Page 18 of The Invisible Roommate

The serum was supposed to lower the organism’s refractive index, so that light passed right through tissue. But there the mouse scurried, as opaque as he was the day Emory plucked him from the bunch. “Sorry, little buddy. We tried.” The mouse, none the wiser to Emory’s scientific failing, happily ate a handful of sunflower seeds sprinkled onto the bed of his cage.

Upset, Emory let out a very loud, creative curse in the empty lab. Exhaustion crept up his back and caught him in a stifling chokehold that nearly put him to sleep right on the spot. In this state, he was of no use to anybody, so he cleaned up, stowed his lab mouse in a safe, inconspicuous place, and went home.

As soon as he opened the door to the apartment, he was slapped in the face by a vapid pop song.

Crowded dance floors, world tours,

Bass so good it shakes the floors

What was this terrible music, and who were all these people?

Bouquets of birthday balloons were scattered around the dimly lit room where everyone was dancing and talking, holding red Solo cups. Annoyed, he pushed inside with his bag and fought his way toward his room, the door to which was wide open. The light was on and spilling out into the hall.

A bunch of his stuff had been moved around. Bed shifted. Hamper turned over. Closet flung open. He was having a hard time making sense of what he was seeing. By his desk, Marvel stood over the wastebasket, reading through previously balled-up pieces of paper.

“What are you doing in my room?” Emory asked, barely above the din of the party.

“What are these?” Marvel asked, turning around and holding up written evidence of Emory’s duplicity. They were discarded notes on his invisibility serum, unmistakably in his handwriting and foolishly dated as recently as the day before. How had he left a paper trail this bad? His knees buckled with fatigue as if in answer.

Emory reached out to grab the papers in what felt like slow motion. “Give those back.”

Marvel held the papers high up over Emory’s head, reminding him of a former foster brother who frequently stole his beloved chemistry set and played keep-away with it to get a rise out of Emory, for the fun of seeing Emory cry. The memory of that cruel laughter at his tears echoed in his weary head.

“Where is my cake?” Marvel asked.

Emory could do complex math equations with the snap of a finger but could not decode this seemingly random question. “Your what?”

“My cake, man. You told me you would pick it up from the bakery for me today while I was out,” he said. The previous night’s interaction looped back on him. He did recall saying something to that effect, but his mind was too clouded. “I texted you the bakery address this afternoon.”

Emory prickled at this. “You know I don’t have a phone!”

“Still? What kind of adult doesn’t have a phone?”

What kind of adult?! A poor one. One who actually has to work to get the things he wants. Emory didn’t say either of those things, though, aware of the mounting number of eyes on him. He wished his serum had been a success so he could vanish from sight.

“Why didn’t you say anything when I said I would text you? I could’ve written it down for you.” His speech possessed an alcohol-induced lisp.

“You could’ve asked someone else,” Emory shot back.

Not speaking for a second or two, Marvel repeatedly shook his head. “Whatever, man, I asked you, but you were too busy off in your own little world where you think people can turn invisible. Like, the fuck? You know this is a school for medical professionals, not magicians, right?”

Laughter from the crowd at the door kicked Emory in the back. Embarrassed enough, he refused to turn and count the spectators. Tears clung for dear life to the corners of his eyes.

“Just give me back my papers,” Emory tersely whispered. Everything he had worked so hard for was falling apart.

Marvel squawked at that. “I don’t think so. I think I’m going to show these to Pawpaw Steve. I think he’s going to want to know what you’re wasting my family’s fucking money on.”

Marvel strode from the room without sparing a second glance at Emory.

Finding one last shred of strength, Emory slammed the door behind him, right in the faces of his snickering classmates. Their expressions haunted him even after he couldn’t see them anymore.

Heart racing and head spinning, Emory paced around the room as if he were a wild animal desperate for escape. There had to be a way to fix this. There had to be.

Yet, as the party ticked back up to full volume on the other side of the wall, Emory came to the sad and sudden realization that he didn’t belong there anymore, and that maybe he never had. After more than a decade in the broken foster system, in houses that were cold despite what the thermostat said, he assumed higher education would be his salvation, an oasis where he would meet like-minded individuals who understood his pursuits and understood him.

Ridiculous, how he could study his whole life and still be foolish enough to believe the hypothesis that there was a place in this world for him and people who would want him, when he had no data to base that conclusion on.

10