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“Yeah?” A voice says. He sounds like he just woke up.
“Hi, Seth?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s, uh, Rachel. Rachel Miller.”
“Who?”
I blink.
“Rachel Miller, I’m moving in today.”
“Oh, shit. That’s today?”
“…Yeah, uh, I’m outside, but I can’t find the entrance. Could you help me—”
“Ug-g-g-h. I knew this would happen. Fuckin’….hang on.”
The line goes silent. I check to make sure he hasn’t hung up. He hasn’t, but I can’t hear anything at all.
“Hello?”
No answer. I’m about to hang up myself and ask random strangers for help when I hear a voice yell from overhead.
“RACHEL!”
I jolt and look up. Three floors above me, a guy with scrubbed-up hair like he’s only just got out of bed is leaning out from his balcony yelling down at me. He’s wearing a varsity jacket, boxers, and beneath the jacket, nothing else. He’s slim, he’s not some giant football player or something, but his muscles look like I photoshopped them on.
Wait, did he sleep in his varsity jacket?
Seth points directly underneath the balcony he’s standing on.
“It’s through there, dipshit!”
A few passers-by look over. My head fizzles for a moment with shock and rage. I stare at him, shirtless but for his varsity jacket, barefoot, his muscular legs dusted with thick, dark hair, his expression of impatient distaste. He had been sopoliteover email.
I look where he’s pointing; there’s a concealed entryway at the side entrance of the optician’s office. I don’t look at or thank Seth; I walk for the doorway. Head still buzzing with anger, I locate the right button on the list of apartments and press it for one long, angry tone until the door clicks open. There are three long, narrow sets of stairs that I heft my suitcase up. The door is open wide, but Seth’s not exactly there to welcome me. Not that he hasn’t given me one hell of a welcome already, along with the rest of Aurora’s asshole student populace. I roll the suitcase along the entryway. A long, wide and airy corridor, with two rooms on the side, leading down to the kitchen. A staircase between the two rooms, presumably leading to the next two. The walls are clean and freshly painted in a neat grey, but the floor is disgusting; you would think a dozen people lived here rather than three. Shoes of all kinds litter the hallway, mixed with random trash and unopened letters. One or two pairs of shoes are neat and paired, tucked into the corner next to the door, but most of them represent enough of a trip hazard that I have to lift my suitcase again and pick through them.
The first bedroom door I pass opens. It’s Seth again, this time with his hair slightly less sticky-up, and with jeans and a shirt on. I find myself missing the view.If he’s going to be an unmitigated asshole to live with, he could at least walk around with the washboard abs on show.
“That one,” he says, pointing to the next bedroom door along, and then slams his door in my face. I blink.Even the abs might not be enough. How long did I sign this lease for?
I trip along the shoe-filled corridor and push open my bedroom door, my new apartment keys jingling in its lock. It’s a relief to snatch the keys out and lock the door behind me. I push my head against the cool wood a moment, breathing deep to try and restrain myself from fist fighting a guy who would definitely win, and then turn to take in my new home.
It’s furnished, barely. The walls are painted off-white and are scuffed almost everywhere that a leg can reach. There’s a long, wide piece of wood bolted to the wall, and above that several smaller planks bolted higher; these, presumably, represent my desk and bookshelves. The desk chair is missing one of its wheels; if I sit on it, I’ll basically fall off. The wardrobe is no better than some painted plywood screwed together, and will fit maybe half of my clothes if I folded them small. It has a dingy, fingerprint-covered mirror glued to one of its doors. The bed is a single and it’s covered in sheets that, when I brush my fingers over them, feel like they were made of recycled paper. There’s no bedside table; instead, there’s a mildewed windowsill just by the head of the bed, and a frosted-glass window above it that is maybe four inches high, but stretches from one side of the wall to the next.
There are no pillows. I did not pack any. I can foresee this being one of the many problems with living here.
I sigh and knead my temples, willing myself to calm down. It’ll be fine. Sure, it’s not exactly the nicest place in the world, it’s not those pretty dorm rooms you saw on the website or washi taped to your vision board, but you have keys that lock the door, and windows nobody can see into, and a bed you can sleep in. It’s yours.
Plus, you can always just drench the place in fairy lights and posters.
I put the suitcase on the bed and the bed sheets crinkle in a very un-fabric way. I put my backpack down next to it,crinkle, and put my arms above my head, relishing how my aching back is finally free of its load. As I stretch, I catch a glimpse of myself in the dingy mirror on the wardrobe.
I look tired. My eyes, green-grey depending on how the light catches them, have dark circles under them from the early start. I usually wear at least a little makeup, but today I had to get on a plane, so nothing on earth sounded worse than makeup. As a result, the freckles that are usually hidden by foundation are dusting my cheeks; it’s almost like looking at a stranger. My hair is unusual for me too; long, blonde and thick, it’s one of the few things I take pride in. I usually have it curled and carefully styled, but today necessitated a fishtail braid just to keep it out of my face. I didn’t really succeed at that; little strands have escaped and they’re falling flat against my forehead. I blow them out of my face, staring at mirror-me, and they flop right back. Unbelievable. I sigh, shrug my shoulders up and down to loosen them up from all the backpack wearing, and unpack.
It’s going to be too much for that lame excuse of a desk. My lenses, DSLRs, analogue cameras, the film canisters, the memory cards, the huge foam cases they all live in, and my (honestly unnecessary) darkroom kit would already be stretching the desk’s capacity. Add all the other art supplies, from the sketchbooks to the oils, and the thing’s going to pop right out of the wall. That’s leaving aside notebooks, planners, pens, post-it notes….and where am I going to put makeup?I have maybehalfof the space I need. I pile all the stationery and a few sketchbooks on the left side of the desk, the makeup on the right, and it creaks ominously but doesn’t fall. I pull all the clothes out of the suitcase, put all the arty stuff apart from myfavorite camera back in there, and tuck the suitcase under the bed.That’ll do for the first week or so.
