“T-they’re fine,” I say too quickly, stumbling over the lie, and I fight the urge to flinch.
Her brows shoot up, and she leans against the doorframe. “Fine, huh?”
I nod, doubling down because I’m not quite sure where Quinn stands in the precarious pyramid of roommaterelationships. Just because I never see her doesn’t mean Kinsley and Ava don’t.
Before Quinn can respond, the door to the apartment opens, cold air blasting into the dorm. When my other two roommates scurry inside, I wonder if there’s ever a time they’re not together.
“Fuck, it’s freezing,” Kinsley says, setting her giant latte clumsily on the counter. Coffee sloshes over the side, but she makes no move to clean it up.
“Quinn!” cries Ava, noticing us standing by the bathroom. “You’re alive!”
Kinsley unzips her jacket, shrugging it off and tossing it on the couch. “Wow, Quinn. Finally decided to grace us with your presence?”
I don’t wait for them to acknowledge me—they never do—but Quinn widens her eyes at me in a look I can’t decipher. Exasperation, maybe? Annoyance?
“Don’t guilt-trip her,” scolds Ava. “She’s been knee-deep in junior dick.”
Kinsley snorts. “What does that even mean?”
“You know what it means. She’s been busy gettinglaid.”
Quinn rolls her eyes before stepping out of the doorway, allowing me access. I slip into the bathroom as she chats with the other girls, wondering if she was being nice to me because she wanted to or because she felt like she had to. It could have been pity kindness, which is arguably worse than cruelty in my opinion.
I stay in the shower until the mirror fogs and my fingers prune and my skin splotches red from the heat. I stand under the hot water for as long as I can, waiting out the interactions in the living room and doing everything in my power to avoid another awkward encounter.
Kinsley and Ava rarely linger, and by the time I exit the bathroom in a cloud of steam, they’re gone. I’m not sure whereQuinn went—she doesn’t make her presence known like they do—but I slip soundlessly past her door and into my room.
Shivering in my towel, I comb through my wet tangle of blonde hair, wincing as the bristles snag on a particularly brutal knot. Once I dislodge it, I toss my brush on the bed and pull on thick sweatpants and a sweatshirt. When I check my phone, I’m surprised to see some messages in theSibschat, which is usually reserved for special occasions. Sure enough…
Scott:Want to go in on a gift for Dad’s birthday? Was thinking orchestra tickets.
Noah:Sure.
Scott:Cool.
Dad’s birthday isn’t for another couple weeks, but Scott’s always on top of these sorts of things. As the eldest child, the overachiever, and the only kid with any sort of musical inclination (like my dad), he never misses an opportunity to pitch a music-related gift. Noah always agrees because he can’t be bothered to come up with anything else, and I agree because there’s no doubt that it’ll be better received than whatever I brainstorm myself.
Me:How much?
Scott:50 each.
I sigh. It’s convenient, sure, but it’s hard to get excited for one of our “joint” gifts. My brothers will get all the praise, and I’ll get whatever’s left over.
After liking his message, I set my phone on the nightstand and crawl into bed. It’s only nine-thirty, but I’m exhausted. Mybodyis exhausted, and I know why.
It’s all that nervous energy eating at me throughout the day. My overactive mind hyper-fixates on every small interaction. It over-analyzes people’s intentions, predicting all the ways that things could go terribly wrong and charting out the best route for retreat.
Minimal damage. That’s my motto now. If I can’t avoid it altogether then I focus on extracting myself with as minimal damage as possible.
What a sad, pathetic way to live.
At some point my brain stops rattling around in my skull long enough for me to fall asleep. When I wake up in the morning, it starts again like an engine, revving up and shifting my thoughts fromcarefreetoanxioustohigh alert.
I wish I could move through the day on autopilot, sleepwalking through campus like most of the students I pass, but that’s just not the way I’m wired. I’m present for every moment of my three classes, fearful I’ll be called on, worried I’ll do something dumb, nervous someone’s watching me.
I don’t like occupying other people’s thoughts. It’s one of the reasons why Wes makes me so uncomfortable. When he’s looking at me, talking to me, focused on me, I know I’m front and center in his brain. Maybe he forgets me as soon as he leaves the classroom and goes about his life, but for the duration of that class, I’m inhabiting too much space inside his head.
If I have to be a thought, I’d prefer to be a fleeting one, but for that hour-and-a-half every Tuesday and Thursday, I know I’m not. I fear I’m the star of the show, and center stage is the last place I ever want to be.
