by Mariah Dietz
As I made it to the ground level, a car pulled into the space in front of me. The dome light lit up the interior as female voices filled the silence.
“Are you lost?”
My eyes widened as I looked between the girls, holding my pillow a little lower so I didn’t look like a lost ten-year-old. “Sorry?”
“Are you lost?” she repeated, a heavy British accent joining each of her syllables into a song.
“No,” I replied, shaking my head. “I was just taking a walk.”
“At midnight? In your pajamas? With your pillow?” With each question, the lilt in her voice diminished, making each sound more like a statement rather than a question. “Are you hurt?”
Shaking my head, I gripped my pillow a little tighter, wishing she would stop staring at me. “No. I’m okay, really.”
“Do you want something to drink? Some tea maybe?” she continued, taking a step closer.
“Thanks, but I’m good,” I replied.
“Clearly you’re not. You’re creeping around after midnight in your pajamas. You aren’t a mugger, are you?”
“A what?” I asked.
She looked across the hood of the car as her friend began to giggle. “She asked if you’re a burglar,” her friend said, a light southern drawl accompanying her words.
“No!” The word popped out of my mouth with enough force to reach the opposite side of the apartment building. “No,” I said again, softening my tone. “I’m not a burglar.”
“Then what are you really doing?” the British girl asked.
“My roommate has a male friend over.”
“These flats are studios. There’s no privacy!” I noted the lack of the “a” as she spoke the word with emphasis, making me mentally repeat it a few times myself, privicy. “That’s awful.”
I lifted a shoulder and moved my pillow to my side, dipping my free hand into the pocket of my hoodie.
“We have a couch you can sleep on,” the friend said, her accent lost.
Normally I would have declined the offer and sought out a place to sit where I could watch for my roommate’s guest to leave, but something about her kindness, or possibly her persistence, had me nodding in agreement and taking my hand back out of my pocket as I took a couple of steps closer to them.
“I’m Charleigh, and this is Allison,” the British girl said as I got within a couple of feet.
“Allie,” the dark-haired woman corrected her instantly, her tone agitated, like this was something she repeated often.
“What’s your name?” Charleigh asked, ignoring Allie’s correction.
“I’m Lauren. It’s nice to meet you both.”
“It’s nice to meet you too, Lauren. Come on, then.”
I followed them back up a flight of stairs to the studio apartment below mine where I was met with fabrics of all shades filling nearly every surface of the small space. My eyes tracked several of them, a new one beginning before the last ended.
“We’re going to school for fashion and design,” Allie explained from my side. I turned to look at her and nodded a couple of times before my attention was caught by something that resembled the fur of a long-haired cat, only fuchsia pink. Eyebrows slightly raised, I moved my focus back to Allie and Charleigh.
“You’d make for a great model.” My eyebrows lifted even higher as I looked to Charleigh. “You have that willowy look to you. But we need to work on your posture.” With that as her warning, she pressed her right hand to my breastbone and her left to the center of my shoulder blades, pushing down, making me stand taller.
“There you are. That’s perfect. Right, Allison?”
“You would be pretty great. How tall are you, anyway?”
“Nearly five-eleven.”
Allie blew a low whistle between her bottom lip and her two front teeth. “You can sleep here anytime if you’re willing to model my final project.”
“Yeah, I sort of need a hazard sign on my back when I wear heels.”
“That’s okay. We have months to get this right. We’ll have you walking the runway like you own it.” Allie turned toward the small inlet of a kitchen and quietly began singing “On the Catwalk.”
My gaze moved to Charleigh seeing her give me an assuring smile. “You’ll get used to it. Besides, she’ll be on to her next thought in like five seconds. She’s totally ADHD.”
“I can hear you,” Allie sang as she turned off the tap from filling a tea kettle.
“I intended for you to,” Charleigh returned in the same sing-song tone.
“What’s your poison, Lauren? Coffee or tea?”
“Coffee, please,” I replied as my eyes started following another bolt of fabric. “You guys have so much stuff. School hasn’t even begun.”
“What are you studying?”
“Art restoration and composite drawing,” I replied.
“And you don’t have any supplies upstairs in your apartment so you can work whenever you please?”
I looked at Charleigh, noticing her eyes were a beautiful grayish blue, almost the same color of the skies before they turn dark with a storm. “Touché,” I said with a smile, turning my attention to where she was staring at my hand with the charcoal stains that never fully washed away, regardless of using a hand brush or special soaps.
“We’re artists. We’ve been living and breathing fashion and designing our own clothes since long before we enrolled here.” Charleigh’s words made perfect sense to me. I never went anywhere without my messenger bag, which always contained at least one sketchpad, multiple pencils, and random pieces of charcoal rolling around the bottom.
“Coffee for you, and tea for you.” Allie extended two giant mismatched mugs to Charleigh and me.
“I can’t believe I haven’t met a single American who likes tea.”
“You’re in the Pacific Northwest, babe. Land of great coffee and the best garage bands in the world,” Allie explained, reaching for her own mug, a cup with yet another design and shape.
“Are you from Portland?” Charleigh asked, looking up at me.
“No.” I shook my head and carefully set my cup on the small table beside me, watching as billows of steam evaporated into the air. “I’m from Montana, actually.”
“Montana?”
“Yup.”
“Is that where your roommate is from as well?” I repeated Charleigh’s question in my head a few times, memorizing the notes as she spoke.
“No. She’s from here.”
“How did you meet her?” Charleigh took a seat beside me, her eyes wide with interest.
I took a deep breath and released it nearly instantly. “I replied to an ad.”
“You found your roommate through an ad?” Allie turned her full focus to me “That’s crazy! She could be all single-white-female crazy.” Allie’s brown eyes were wide, and I could tell her imagination was starting to run with possibilities as to why I had truly left my apartment.
My soft laughter was inevitable. “I don’t think she’s that kind of crazy.”
“You never know.” Allie’s eyes were still stretched, catching on the light of the lamp, leading me to inspect the chestnut shade with amber tints around the edges. I couldn’t help it. Art has always been something I have loved and always led me to carefully inspecting every color, shape, texture, and movement that many disregard.
“I guess it’s a good thing I can model my way onto a couch, then, right?”
They both laughed, and I traced their faces, noting Charleigh’s upper lip, which was slightly more pronounced than the lower—became even fuller when she smiled. And that Allie’s nose bunched up and her nostrils flared in an endearing fashion.
“As long as you can learn to walk in heels,” Allie said, nodding to my flip-flop exposed feet.
“Heels … right.”
I ROLL over and try to get comfortable. It was only a few days later that their couch became an important surface to store materials with such limited space, thus leaving me to the floor.
But I don’t mind. The friendly memory tickles my mind as I search for sleep.
“HEY, LAUREN, would you be interested in going to dinner with Celeste and me? We’re going to that Chinese place you like.”
I look over to Kenzie and try to hide my surprise. It’s been over a month since she has made an attempt to be friendly toward me. Most would likely think this is because I complained about her disgusting habit of inviting strange men over, leading me to sleep downstairs on the floor, but it’s not. I don’t know why I still haven’t voiced my objection. Actually, I probably do. I’m sure it has something to do with the fact that I can’t afford to live in Portland by myself, don’t know anyone looking for a roommate, and as lame as this sounds, I want her to like me.
I’m still not certain why she was looking for a roommate, because according to Charleigh, she can afford this place on her own without a problem based upon her wardrobe. Her clothes are all designer, made to look vintage and worn. I may have eventually noticed that all of her clothes were laden with popular and expensive names, but it was Charleigh who noticed one day while she was up visiting me as I finished a portrait of her that I was working on.
Kenzie had returned home and was changing her clothes, throwing her dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. Charleigh’s jaw dropped. Initially, I thought it was because Kenzie was naked; she had little concern for modesty. Then Charleigh’s eyes moved across the room. “How did you get the winter collection already? It’s not out until next month!”
My charcoal hovered over the surface of my canvas, and I followed Charleigh’s eyes over to Kenzie. I have always loved fashion. I guess it goes with being an artist—my clothes are yet another form of art—however, my clothing budget has always been sparse, forcing me to be creative with used clothing stores and sale racks, intermingled with a few more expensive items that I can mix and match. Charleigh smiled with appreciation, and the two discussed designers and brands that I had never heard of as I finished my drawing.
I guess you could say Charleigh in many ways bridged the relationship between Kenzie and me because, after their conversation, Kenzie started to spend fewer nights going out and more of them with Allie, Charleigh, and me.
A month later, Kenzie invited us to the party that changed way too much, and yet nothing, for me. It’s where I met him. Charleigh and Allie weren’t able to attend—they had a previous engagement with some other design students—but I chose to step outside of my comfort zone and go along.
The next several days following the party, everything was normal between Kenzie and me. She would tell me about her dates. Charleigh would try to make different teas in an attempt to convert us. The three of them discussed fall fashion trends. Everything was following what had become a familiar and comfortable routine. Then one day, it stopped. Kenzie’s tone became petulant when directed toward me, and she avoided eye contact with me at all costs. She started spending less time at the apartment again and more time avoiding my calls and messages as I worked to apologize for whatever I had done.
“I can’t go tonight. I had to get more canvases for class. It’s Top Ramen for me until I get paid next week. Thanks for the invite, though.”
Something flashes across Kenzie’s face, and her eyes narrow in question. “Do you like kids?”
“I don’t know if I want my own, but other people’s I like.”
My eyebrows draw down as her brown eyes grow wide and bright. “I have the perfect job for you!” she cries, jumping up from her bed.
“I have a job.”
“Yeah, but this one pays more.”
“What is it?”
“A nanny!”
“I have no experience being a nanny.”
“It doesn’t matter! You just need to make sure she doesn’t hurt herself. She’s totally easy. You’ll love it!”
“I have a feeling there’s a lot more to it than making sure she doesn’t hurt herself.”
Kenzie waves away my objection. “Trust me. I know what I’m talking about.” She grabs her phone and focuses on the screen for several seconds while I try to process if this is something I might be interested in. And why she’s had the sudden change of heart.
“They’ll need you a few nights a week and some weekends. It will be super easy. It’s just one kid.”
“So you know the family? Have you babysat her before?”
“Yeah, a few times. Don’t worry, she’s chill.”
Chill? Is there such a thing as a chill kid? “How old is she?”
“Like ten.”
“Where do they live?”
“Not far. I’m sure you could walk it.”
“I’m sure I could walk to Seattle if I had to—it doesn’t mean I’d want to.”
Kenzie’s chin drops to her chest as she lowers her phone. “There’s probably a bus that goes close to their house. Don’t you still have your bus pass?”
“Yes …”
“Great. Problem solved.”
“Kenzie, I never agreed to this. I want to meet them first. What if the kid doesn’t like me? What if I don’t get along with her parents? What if I can’t commit to how many hours they need me?”
“The job pays twenty bucks an hour.” Her words match the bored expression on her face.
“Twenty dollars? An hour? Who pays twenty dollars for a babysitter?”
“I’m done playing twenty questions with you. Do you want the job or not?”
“Don’t they want to meet me first?”
“I know them. This is fine.”
“How?”
“Lauren—” Kenzie’s eyes narrow “—do you want the job or not?”
“Yes. I mean I think I do, as long as everything works out.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
I mentally start tallying the things I need to ask as Kenzie reverts her attention back to her phone.
“Perfect. You start tomorrow at three.”
“I have class until three thirty.”
“Every other day they won’t need you until four. I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You’re smart.” With that, she stands up and leaves.
“Apparently not smart enough,” I mumble, collapsing on my bed and focusing on the plastic glow-in-the-dark stars that decorate my ceiling.
THE ADDRESS Kenzie texted to me is nearly two miles from the bus stop. I know I’m supposed to be heading south, but apart from that, I’m clueless. Portland is a big enough city that even though I’ve been around numerous parts, I’m still not intimately familiar with most of it, including this area that’s boasting large homes and wide sidewalks that have grass and trees painted along both sides as well as down the median.
I grip my messenger bag and pull it higher on my shoulder as I try to figure out my directions app for walking.
Thirty minutes later, annoyance and frustration are clawing at my nerves. It’s cold and damp out, the sky a misty gray, yet I’ve been picking up the pace in hope of not being late, and now sweat is making me feel sticky and making my bag and jeans rub uncomfortably. My hair is adding to my irritation, heavily weighted as it actively attempts to strangle me. I still have no idea where I am, but I’m positive I’ve passed this house already. It’s lime green, making it stand out. The house is beautiful. I’m sure most architects and artists would consider it a masterpiece with a long wraparound porch, wide-paneled siding, and an intricately carved bargeboard along the roofline that looks like it was hand carved. There are matching gablet windows on the second story that make me yearn to curl up with a sketch pad and cup of hot chocolate in this cold drizzle. I can’t imagine why they painted the damn thing such an intrusive color; it nearly matches the lichen moss that blankets several of the large rocks in the front yard.
“You look lost.” My head jerks from the rocks that rest against the sharp contrast of the garage doors, which are painted a crisp white, to where an older man is standing with a small smile that, even with his unfamiliarity, I can see reaches his eyes.
I brush the small
wisps of hair clinging to the sides of my forehead—likely curled and sticking out at dangerous angles, making me look both younger and homeless. I try to paint a smile on my face and nod. “Yeah, I keep getting turned around. I’m supposed to be on Cedar Drive. Do you happen to know where I can find it?”
“Cedar Drive? You looking for the Knight residence?” He takes a few steps closer to me, letting the screen door fall shut behind him.
Relief makes my smile grow. “Yes.”
“You’re not too far. You’re just going to head up two blocks, take a left on Washington, and head that way three blocks. You’ll see Cedar on your right. It’s a narrow road, easy to miss.”
“Left on Washington, right on Cedar?” I repeat in question, ensuring that’s all there is to remember.
“That’s it. You’ll have a small trek to get to their house, but you’ll probably be there in about twenty minutes or so.”
I don’t have twenty minutes to spare—I’m supposed to be there in four. “Thank you so much for your help. Have a great day.”
“You should try smiling more.” I have to turn to look back at him because I’m already moving quickly in the direction he pointed. “Smiles like yours make this world a better place.”
I intentionally don’t smile at his assessment. Instead, I redirect my focus and pick up my pace to cut my time, hoping his twenty-minute prognosis is an estimate of how long it would take him to reach the house.
Each of my breaths stretches into white clouds of lace as I jog down the road, my ears and lungs burning from the cold though my muscles are too warm. The road is narrow, only wide enough for a single car to pass at a time, and both sides are covered with an encroaching green mass of trees and moss that has made the road both darker and slicker. I haven’t passed a single house since I turned onto Cedar, like I’ve entered another part of Oregon, something closer to Mount Hood, where it’s typical to find houses surrounded by nothing but wildflowers, heavy curtained fir trees, and single dirt roads that you can get lost down for days.