain the illusion that his gambling is a business endeavor, albeit one that always ends in failure. My mom is right there alongside him, with her long flowing skirt and hair spilling down her back, still clinging to life in the seventies, living on love and not much else.

  We start down the sidewalk and I glance around. I didn’t expect that they’d still be living in the same apartment I’d left, but even when they told me to get off at this station, I hadn’t really believed they lived in this end of town. This is the worst end.

  “Are you parked nearby?” I ask, scanning the curb for any sign of the rusted out purple VW beetle plastered with my mom’s collection of bumper stickers.

  “We walked,” my dad says, flashing me his salesman grin. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, distracted. “It’s nice.”

  It’s the same blue sky at Holsom, but I’m not the same guy walking under it. I’m not the guy who feels comfortable in this part of town, hearing cars slow as they cruise past, taking us in. Assessing.

  We walk for ten minutes, my mom chattering about old acquaintances I barely remember and most likely never even knew, but I make the appropriate sounds of acknowledgment as my dad holds her hand and indulges her.

  We wind through a neighborhood of rundown bungalows, some better kept than others, more than a few with discarded appliances sitting on the dead grass. I feel my throat tighten the farther we go, and when my dad pulls out a set of keys in front of a little brick house with white shutters hanging askew, I try to convince myself it’s not that bad. I can re-hang the shutters and maybe get some grass seed for the lawn, and—

  But they don’t go to the front door, they go around back. Down a tiny dirt rut carved along the side of the house, so thin we have to walk single file. A short flight of chipped pavement stairs leads to another door, and this one opens into their dingy basement apartment, the smell of pot hanging heavy in the air.

  “Home sweet home!” my mom exclaims, beaming at me. I see her smile and I see Aster. I see all the hope and faith I’d seen in my mom’s smile growing up, and I finally realize that that’s what I saw in Aster. Not just a pretty girl. Not just a hookup.

  Hope.

  Except unlike my mom’s smile, Aster’s is real. It’s based on something more than a dream. It’s based on hard work and dedication and a determination to have the life she wants. The one she deserves.

  The one I’d walked out on.

  “Have a seat,” dad says, gesturing to an unfamiliar couch. I can’t even begin to count the number of couches we’d had growing up. How many times my winter coat had disappeared, the time we had a DVD player for almost a full month before that was gone. Before I stopped getting attached to the wrong things.

  “What would you like to drink?” mom asks. “I made lemonade. The neighbors have a lemon tree—isn’t that wonderful?”

  I’m sweating. It trickles down my back, gathers under my arms. I feel the same sick anxiety I’d felt when the cops followed me, sirens wailing, as I drove that stupid bait car. I fucked up, I think now, the same words I’d thought then.

  Except then it was too late.

  “Here you go,” mom chirps, setting three cups of pulpy lemonade on the wicker nightstand that serves as a coffee table. There’s probably supposed to be a piece of glass that covers it, but it’s missing, and now the cups lean precariously against each other, one bead of condensation away from collapsing.

  “So how’s school?” He sits in an ancient recliner, tape holding the arms together, and doesn’t dare recline, leaving his feet planted firmly on the ground. “You liking it there?”

  I cautiously pick up a cup. “Yeah. It’s great.”

  “Good.” He nods. “That’s good.”

  “How are things here?”

  “Oh, geez,” he says, chuckling. “You know us. Getting by.”

  My mom returns with a plate of tuna fish sandwiches, cut into triangles, like we’re having high tea. She perches on the couch beside me and takes a bite, sighing happily.

  I try to keep my expression neutral as I take in the room. The ceilings are low and sunlight barely filters in through the smoke-smudged windows, giving it all the appeal of a cave. The carpet is worn and stained in places, the furniture most likely rescued from the side of a road somewhere. It’s as tidy as can be managed, my mom’s effort to make the best of things, as always.

  I sip the too-sweet lemonade, remembering how she always made it this way, like an extra tablespoon of sugar could cover up the sour.
“How long have you guys been in this place?” I ask casually.

  My parents look at each other, and you can practically hear them doing the math together in their heads, totally in sync. So totally in love, even if it led them here.

  “About nine months?” my dad guesses. “Before that we were in the place above the deli on Lennox Avenue—you remember that place? Great corned beef.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I remember.”

  My mom must see something in my expression, because she pats my knee reassuringly. “It’s not fancy,” she says, smiling at me. “But it’s only temporary. Your dad’s friend has some business out east and is going to rent us his house over near the elementary school—the one with the red door? That’s a nice place. I think that’s the one for us. We’ll move once more, and it’ll be the last time.”

  My dad picks up the story, but I can’t hear anything.

  It’ll be the last time.

  The phrase echoes in my mind, all too familiar.

  How many times had I heard those words growing up? How many times had my mom made that promise? And how many heartbreaking times did I have to hear it to know it was never going to be true?

  When Wes said the same thing a couple of weeks ago, I bought it because I always have, even though I should know better. Even though I do know better.

  I try to drink my lemonade, but I can’t choke it down. There’s too much sugar, but it’s not enough to mask the bitterness or the shame.

  All these years I’ve been trying not to be my father.

  I never thought I’d turn into my mother.

  48

  Aster

  “All right,” Jerry says, putting the car in park. “Here we are.” Then he hesitates before asking, “Where are we, exactly?”

  He ducks his head to look out the passenger window at the large old house looming beside us. My dad’s house. It’s the same as I remember, two stories, pale yellow, green door. The roses that flanked the steps are overgrown and rambling, my father the only one who’d ever bothered to tend them.

  Jerry had agreed to drive me here without question. For the past thirty minutes he’d let me sit in the passenger seat, coping with my anxiety as quietly as I possibly could. He always knew when not to press, when to back down. He never fought for anything. Never had to.

  “This is my dad’s house,” I say. “He died.”

  His stunned expression is reflected in the glass. “I’m sorry,” he says, aghast. “Aster, I’m so—”

  “It’s okay,” I say, studying the house, as though he might be frowning down at us from the upstairs window, tapping his watch and asking, What took you so long? Where were you? Who is that boy? “I hadn’t seen him since I was fourteen and we ran away.”

  “Ran away? From...here?”

  I get what he’s asking. Here is a lovely house on a lovely street in a lovely neighborhood filled with lovely people. Here is exactly the place the Aster he thought he knew would have grown up. But here is not who I am anymore.

  Before I can say anything, a black sedan pulls up behind us and a well-groomed man in a pricey suit climbs out. “That’s the lawyer,” I mutter, getting out to meet Mitch Goldman for the first time.

  “Aster Lindsey,” he says, smiling as he shakes my hand. “I’m glad you were able to make it. I know this is a busy time of year for students.”

  I feel Jerry hovering behind me, not sure quite what the hell he’s gotten himself into.

  Mitch makes the first move, extending a hand and introducing himself. Jerry replies in turn and then we just stand there.

  “I guess we should go inside,” I say, words I’d never dreamed of uttering. Not once after we fled did I think of returning. I hadn’t even let myself miss the things we’d abandoned in favor of our freedom, however short-lived mine was.

  “Of course,” Mitch says. “Absolutely.”

  He talks as we trek up the long drive, mentioning how the Chester Horticultural Society would like to dig up one of the rose bushes for the public garden, if I would agree. He explains that the wrought iron mailbox is actually a piece of art from a famed local artist and is something I should remove from the house if I choose to sell it. I’m aware of him talking, but I can barely absorb the words, my eyes focused on his hand as he fits the key to the lock and turns it like it’s nothing. Like it’s just a door.

  I don’t know what I’m expecting. A bunch of ghosts and demons to come pouring out, maybe. A cloud of old dust, choking us, warning us away, perhaps.

  But nothing happens. The door opens and Mitch steps through, then Jerry gestures for me to go, following close behind. It’s just a normal entry into a normal old house. Nothing special about it, nothing to warrant the tightness in my chest, the rapid thud of my heart against my breastbone.

  I squint into the gloom of the foyer, dust motes hanging in the stale air. It’s the same as I remember. A long hall with rooms flanking either side, the hardwood still like new. My dad threw a fit if we ran on it in our shoes, saying he’d take any repairs out of our allowance, not that we ever got one. I peek through each doorway as we pass, spotting the upright piano in the living room, the one my brother would never learn to play, and the glass cabinet in the dining room that still holds my parents’ wedding china, neatly displayed. Someone had come by to clean out the refrigerator and take out the trash, so even the kitchen is spotless, no dishes in the sink, no flies buzzing.

  It’s just a home.

  No, not a home.

  A house.

  An empty house, full of all the things that should have made a home, but didn’t.

  “Shall I give you two some time?” Mitch asks. “I can come back in an hour or so, if you’d like.”

  “An hour,” I say, my voice sounding foreign. “Please.”

  “Of course. Take as long as you need.”

  When the front door closes I slump against the counter, exhausted by the wasted effort of pretending to be someone composed and sophisticated, the same person I had tried to be for Jerry.

  “Are you all right?” he asks tentatively, glancing around. “Can I do anything?”

  “I’m fine,” I say.

  “Did you grow up here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Until you...ran away? From your dad?”

  I nod stiffly, taking in the room. The refrigerator door used to be covered with magnets my mom collected, holding up artwork and tests we’d aced at school. Now it’s bare, the surface shiny and unmarred. “Yes. He... He was very controlling. He was hard on my mom.”

  “I’m sorry.” He pauses for a second, then asks, “Is she coming? Here? Today?”

  I shake my head. “No. She doesn’t talk to me. Not since...” I’m clutching the edge of the counter. “Not since I went to prison.”

  Jerry does a comical double-take. “Say that once more?”

  “I went to prison for retail fraud,” I say. Jerry is the only person, besides Aidan, to whom I have ever made that confession. “Holsom has a program to help troubled kids they think might have potential, and when I got out, I went straight from prison to college.”

  His mouth moves soundlessly, like a fish.

  “And now my dad died and left me this house and I’ve been afraid to come back because I’ve tried so hard to have a new life and I didn’t want to be reminded of this one.”

  Jerry still looks dumbfounded. “I had no idea.”

  “How could you? I never told you.”

  “Well... I never asked.”

  I feel myself soften a bit, the steel spine I’ve been trying to maintain starting to bend. “Do you ask all your girlfriends if they have a criminal record?”

  He smiles sheepishly. “No. But I should probably look into Missy a bit more closely.”

  I laugh. “Maybe.”

  “Well,” he says, brushing his hands together. Smooth, clean, pre-med hands. Hands he’ll one day use to heal people. “Want to give me a tour? I’ll ask all the questions I should have asked before.”


  And that’s it. He just...accepts it. Jerry’s the poster child for Holsom’s clean cut, well-to-do student body, and he accepts me, flaws and all. I wasted an entire year trying to be someone I thought he wanted—someone I thought I wanted—and it turns out I could have been myself the whole time. Maybe we would have fallen in love, maybe not, but it would have been so much less exhausting.

  He follows me through the house, each room neat and orderly, functional but impersonal. There are no photos of my mom or my brother or me, nothing to indicate we had ever lived here. Ramsay’s old room now holds a treadmill and a weight stack; my room is a half-finished library. Even the master bedroom is nondescript, no alarm clock on the nightstand, no reading glasses, no slippers by the bed. My dad knew he was going to die and hid every trace of the person he’d become from the daughter he would ask to return, as grudging in death as he had been in life.

  I trail my fingers down the wooden banister as we descend the stairs, retracing our steps down the long hallway. I don’t know exactly what I expected to find when I got here, but I thought there’d be more, somehow. More drama. More history. More pain. But there’s nothing.

  I tug the door closed behind me as Mitch comes up the driveway.

  “Everything okay?” he asks.

  “Just fine,” I answer. “Let’s hire someone to empty the house and sell it. The horticultural society can have the rose bushes. I don’t care about the mailbox.”

  “Are you sure? It’s quite the collector’s item.”

  “Then it’s yours,” I tell him, heading for the car. “I have everything I need.”

  49

  Aidan

  I’m the only resident of the top two floors of Pearl’s house.

  When I got on the bus to Vickers, I imagined I’d be the one getting arrested that night, tossed in jail and kicked out of the program. But that was Wes and T.J., caught trying to cross the Canadian border with a trunk full of drugs, reeking of fear and desperation.

  After finishing lunch with my parents, I’d made my excuses to return to Holsom that same afternoon. Seeing them sitting there, in the mess they’d both made, their co-dependency an illness they’ll never cure, I finally understood why the PPP tries to keep its students busy. It’s not so we’re so physically drained at the end of each day that we can’t get into trouble after hours; it’s not so we forget where we came from; it’s not even to break bad habits. It’s to give us perspective. To lift us out of the mire and show us what else awaits, so that when we’re confronted with the reality of our past, we see it for what it is—the past.