The Roommate Situation (29 page)

“Maybe for Memorial Day.” I fish their presents out from under the tree and hand them out.

Dad opens his first, a new chocolate-brown belt, wrapped in tissue paper. “Well, son, this is nice,” he says as he unrolls it and holds it up to look at it.

Tissue paper rustles as my mother draws her gift out of its wrapping.

“They’re earrings,” I say, though it’s patently obvious what they are. Derek had burned daffodils—her favorite—into two rounds of leather and dyed and polished them, then fastened them to hooks. “I know they’re kind of casual, but I thought they might be good for a weekend day.”

“Oh, they’re lovely,” she says in that voice she uses when she’s being pointedly generous. “Your roommate made these?” Her eyes narrow as she holds them to the light, dangling from the side of her finger.

“Yeah. I helped him make something for his dad and uncle in return.” A found-art project
not
involving leather. Derek said his dad and uncle already own more leather gifts than anyone ought to. I’d enjoyed going around collecting bottle caps on weekends, trying to get a full checkers and backgammon set worth, then painting the squares of the checkerboard while Derek painted backgammon triangles on another piece of scrap wood. I’d half wished I could get away with a homemade checkers set for my parents, but while they’d have acted pleased, it would have gone into a cabinet, never to be brought out again. Much like the earrings my mother’s already set aside.

“Go show us how your sweaters look on you,” she says. “I want to make sure they fit.”

“If you didn’t buy them for a gorilla or a ten-year-old boy, I’m sure they fit. They’re sweaters.”

“Go try them on.”

I roll my eyes but get up from the floor. I’d much rather go see how my new headphones fit—for a few relaxing hours—but that’ll probably have to wait until after we eat.

As I climb the stairs, all I hear behind me is the crackle of the fireplace and the rustle of tissue paper as my mother puts her earrings back in their wrapping.

Twenty-Six

“Where’s Dad?” I ask, sliding into a seat at the kitchen table. It’s Saturday, the day my parents will tell me what they’ve decided I should major in. I have a plan of my own.

“He’ll be back in a little while.” She’s at the stove, arranging vegetables around a roast.

“When are we going to talk about school?”

“When your father gets home.” She sets the roasting pan in the oven and shuts the door. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she turns and regards me for a moment and finally says, “There are some things we can talk about now. Would you like something to drink?”

“No, I’m good.”

She pulls out a chair and sits down. Then she lays her hand over my wrist.

Oh no.

“Honey, I looked at the information on the music school at your college. Have you looked at the audition requirements?”

“Actually, I was looking at the different majors at the music school, and I think I’ve come up with the perfect thing to make everybody happy.”

She sits back and plucks at the front of her blouse. “Oh?”

“Music industry.”

“Oh. Yes, I saw that. You would still need to audition. They had a page on what that entails.” She leans forward, taking my wrist again. “You’d need to be able to sight-read, honey. They’ll give you music to play and expect you to play it right off the page.”

“I can read music—”

“And play it perfectly without having seen or heard it before?”

Maybe not perfectly.

“They also want a résumé,” she says. “For your music industry degree. I read all about it the other night. They want to know what experience you have related to the music industry—working a soundboard or doing the lighting for a school play, that sort of thing.”

“I had a band,” I say.

“And if you did get in, you’d be starting from scratch. The music school runs differently from the rest of the college. Most of the work you’ve done so far will have been for naught.”

“Worth it,” I say. Worth it, worth it.

She covers my hand with hers. “Honey, I just don’t think it’s likely. You’ve been playing guitar for just two years. You’ve come a long way in those two years, and your father and I are very proud of you, but you would be competing for a very limited number of slots against students who have been working at their craft since they were children.” She turns her wrist to look at her watch, and the muscles in her face tighten. She’s mulling a decision over, and finally: “I didn’t want to do this without your father, but here we are, and he is once again not around. Here are the options that we think would be good for you. I remember your saying that your roommate wanted to be a forensic chemist?”

“Please don’t push me toward chemistry. You and I both know that’d be a complete failure.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of forensic accounting. You were always good at math. You’d get a regular accounting degree, just like Derek is getting a regular chemistry degree, and move on from there to specialization.”

“What even is that? Going over dead people’s money?”

She finds this amusing. When she recovers, she says, “No, honey. When someone commits a financial crime—embezzlement, defrauding investors, that sort of thing—forensic accountants investigate the financial evidence. You would be the Columbo of the financial world.” This also tickles her.

“Next,” I say.

“Advertising, marketing, or even public relations. If you want to be in the music industry, then you could take either degree to a record label or a radio station or—”

“Because those are so relevant anymore.”

“Well, whatever the new things are, they’ll still need people who understand advertising and publicity.”

I sigh.

“The degrees your father liked were computer science, finance and banking, and risk management and insurance.”

I feign snoring.

“Well. Those are your best options if you want to be able to make enough money to support your music.”

“I’m going for music industry.”

“I hate to see you pin all your hopes on it and then be crushed when you don’t get in—and in the meantime get behind on getting a useful degree.”

“Thanks for the concern. It’s been duly noted.”

“Honestly, your father thinks you should stick with economics. You’ve already started, and it’s not foreign to you. You just need to apply yourself.”

“And what do you think? Other than that I’m not good enough to get into the music school.” Which hurts. Aren’t parents supposed to be supportive? Don’t they tell you you can be anything you set your mind to when you grow up?

“That’s not a judgment of you, Shane. That’s just facing reality. And I tend to agree with your father. As he pointed out to me, he has connections to help you get a good job once you graduate. That’s less certain if you take another degree. Also, while we’re on the subject, we agree that you should stay on campus next year.”

I open my mouth, but she keeps talking. “Your grades prove you need every resource and convenience you can get, and living on campus provides that.”

I start to shake my head.

“You’ll have no excuse for missing a class or not having access to the materials you need to complete an assignment.”

“I wouldn’t be far from campus,” I say, “but I would be in a quieter place—”

“Except for those house concerts your friend wants to put on.”

“On the weekends. I wouldn’t be sharing a floor with forty other guys playing music and shouting all day and night—”

“Your residence hall is supposed to have quiet hours. Does no one pay attention to those?”

“Not really.”

“You should take that up with your RA. Do you want me to speak with him?”

My eyes widen. “No!” Jesus God fucking Christ no. “I’m just saying, if I share a house, I’d have my own room, by myself, where I could shut my door—”

“You keep telling me your roommate is not a distraction, and now you need your own room where you can shut your door?”

Shit. He’s actually a huge distraction, but also, I’m kind of hoping he’ll be in the room with me when I shut the door. She saves me from having to reconcile my points by bringing up other issues: “How do you expect to pay for this? Rent, electricity, heat, water—water’s not free, it may surprise you to learn. Internet access.”

“Chuck says splitting it four ways, it comes out cheaper than a dorm room, which is good for you guys. And I’ll save on food. The dining halls are so overpriced. You don’t even know.”

“Oh, we know. We just reloaded your dining plan. You were down to scratch. You just let us worry about your food costs.”

“That’s what I’m saying—it wouldn’t be so much cost.”

“And what, exactly, dear boy, are you going to eat living on your own? Peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches?”

“I can feed myself.”

She laughs—this is as funny to her as my question about forensic accounting. “That’ll be the day. And clean up after yourself?”

“I have to do it sometime, you know. Or are you going to move into my apartment after I graduate and keep doing that for me? I’ve managed to do my own laundry at school.”

“I hope you’re not expecting a medal. Where would you do your laundry if you were renting a place off campus? It’s not likely to come with a washer and dryer. You can’t just wander down to the laundry room.”

“I guess I’d do my laundry the same way everyone else living off campus does.”

“Who were you going to move in with, again?”

“Chuck, Pete, and Derek.”

“And I suppose he’ll feel free to smoke in the house, or at least on the porch, right where you have to walk through the fumes to get in and out, cigarette butts littering the walkway.”

“Don’t start with Derek,” I say.

“I’m afraid we’re not ready for you to live completely on your own. Frankly, we don’t think you’re ready. If your grades had been better—”

“I’ll be nineteen. I’m an adult. I get to make that decision.”

“If you’re old enough to make that decision, then you must also be old enough to pay for it.” She holds up a finger. “Don’t go anywhere.” She gets up to check on the roast.

“I have to share a bathroom with forty other guys,” I say. “It’s a pain in the ass.”

“Watch your language.”

“And we’ll have someone older and more responsible in the house with us—Derek will be twenty-one by then. That’s older than half the RAs.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” she says, sitting back down. “That’s just what you need. Someone in the house old enough to buy liquor.”

“If I don’t live off campus next fall, I’ll just room with him on campus again. He’ll be old enough to buy liquor either way.”

“What is the fascination with this boy?”

I could ask the same of her. I swear she brings him up more than I do—bringing him up just to rip him down. I say, “I like him.”

She shakes her head. “I don’t trust him one bit.”

With a laugh, I say, “Trust him about what? For Christ’s sake, you don’t even know him.”

“There’s just something about him.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear. Trust me. Based on five seconds in the same room with him, you go on like you know everything about him.”

“It’s based on more than that. His background, the things you tell me about him—”

“Yeah, that three-point-eight GPA is a sure sign of trouble. Running his own—”

“Here we go again. Saint Derek.” She checks her watch, pinching its face between her fingers.

“I like Derek,” I say, and heat rushes to my face as I realize what I’m trying to tell her. It serves her fucking right, though. My chest clogs up, like something has to break loose.

I grip the edges of the table, and oblivious, she says, “So you’ve said. Why does your father insist on taking twice as long to do anything as you think it should take?”

“Mom.”

“Yes, honey.”

“I like Derek.”

She stares at her watch a second longer before looking up at me, her brows drawn. “What are you saying, Shane?”

My armpits are slick and hot under the sweater I’d gotten for Christmas. This is my chance to take it back, pretend I meant something else. I could. I could, but I’m so sick of her talking shit about Derek, and I’m so sick of her not seeing who I actually am, or pushing that aside for her own agenda. I’m sick of her making decisions for me. I’m sick of living her fucking life for her. Pushing the words up, I manage to say, “Derek and I like each other. Like,
like
like.”

“Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no. Honey. Oh, I knew this Derek was a problem waiting to happen. I knew you should have moved rooms. I should have gone down to the school myself. Oh, honey.” She grips my hand, squeezing it hard.

“Mom.”

“I should have been worried you hadn’t mentioned any girls. Honey, I’m so sorry.”

I pull my hand free. “Sorry for
what
?”

“I should have prepared you better. But—I was foolish. I thought surely they wouldn’t put my son in a room with a gay.”

“He’s not—” My heart beats a tattoo against my chest. She just called my boyfriend
a gay.

“And now he’s got his claws into you,” she says.

“What?”

“That’s what they do, honey. They prey on innocent boys—boys who don’t have a lot of experience in the world. They’re out to convert as many as they can to their deviant lifestyle.”

What the fuck?
“Okay,” I say, “except Derek’s never been with a guy before either. He’s only dated girls—”

“Of course he would say that, honey. To gain your trust. To make you feel comfortable.”

“This is insane. I know Derek. You met him for five seconds, and you’re going to tell me what his secret agenda is?”

“It’s called ‘homosexual recruitment,’ and it is a real thing. Pastor Nivens gave a talk on it just a few months ago. I wish you’d been there for it. Homosexuals can’t reproduce, you see, so they have to recruit others to build their numbers.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“I’m going to have Pastor Nivens come talk with you.”

“No, you’re not.”

“What are you afraid of, child?” she asks. “If you truly believed that this…this…thing you’re doing is appropriate and healthy, why would you fear talking to someone about it?”