“Six one.”
She nodded. “Yeah, I think he’s much shorter.”
I sat down on my bed and lay back, propping my handsbehind my head, watching her in amusement. She held upA Portable Beat Reader. “Wow. We’re soul twins for sure. Please tell me I’ll find some Vonnegut in here?”
“You’ll definitely find some Vonnegut. Hand me that CD over there and I’ll put it on,” I said, gesturing towardTenby Pearl Jam.
“I should go practice in a minute but will you play ‘Release’? That’s my favorite from this album.”
“Sure, as long as I can photograph you.”
“Okay.” She shrugged. “What should I do?”
“Do whatever feels natural.”
I popped the CD into the stereo, reached for my camera, and began snapping away. She moved around the room to the music, twirling and singing.
At one point, she stopped and looked grimly into the lens. “Do I look lame?”
“No,” I said as I continued pressing the shutter. “You look beautiful.”
She flashed me a shy smile and then her tiny frame dropped to the hardwood floor, squatting like a child. She reached down and picked up a button. I continued taking picture after picture.
“Someone lost a button.” Her voice was sing-songy.
She looked up from the floor, right into the lens, and squinted, her piercing green eyes twinkling. I pressed the shutter.
She stood, reached out, and handed me the button. “Here you go.” Pausing, she glanced up to the ceiling. “God, I love this song. I feel inspired now. Thank you, Matt. I better run. It was really nice meeting you. Maybe we can hang out again?”
“Yeah. I’ll see you around.”
“I’ll be hard to miss. I’m right next door, remember?”
She skipped out of the door and then a moment later, just as Eddie Vedder sang the final lyrics, I heard the deep strains of a cello through the thin dorm walls. She was playing “Release.” I moved my bed to the other side of the room so that it would rest against the wall that Grace and I shared.
I fell asleep to the sound of her practicing late into the night.
MY FIRST MORNINGin Senior House consisted of eating a stale granola bar and rearranging three pieces of furniture until I was happy with the tiny space I would call home for the next year. On one pass, I discovered a Post-it note stuck to the bottom of the empty drawer in the desk I had brought from home. It read:Don’t forget to call your momin my mother’s handwriting. She wouldn’t let me forget, and I loved that about her.
I found the payphone on the first floor. A girl wearing sweats and dark sunglasses sat in the corner, holding the phone receiver to her ear.
“I can’t live without you, Bobbie,” she cried, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She sniffled and then pointed to a box of tissue. “Hey, you! Will you hand that to me?”
I took the tissue box from the end table near a worn-out couch that smelled faintly of Doritos and handed it to her. “Are you gonna be long?”
“Seriously?” She moved the glasses to the end of her nose and peered at me over the top.
“I have to call my mom.”I sound pathetic. More pathetic than this girl.
“Bobbie, I have to go, some dude has to call his mommy. I’ll call you in fifteen minutes, okay? Yeah, some guy.” She looked me up and down. “He’s wearing a Radiohead T-shirt. Yeah, sideburns... skinny.”
I threw up my hands as if to say,What’s your problem?
“Okay, Bobbie, wuv you, bye. No, you hang up... no, you first.”
“Come on,” I whispered.
She stood and hung up the phone. “It’s all yours.”
