“I know, I know, he’s a loser!”
My stomach hurts from laughter. “Sucha loser,” I wheeze out.
She hits me again. “But it doesn’t matter, because we aren’t getting back together.” I shoot her a look. “Wearen’t,” she says. “Cross my heart.”
I let it slide, even though she hasn’t offered to pinky swear, which is the only surefire way to trust her promise.
“I just wanted to disclose,” she says. “But no need to dwell. Seeing as we won’t be getting back together and all.” She clears her throat and twists at her hair, done with the matter. “And what’s going on with you?” she asks, brisk with the subject change.
“Nothing quite so juicy,” I say. I think for a moment. “I’m going to the English department’s open mic tomorrow,” I announce.
Simran raises a brow. “Exciting,” she drawls.
“It is,” I say, challenging the sarcasm. “It’s with my coworker and some of his friends, who are all in English at UW. It’ll be a nice way to meet people before classes start.”
We’re meeting at Michael’s apartment before heading over to campus. It’s warm this weekend, so the open mic will be on the outdoor patio of a campus coffeehouse. Michael wants a wine night pregame, and I’ve volunteered to bring some merlot. Purchasing the bottle will be the most action my fake ID has seen in weeks. I’d joined in on my roommates’ fake ID order early in the fall, when it seemed like we’d all get along, though I almost never went out with them in practice.
“That’s cute,” Simran says. “About time you had some friends other than me.”
It’s an obvious joke, but the comment still stings. “I have friends other than you,” I say, defensive.
“Your grandfather, maybe,” Sim teases, and the surprised hurt in my stomach grows sharper. She’s not entirely wrong though, which is the worst part. My first year was much lonelier than hers, and I’m not removed enough to laugh about it just yet.
I’m about to retort, when the back door slides open. The twins and two of their friends enter, sweaty and red-faced from basketball.
The curly-haired boy beside Sanju wrinkles his nose. “Is something burning?” he asks.
My eyes snap to the oven. “Shit,” I say, forgetting to censor myself before the eleven-year-olds in front of me.
There’s a bloated pause. “I forgot to set a timer,” Simran whispers weakly.
Twice in a day has got to be a new record, even for us. My shoulders slump in defeat. I scramble for a third option, thinking through the contents of our pantry. “Do you guys like Oreos?”
A pout twists on Nabhi’s lips. “I likebrownies,” he says. “That’s what you said we’d be having.”
My stomach drops. “I know, chotu,” I say. I’d shown the boys the recipe earlier today, excited to give them an afternoon treat. “Change of plans.”
“Whatever,” Sanju says, rolling his eyes. “We can just eat at Tyler’s,” he adds, nodding to his friend, and I reel back, wounded at the reaction. I’m not happy about the botched baking attemptseither, but I wish the twins were a little better at hiding their disappointment.
“Hey,” Simran exclaims, craning her neck to lock eyes with the boys. “Eat the Oreos and show your sister some gratitude. She’s not your private chef.”
“Yeah, thankGod,” Nabhi grumbles under his breath, but one sharp look from Sim sends them scurrying to the kitchen. Simran has always wielded an intimidating air of authority over the twins.
I try not to feel too bothered; it’s the eldest sister’s lot in life to go unappreciated. But some tension lingers, as it often does in the rare moments that I feel slighted by Sanju and Nabhi. My brothers are good kids, but they’re still young boys, prone to thoughtless slips. Simran scrunches her nose at me in sympathy.
“I love being an only child,” she says, and I laugh.
Michael’s apartment is too good to be true.
He’s on the tenth floor of a high-rise in University District, a glimmering shot of Lake Union visible from the living room bay windows. It’s modern but cozy and full of character: a dark green couch, brick backsplash in the kitchen, and warm string lights looping through the space. Still, the bar cart full of Pink Whitney and the Nicki Minaj flag hung across the television makes clear that this is very much college housing.
“Do you have generational wealth I didn’t know about?” I ask once I’ve finished gaping.
“Nah,” he says. “There was a murder in this unit,” he explains cheerfully. He sees my face and rushes to clarify. “It’s been almosttwo years, but I guess people are still weirded out, since rent’s dropped like crazy.”
“Huh,” I say. I don’t know if I could stomach that history, but Michael seems unfazed.
“They replaced the flooring and everything, so it’s not like there’s any, um, residue.” He gives a shrug. “Anything beats the dorms, and who could complain with that view?”
