Roomies

Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

MONDAY, JUNE 24 NEW JERSEY

Sometimes there are signs. Or things I can't help but interpret as signs. Maybefrom fate or the universe or God, if there is one. Or maybe from the grandmotherI barely knew but who I've always been told is in heaven.

Watching and judging.

Like Santa.

There are just times when it really feels like someone orsomething is paying attention. Even to little old me. And right now heor she or it is looking down on me lying on my bed, where I am seething becauseof a five-minutes-ago fight with my mother about how I am going to spend this,my last summer at home before college. I have plans to meet my friends at thebeach tomorrow and she thinks I should be ... well, she doesn't even knowwhat she wants me to be doing instead. Here's a hint: It is probably theexact opposite of whatever I want to be doing at any given moment.

I seriously only graduated last week. The cap and gown are still hanging rightthere on the back of my bedroom door.

Someone, some power, must see me gripping the bedspread beneath my fingers andhe (or she or it) must feel some kind of pity for me because he (or she or it)takes it upon himself (or herself or itself) to trigger someone on the oppositecoast, someone named Helen Blake, who works in Student Housing at UC Berkeley,to sit down at her computer and type in my e-mail address and send me a messagethat makes my phone buzz on the bed next to me and that helps me to calm down,and to release the bedspread, and to remember that nothing, not even living withyour mother, is forever, though it mostly feels that way.

Dear Elizabeth Logan, it says. I am pleased to provide you with yourdorm room assignment and contact information for your roommate this comingschool year. While it is by no means mandatory for you to get in touch, somestudents find that there are practical issues they would like to discuss beforeorientation week.

Below the dorm info is a name—Lauren Cole—a snail mail address inSan Francisco, an e-mail address, and a phone number. It is enough to make mespring up off the bed and rush to my desk. There is a light, gritty layer ofdust on my open laptop's keyboard; I haven't used it since school ended butsomething about sending e-mail from it—instead of from myphone—feels more official, more serious.

I am nothing if not officially serious about going away to school.

So I type in this Lauren's address—calling seems crazy—and I putHi Roomie! as the subject; then I think for a second that I have no ideawhat to say, but it turns out I do.

Dear Lauren,

You don't know me but I got an e-mail from Berkeley telling me that we're goingto be roommates. I am so excited to "meet" you! I've been waiting and waiting.Since I'm moving to California from New Jersey, I'm not bringing that much stuffat all—only what I can fit in two suitcases. Maybe I'll ship stuff? I'llprobably pack a hundred times in the next 65 days (not like I'm counting, haha), so I can be sure everything I want to bring will fit. My mother says she'llgive me money for a mini-fridge or microwave. Are you already planning onbringing either of those?

I think about wrapping it up but I am really just getting going so I don't stop.Not yet. I rub my fingers together to get rid of some dust, then dig in again.

I'm so jealous that you live in San Francisco. You must really like it ifyou're staying close for college. It's cool that you're going to live in thedorms. I swear I've been wanting to go away to college ever since I found out itwas possible to do that. It's all I think about lately. Getting out of thisplace.

I should stop now. No one sends e-mails this long. But as it turns out I am notquite done with the stuff that needs to come off my chest so that I can maybebreathe again, so that I can maybe survive the summer and the move to the landof the Man Who Left, otherwise known as Dad.

This may sound crazy but I've never been to California—even though myfather moved to San Francisco a bunch of years ago. I haven't seen him since Iwas pretty little, and I never talk to him, so it's not like that's the reason Ipicked Berkeley. Anyway, I promise not to be too annoyingly touristy oranything.

I'm babbling. So yeah. Let me know about the microwave/fridge situation.

Elizabeth (but everyone calls me EB) Logan

I send it before the feeling of release turns sour. Then I head over to Facebookand search for Lauren Cole. Turns out there are a couple of fan pages for famousLauren Coles I've never heard of. And one at the University of Florida, but nonethat looks like she might be my roommate, a fact I find depressing. Whoisn't on Facebook?

MONDAY, JUNE 24 SAN FRANCISCO

It's a rare quiet moment in the house. When I say rare, I'm using it inthe real sense of the word: rare like a meteor shower, rare like a white tiger,like a double yolk or a red diamond. Rare as in I use up about a third of thisprecious silence trying to remember when it last was. Silent. For anotherfifteen minutes I try to decide how not to waste it. I have the day off fromboth my jobs. Should I take a nap? Hook my iPod up to the living room stereo andblast it? Make a deluxe quesadilla, which, for a change, I wouldn't have toshare?

I opt for a combination of stereo takeover and nap, putting on a mellow playlistat a soothing volume and stretching out on the floor—with a blanket underme so as to avoid Cheerio dust. Finally and blissfully, I'm alone. It isn't longbefore I make the muscle-twitching, gape-mouthed descent into sleep. After whatseems like about ninety seconds, I become aware of the sound of the van idlingoutside.

Already? No. No.

Sometimes in the moments surrounding REM sleep, you hear things that aren'treally there. I forbid my eyes to open. But there's the sound of the van doorsliding on its track. (Note that I did not say minivan.) My mother's voice. Thebabbling of P.J.; the cry of Francis; Jack and Marcus fighting. For some reasonI don't hear Gertie out there. Soon enough that reason becomes apparent.

"Why are you on the floor?"

Gertie plops onto my stomach. Oof. "Because I like the floor," I say.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Why are your eyes closed?"

"Because it makes the room nice and dark."

She touches each of my eyelids gently, and I feel her weight shift as she leansover my face, expelling her soft grape-juice-and-baby-carrot breath. She pets myhair and I hope to God she hasn't been picking her nose. "Are you dead?"she asks in a dramatic whisper.

"Yes."

Gertie is absolutely still for a count of three; then she bounces on my stomachand I'm forced to open my eyes and roll over to get her off me. "No you're not!No you're not!" She laughs like a maniac. "Mama says come help."

The next chance I have to think is five hours later, after Dad's come home,after we've gotten through the ordeal that is dinner, after baths andtoothbrushing and all the bargaining and coercion and threat-making that helpthose things happen, and after Francis is down but the rest of them are livingup the twenty minutes before story time and, at last, lights-out.

It's the first opportunity I've had to look at my e-mail in three days. Thereare two screens of new messages, mostly spam. As I sort through it, I find somestuff from my best friend, Zoe—links to videos and sites I'll probablynever have time to look at—and a message from my dad. He sends these one- ortwo-sentence notes from work when he's bored or thinking of me. This says,Garfield has been violated. Investigating. There's a picture attached ofthe mug I gave him when I was in first grade. It's got a big lipstick print onthe rim. I write back: That is a bold red. Inquire among VIPs.

On the third screen, the page of oldest messages, there are a few from Berkeley.One of them has to be about my housing request. I'll save those to open last;I'm too nervous now. I go back to the first screen to start clicking off thespam and find a message I didn't notice the first time. The subject line isHi Roomie! and I almost junk it for porn, but when I see the preview ofthe first line, a chill comes over me.

I open and read it through.

Then I frantically click over to the Berkeley messages and find the one tellingme about my roommate.

So it's true. My request has been denied. "Crap," I mutter.

"Can I play Dora?" It's Gertie.

I minimize the window—I'm not sure why; it's not like Gertie cares aboutmy e-mail or can understand what she's seeing. She breathes down my neck, hersticky hand already leaving a mark on my desk, which I've just cleaned for whatfeels like the tenth time today, making use of the industrial-size tub of CloroxWipes I pay for with my own money. "No," I say. "Can you go ... occupy yourselfor something?"

I try not to sound mean. I'm already in trouble for being "mean" to Jack, eventhough he's the one who completely spilled cranberry juice all over my favoritesweater, at some point between the interruption of my nap and dinner. I'd savedup for like a month to buy that sweater. I yelled at Jack and called him amoron, and when Mom found me and said, "He's six, Lauren. He didn't do it out ofmalice," what came out of my mouth was "I wish I were an only child." And Momgave me that look she has and walked out, reminding me to apologize to Jackbefore dinner. At which point he didn't care anymore, having moved on to thecrucial task of making sure his various food groups didn't touch.

So even though I want to physically toss Gertie out of my room, I don't. Becauseactually it's not my room. It's our room—I share it with Gertieand P.J., my sisters. Jack and Marcus are down the hall. Francis still sleeps inmy parents' room in the bassinet.

"Here," I say to Gertie, getting up and pulling my old Mr. Potato Head down fromthe high shelf in the closet. Her brown eyes widen. I rarely let her touch Mr.Potato Head. Grandpa Cole gave him to me, and all the pieces are there and thebox is still in good shape. Mr. Potato Head has sentimental value, so he's oneof the few things I'm not forced to share. "You have to play with this in here.Sit on the bed and be quiet, okay? It's almost lights-out."

She nods, probably afraid that if she says anything else I'll change my mind.

I get back to the e-mail.

This is what I want to write:

Dear EB,

(Already I'm calling her Ebb in my head, even though I'm sure that what shemeans by EB is Eee Bee.)

I requested a single. All I've wanted for the last decade is a room of myown. Some privacy. A place to be alone with my thoughts where they are notconstantly interrupted by someone else making some kind of racket, or evensomeone else just quietly trying to exist in the same space as me. When I gotthe full scholarship I knew it would probably be pressing my luck to ask for asingle, but the box was there to check so I checked it. A "roomie" is really notwhat I had in mind. Really not what I had in mind at all.

Of course, I don't write any of that. It's not Ebb's fault my parents wanted abig family.

Dear EB,

Hey. I hadn't really thought about appliances.

(Where am I supposed to get the money for this stuff? My magic money tree? I canprobably find a decent microwave at Goodwill if I look every couple of days.Mini-fridges are harder to come by.)

Why don't you do the fridge part and I'll take care of the microwave.

San Francisco is okay. We live in a foggy neighborhood on the south side of thepark so it's not like we have a view of the Golden Gate Bridge and cable carsgoing by or anything. Only the smelly old Muni trains.

I reread her e-mail. I feel as though it would be polite to acknowledge what shesaid about her dad, or about New Jersey, or ask a question, or something, butP.J. runs in and lunges for Mr. Potato Head so I wrap it up.

Nice to meet you.

Lauren Cole

"'Tato head!" P.J. shrieks. I scan the e-mail one more time and I knowit looks kind of rudely abrupt, but I have to save Mr. Potato Head. And anyway,I wanted a single.

I click Send, close my laptop, and put it up on the high shelf. Gertie lets outa dolphin-pitched death scream and when I turn around, P.J. has got one of Mr.P.'s ears and is about to run away with it. I grab her by the waist. Shescreams. Gertie screams.

If Mr. P.'s mouth were attached, he would probably scream, too.

TUESDAY, JUNE 25 NEW JERSEY

That's it? was what I thought when I first read Lauren's e-mail latelast night. And now that I'm reading it aloud to my friends, Justine twists herface into a grimace and says, "That's it?" Even though the end of the schoolyear was a little bit strained, Justine and I have been friends for so long thatit sometimes feels like we can read each other's minds.

I toss my phone down onto the beach blanket in front of me. "That's all shewrote, as they say."

Justine and Morgan—a newer friend of ours, mostly from senioryear—are trying to get me on a strict early-morning beachgoing schedulebetween now and when I leave for Berkeley, so as to maximize surfing and timetogether. We're coated in sunscreen and sitting in chairs under umbrellas,reading articles in shiny teen magazines about things like dorm decor and tipsfor living on your own for the first time, while Alex, Danny, and Mitch surf.Justine tosses her magazine onto our blanket before saying, "Maybe she was busy.You know. Dashed it off without thinking."

I shoot her a look that says, Come on.

"Well, I tried." She turns to face the water and I see a smile form at thecorners of her mouth. "What's her e-mail address, Ice Queen at condescending-mail-dot-com?"

Morgan lets out a chuckle but doesn't look up from her mag.

I say, "That's more like it," and look back at the article I've beenreading about the Top Ten Things to Pack for College. A pillow. Headphones.Flip-flops for the shower ...

I wish I could pack a few friends.

"I wouldn't worry about it." Morgan holds her magazine out to me but I'm notready to trade so she tosses hers onto the blanket, too. "You'll find somesuper-dorky shrubbery major like yourself and you'll barely be in your roomanyway. You'll be too busy planting bushes."

"It's not called shrubbery," I say for the gazillionth time.

"You know she's just messing with you." Justine flashes a smile at Morgan, whoreturns it.

I let it go. But there's a part of me that's still annoyed that my friends don'tget it. That no one in the whole of Point Pleasant gets it, except for Tim atBeech Design—and even he looked at me like I had two heads when I walkedup to him while he was working on the Schroeders' backyard last summer and toldhim, with six-month-old Vivian Schroeder on my hip, that I wanted a job. He saidhe couldn't pay me and I said I didn't care—that I'd keep my babysittingjob to make the money I needed. So he told me to come in the next morning totalk about hours. I'd been watching him and his small staff forweeks—carving up that yard and putting it back together again so that itfelt like there were rooms outside, places worth being. I knew I'd found mycalling. I'll be a paid full-time employee this summer starting Friday, and Istill babysit for Vivian occasionally at night.

"I've never understood why you have to go all the way to California when there'sa great program at Rutgers," Justine says. "Plus, I'll be there."

"We've been through this," I say, thinking, Yes, you'll be there, andDanny and Alex and everyone else we know, except for Morgan, who'll be a shortdrive away at NJIT, and Mitch, who's going to Seton Hall. "Too close to themother ship."

"So you say." Justine gets up and grabs her board.

Morgan gets up, too. "Coming in?"