The Roommate Situation (34 page)

We’ve already done it once tonight, but it’s our last night at Derek’s. Something about that makes doing it again seem like a sensible idea. Get one last go in before we have to return to classes and papers, quizzes and exams. Which is probably going to also entail having to talk to my parents again. My phone’s piled with voice mails, none of which I’ve listened to. I’d started reading a long-winded e-mail she’d sent, but two paragraphs in, I was so bullshit over it, I archived it so it wouldn’t be staring me in the face every time I looked at my inbox.

Eventually I’m going to have to talk to my parents again.

But right now all I have to do is push my fingers into Derek’s hair and hold him close.

Chapter Thirty

“Hey guitar guy,” a familiar voice says as I head back from the mail center with nothing but the junk mail that accumulated while I was gone. I turn to see Craig, the guy from the party I’d invited Derek to all those months ago.

“Hey. What’s up?”

“Did you ever get a hold of your guitar?”

“Yep.” Brought that bitch back to school with me from Derek’s house, with its brand-new handmade strap.

“Sweet shit,” Craig says. “You should come by and jam tonight. Nothing big, just a few friends. Bring your guitar, your girlfriend if you’ve got one. Chill out and have some fun.”

“Actually it’s a boyfriend,” I say and brace myself a little, the Pizza Shack postcard and credit card offers gripped in my hand.

“Whatever. Bring him. Does he play?”

“Nah.”

“That’s cool,” he says. “You still remember the house?”

“Up on Second?”

“You bet.”

“Sounds good,” I say, my nerves thrumming. I just outed myself, and it was no big deal. To him, at least. I feel like I’m about to shake apart.

When I get back to the room, Derek’s sitting on his bed with one leg folded under him, his computer in his lap. I tell him about the invite, adding, “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to, and I didn’t say who you were, so, I mean, no one knows. If you don’t go, no one—”

“What, and miss you jamming with other people?”

“Serious?”

“Sure. Might as well enjoy ourselves before we’re crushed under reports and labs again.”

Sweet shit.

* * * *

My guitar in its padded gig bag bumps the backs of my leg as I walk up the steps. Derek’s a half step behind, lugging my amp, his head turning as he looks around at the neighborhood. I wonder if he’s considering what it might be like to live around here instead of on the other side of the line that demarcates the school property.

The front door’s closed, its windowpanes glowing with warm light. I peek in and don’t see anyone, but voices filter through. I knock but not loud enough. I try again, knuckles rapping glass, and I see shadows moving; then someone appears, still facing the living room. He’s yelling stuff to whoever’s in there when he opens the door for us, and he walks right back to the living room without even looking at us.

I look at Derek.

He shrugs.

We get inside and close the door. I slip the gig bag from my shoulder as we follow the noise to the party.

Craig sees me before I see him. “Guitar guy!” He starts to launch himself up from the couch, but its springs are so worn that he tumbles back down into it. Somehow, without spilling the beer in his hand, he levers himself up again and heads over. “You made it. All right.” He looks just over my shoulder, and his grin spreads. “McClain! How’s it hangin’, bro?”

Derek sets the amp down by the wall and bumps fists with Craig. “All right. You?”

Craig sways a finger between them. “So…you two? For real?”

Derek gives half a shrug, his hands in his back pockets. He’s got a crooked little smile. I feel something similar pulling at my cheeks and duck my head to unzip my bag.

“Well, shit. Never woulda guessed. Hey, now. That’s sweet,” he says as I draw the guitar out. “I can’t believe you let this thing get separated from you. Is that an Epiphone?”

“Yeah. ES-399. Want to give it a try?” I shake out the amp cable.

“Oh yeah, man, sweet. Let’s see how this thing sounds.”

I find an outlet for the amp.

“What kind of pedals you got?” Craig asks.

“None. Sorry.”

“Fuck it. At least you got the guitar, right?” He plays a nice flourish before crouching on one knee to fiddle with the amp. “I know a guy looking to sell his Wampler Triple Wreck.” He looks over his shoulder at me. “Got a chick pregnant. They’re getting married, need money for diapers. New, it goes for almost three hundred. You can probably get it off him for half that.”

“If I had half that,” I say.

He tries out a few riffs, the start of a song. He says, “Don’t sweat it. You’ll get there.” He fiddles with the knobs again, plays a few more quick things, then gets to his feet, ducking out of the guitar strap. “Let me get mine, and we’ll play awhile.”

As he walks off, I lean toward Derek. “I didn’t know you knew each other.”

“We did a project together. He seems to like you. Not, like,
like
you like you, but you know.”

“Not enough to, like, learn my name,” I say.

He grins.

When Craig returns, dragging his amp behind him, we set up, and the rest of the party goes on around us while we go back and forth on the songs we know. Craig perches on the corner of an ottoman while I sit on a wooden chair that looks like it came from an old schoolhouse. I’m not a big guy, but the chair makes me feel like Gulliver in the land of Lilliput.

Derek’s settled on the floor, cross-legged against a wall. One time when I look over, he’s gone—no doubt to have a smoke. Another time he’s in conversation with a girl who’s crouched in front of him. She’s got long straight hair, skinny jeans, a baggy shirt, and thin black bangles that slide up her arm when she tucks her hair behind her ear.

“Hey, what’s your name, anyway?” Craig says.

“Shane. Shane Hahn.”

“Shane Hahn.” He starts playing something I don’t recognize. When I ask what it is, he says, “Something I’ve been noodling around on. Go ahead and jump in if you want.” I listen a bit more, then start adding in here and there, mostly rhythm, but when he doesn’t flinch and doesn’t switch over to something we’re both familiar with, my confidence picks up, and pretty soon we’re really jamming together, creating something out of nothing. Craig grins as he plays, swaying his head, nodding from time to time. What we’re doing starts to wind up—I can feel the build is going to have to crash, and then we’re going up over it.

Our final notes hang in the room.

“Sweet, man,” someone says.

I look over my shoulder at the same time Craig looks up and grins.

“Jay, hey, man,” he says. “Grab some shit to bang on. You know Hahn here?”

I look back to Craig.

“Don’t think I’ve had the pleasure.”

“Too bad for you. Shoulda snatched him up when he was available. Shane, Jason. Jason, Shane.”

My attention had moved back to Jason, but now I flip to Craig again. I’m lost all of a sudden. I am absolutely available.

“You the guy who texted me a while back about trying out?” Jason asks.

“That’s him,” Craig says, his fingers dancing through a scale.

“Shit. Guess I shoulda. Bobby’s been nothing but a pain in the fucking ass. How long you been playing, Shane?”

“Like I said,” Craig says, “you’re too late. Hahn and I are starting our own band.”

“Yeah?” Jason asks before I can pipe up—not that I’m against starting a band, but holy shit. “Who you gonna get to play drums?”

“We’ll figure it out.” To me, Craig says, “I suppose I should actually ask you. You interested in starting a band?”

“Um—are you fucking serious?”

“Fuck yeah. Last semester was a bitch, but my course load’s a lot easier from here on in. I’ve got time and an itch.”

I look from Craig to Jason and back.

Jason nods his chin at me. “I’d go for it.”

Craig says, “Speaking of which, let me know when you’ve had it with your band. We might have an opening for a drummer.”

“Yeah, man, thanks but no, thanks,” Jason says. “I like you and all, bro, but I ain’t working for you.”

“For me and
Hahn
. If Hahn ever closes his mouth and says yes.”

I look at Derek, who’s apparently enjoying watching this all go down, his head leaned back, that toothpick moving across his grin.

“Y-yes,” I say, turning back to Craig.

“Uh-huh,” Jason said. “Two white guys telling me what to do. That’s just what I always wanted. No, thanks.”

“We’re gonna need to call this thing something,” Craig says. He hits a chord. His reverb pedal’s on, and the sound comes out of his amp like a slinky falling over itself going down stairs. “And find a drummer. Can you sing?”

“Um.”

“Yeah, we’ll figure that out too. Hey, McClain, make us some band merch.”

“For the band without a name?” Derek asks from his spot against the wall. He has his hands clasped around a shin. His toothpick bobs as he tongues it, and Craig, smirking, starts playing “Horse with No Name,” changing the words to fit the situation.

* * * *

“Do you think he was serious?” I ask, lugging the amp while Derek carries the guitar over his back.

“Don’t have any reason to believe he wasn’t.”

“Were you nervous going over there, you know, ‘together’?”

“Yep.” He slows to grind his cigarette under the toe of his boot.

“Your nervous look is exactly the same as your normal look.”

“Maybe I’m normally nervous. Ever think of that?” He bumps shoulders with me as we head up the walk to Quaid.

“Did that chick hit on you?” I ask.

“Melinda?”

“I guess.”

“Are you jealous?” he asks with a smug smile.

“More curious.” I wait for him to open the door so I can go through with the amp.

“Nah,” he says. “We had American lit together a couple semesters ago.”

“It’s so weird that you know people. I only ever see you hanging out in our room.”

“Yeah, weird. Except for all the times I’m not in our room and I’m, you know, in class or studying with people.”

“Yeah.” I wait for him to open the stairwell door too. “But you never mention anyone or hang out with anyone. No one comes by. No one calls except your mom, or texts you except me.”

“That’s because I’m a loner in my free time. Except,” he says, throwing an arm over my shoulders as we climb the steps, “for you.”

“I feel special.”

“I used to hang out more, do stuff with people. Freshman year mostly. Then I got busy, and being busy got to be a habit. So there you go. You’re good for me.”

“You really think he was serious about the band?” I ask.

He laughs.

Chapter Thirty-One

First day back at classes, and it feels like I never left, except that I’ve got different professors and new subjects, and I’m sitting in different rooms. Aside from that, the whole break between semesters—the time I was at home, the time I was at Derek’s, even the night at Craig’s party—feels like a dream I had the night before.

I seriously need to look into switching to a major I enjoy, pronto, so I can drop classes like the one I’m sitting in now—fucking calculus—from my schedule.

When I get to our room, Derek’s not there. I get my laptop out of my bag and plug it in, then pop it open so I can check my e-mail while it charges.

There’s a message from the finance office, and I nearly ignore it—that’s the kind of stuff my parents deal with. But the wording of the subject line twists my stomach.

Shit.

The door unlocks. Derek walks in, his cheeks red from the cold.

“My tuition’s late,” I say, staring at the stark letters on the screen.

“What happened?”

“I don’t know. Maybe my parents didn’t get the bill? Or maybe…” My blood chills. I twist around in the chair to look at him. “Maybe they decided not to pay it. Shit.” All the phone calls and e-mails I’ve ignored… My chest tightens.

“Better call and find out what’s going on,” Derek says, pulling his coat off.

“If they don’t have the money by the seventeenth, I’m out.” My face feels cold and hot at the same time. I push my hand through my hair.

“Maybe it’s just late,” he says. “Maybe, like you said, they didn’t get the bill. Or they paid the bill, but it got lost along the way.”

“Shit. What am I going to do if they refuse to pay it?”

“Your education is the most important thing in the world to them. Call them.”

I check the time. They’d both be at work. That could be good or bad. Shit. “I need to get some air,” I say.

He gives me space to get my coat on and get out of the room.

Outside, I find myself in face-whipping wind, my cheeks going raw before I get halfway across campus. What if they really do refuse to pay unless I move to a new room and stay away from Derek? What if they want to transfer me to a different school completely? With the sleeve of my coat, I swipe away some water the wind’s pulled from the corner of my eye. Then I hunch into the wind and start walking again.

* * * *

“Holy shit, is that you?” Chuck calls—or at least I’m pretty sure it’s Chuck under the fur-lined hood and lumpy plaid scarf. I’m going more by the fact that I recognize Pete alongside him, wiping his nose with the back of his arm. Night’s come on, early as expected. The high-intensity lights around the campus make it like we’re in the middle of a football field.

“Hey,” I say.

“The fuck are you doing out in this cold?”

“The fuck are
you
doing out in this cold?” I ask.

“Straightening out my fucking schedule.”

Pete wipes his nose again.

“Hey,” Chuck says, “I’ve got some serious news. Wanna hit the lounge?”

Anywhere warm is an improvement over this, especially if it doesn’t put me back in my room, in front of my phone, needing to call my dad. We speed-walk there, the fronts of my thighs completely numb in my jeans. I think the denim’s frozen over.

The heated air that blows in our faces when we yank open the doors is like heaven.

“So what’s the news?” I ask as Chuck peels back his hood.

“I got a job.” He grins.

“Serious? Cool.”