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“I usually am.”
I ball up my napkin and fling it at his shoulder.
“Fine, I deserved that.” Then: “You’re a journalist,” he continues, as though something is just occurring to him. “Your first day, you tried to get on the paper but couldn’t.”
Unfortunately, I’ve told him all about it. “I tried twice. The editor’s never outright said no, but it’s been pretty obvious.”
“Maybe that’s the key to this. I mean”—he’s quick to backtrack—“if your method held any scientific weight, which it does not.”
“Nailing the interview?”
“Maybe it’s not necessarily about the interview. Maybe it’s about proving yourself. Coming to them with the right story.”
“I’m not sure what I’d write about,” I admit, but even as I say it, I realize it’s not true. The days after I moved in, before school started, I kept noticing things around campus that might make for interesting features. The man at the parking booth who plays his saxophone at eight o’clock every night. Kendall from Save the Gophers. Even Paige, she of Milwaukee and celery allergy, must have a story to tell.
But an article about your awkward RA doesn’t seem quite as important when your timeline is stuck on repeat.
“You’re annoyed I came up with a good idea,” Miles says, eyes glinting in a thoroughly smug way.
Even more annoying: that he has me pegged already. “?‘How My Roommate Poisoned My Face Wash and I Lived to Tell the Tale.’?”
“?‘How the Star of the Physics Department Was the First Freshman to Be Awarded a Fulbright.’?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “?‘Before His Life Was Tragically Cut Short by a Deadly Paper Cut.’?”
And finally, finally, his expression cracks, a muscle in his jaw rippling before he lets himself go, offering up the smallest of grins. It’s nice to see on him, I decide. Different. His mouth is still pressed together just a little, but there’s clear joy on his face that wasn’t there a second ago. It makes me wonder why he’s so intent on hiding it, though we’re nowhere near close enough for me to ask. Even after three full days in the library, most of what I know about Miles barely skims the surface.
Then, as though he’s decided that’s enough merriment for one morning, he stands and picks up his empty basket, posture back at a perfect 180-degree angle. “Okay. Let’s go prove to your roommate that you’re not a monster.”
Before we head back to campus, we make a stop at University Village’s stationery store. The selection doesn’t compare to my mom’s, but it’ll have to do. I’m not sure how it would feel to see her, knowing that my trip home was erased and/or happened to a different version of her.
Even when Lucie and I attempted to go to the party together or had A Moment in our room beforehand, we didn’t talk about our history. If I’m going to free myself from this loop, maybe I have to not just unearth the past but allow myself to feel uncomfortable about it.
Undo three years of animosity in twenty-four hours.
The bagels and anthropomorphic fruit card that says WE MAKE A GREAT PEAR may not be enough.
I’m not sure of Lucie’s exact schedule, but from our short-lived friendship, I know that her favorite color is lavender. And it is a fact I milk in the balloon aisle of a party-supply store as much as I can. Miles leaves after he helps me set up the room, a quick “good luck” before he disappears, probably off to the library to declare his undying love for a bibliography.
By noon there’s still no sign of her, and my antsiness has manifested as balloon art. The balloons say HI ROOMIE and WHAT’S POPPIN’, and a couple I’ve shoved toward the back have unfortunate attempts at a doodle of her face. It’s very hard to capture her essence with latex and a Sharpie.
I don’t want to miss her reaction to my big helium olive branch, so I wait. And wait. And wait. I’m considering zipping downstairs for a late lunch when the key jingles in the lock at two forty-five. The door opens, and there she is in her black mock-neck and denim skirt, bag slung over one arm.
Her jaw drops, along with her keys. “Did someone break into our room?”
“They caught the Big Bad Balloon Burglar last week, actually. This must be a copycat.”
At that she looks confused, stepping inside and examining what’s written on the balloons. “Are these… did you do all of this?”
“Guilty.” I poke a balloon, watching Lucie’s distorted face bounce down and then back up. Suddenly all of this seems very, very childish.
Lucie bats aside another balloon on the way to her desk, where I’ve arranged what was supposed to be breakfast. “And the bagels?”
“They might be a little stale, but… yes.”
“Oh. Wow.” She grabs a cranberry bagel. “I’m not sure what to say. Thank you?”
“I know we didn’t exactly start off on the right foot.” I elbow away more balloons so I can make eye contact with her, clutching one that says HELIUM IS HEALING. “I thought this could be a fresh start. Sort of like how we were before… well, you know.”
