“What was weird?”
I blink several times before I’m able to focus on one of my new roommates, Patsy. I’ve been living in a house with five other women for almost a week. I moved in last weekend, right before classes started. It’s a good thing too as I was getting desperate. I couldn’t find any housing I could afford. Heck, I’m scraping by as it is even though this house is a bargain.
I need to find a job.
When Patsy, who I met last year when we lived on the same dorm floor, found out I was looking for a place to live off campus, she let me know there was a room open in this house. Besides Patsy, I live with her younger sister, Susanna; Kat, who is dating Patsy and Susanna’s older brother, Ryne; and finally Robbi and Lindsay. I haven’t quite figured out how they all know each other. Patsy’s the only one I know, and that’s not all that well. I hope I’ll bond with the other girls in the house, but I’m not great at breaking the ice, as they say. My shyness and insecurities have always been a curse.
I stare at Patsy as she meticulously cuts fresh fruit into uniform shapes, all while humming a happy tune. How does she do it? I know she was out late last night. I heard her clomping around her bedroom at all hours because my room is directly below hers, so I hear just about everything that goes on in her room.
I gaze enviously at the grapes she’s placing into her dish of a decidedly healthier breakfast than mine. Hers? Yogurt, granola, and fresh fruit. Mine? See above. Heck, if I could swing it moneywise, I’d have at least one of the things Patsy was having for breakfast.Yep, I need a job.When you’re poor, carbs are about all you can afford. Take ramen noodles—no, please, take them. Ha! No, so ramen noodles cost like twenty cents per package. That means for only two dollars, I have ten meals. Heck, noodles in general are cheap. Bread? Same thing. One loaf of day-old bread is a buck at the local Dollar Bin.
I peek over at her again. It’s obvious fruit does a body good, because she’s got a killer bod, made all the more noticeable by the tight leggings and crop top she’s wearing. “Did you work out already?” I ask her.
Patsy makes a humming sound that sounds like a yes. Then she says, “I ran. Made it three miles this time.”
How’s that possible? She’s got to be hungover.
Ishould work out. We can do it for a discounted price at the Iowa State University Recreation Center. It’s where some of our athletes work out, but there’s a section in the building for us mere mortals. There are all kinds of treadmills and weight machines there. On a good day, you can walk on a treadmill and watch the football team run sprints. Too bad I haven’t had the time, money, or inclination to trek over to the rec center. I look down at my body and internally shrug. I also have a body reflective of my food choices—dough. I release a soft snort as I bite down on my extra-crunchy bread.
“What’s so funny?” she asks, looking back at me again.
“Nothing.” I shrug. “You’re the funny one.”
“Right?” She smiles brightly. Pointing at the toast in my hand, she adds, “Cute nails.”
“Thanks.” I smile midbite. My fingernails are sort of my signature thing and have been since middle school. Because of that longevity, I have an enviable collection of nail polish in my possession. I love to change the paint at least once per week, it’s therapeutic, so in honor of the first week of school, I’ve painted them Iowa State University colors, red and yellow, alternating each finger. Not as detailed as I usually do, but I was in a rush since I had to move and settle in just days before classes started. I’ll do something more advanced for next week. Ooh, maybe multicolored Converse tennis shoes. I’ve done that before, and it’s super cute.
After brushing my hands together to remove the toast crumbs, I clean up my spot at the circa-1950s kitchen table, gather my bookbag, and check my watch.
Patsy turns and begins walking toward the table. Setting down her bowl filled with yogurt goodness, she asks, “Hey, I thought you were going to tell me the weird thing?”
Oh. I ponder making something up, but “the weird thing” is far-fetched enough. “I got a FaceChat last night.”
She blinks at me a few times. “We all get FaceChats.”
“At three thirty in the morning?”
Patsy winks. “Sometimes.”
“From two hot English guys?”
She blinks some more, then, with a hushed voice, steps closer, “No. Who were they?”
I shrug. “I’m not sure. It was a wrong number.” I snort. “Obviously.”
“Why ‘obviously’? You could get calls from hot guys in the middle of the night.Booty call,”
she singsongs, then finishes it with “You’repretty.”
Okay, Patsy is officially my favorite roomie. “That’s real sweet, but they were looking for someone named Maxwell Quinn.”
“No!” Her voice is all breathy and rushed again. “Seriously?” She chuckles. “What are the odds?”
“Since I’m an art education major, I’m going to just come right out and tell you that math is not my thing, so statistical analysis of the odds someone would call me, Quinn Maxwell, and ask for Maxwell Quinn is beyond my capabilities. I can draw you a pretty pie chart, but it’ll have to be cherry.”
Patsy laughs again. “Youarefunny. Maybe I’ll let you join my club.”
“Club?”
