I found the payphone on the first floor. A girl wearing sweats and dark sunglasses sat in the corner, holding the phone receiver to her ear.
“I can’t live without you, Bobbie,” she cried, wiping the tears from her cheeks. She sniffled and then pointed to a box of tissue. “Hey, you! Will you hand that to me?”
I took the tissue box from the end table near a worn out couch that smelled faintly of Doritos and handed it to her. “Are you gonna be long?”
“Seriously?” She moved the glasses to the end of her nose and peered at me over the top.
“I have to call my mom.” I sound pathetic. More pathetic than this girl.
“Bobbie, I have to go, some dude has to call his mommy. I’ll call you in fifteen minutes, okay? Yeah, some guy.” She looked me up and down. “He’s wearing a Radiohead T-shirt. Yeah, sideburns . . . skinny.”
I threw up my hands as if to say, What’s your problem?
“Okay, Bobbie, wuv you, bye. No, you hang up . . . no, you first.”
“Come on,” I whispered.
She stood and hung up the phone. “It’s all yours.”
“Thanks,” I said. She rolled her eyes. “Wuv you,” I called out to her as she walked away.
I pulled my calling card from my wallet and dialed my mother’s number. “Hello.”
“Hi, Mom.”
“Matthias, how are you, honey?”
“Good. Just got settled in.”
“Have you called your dad?”
I winced. I had transferred to NYU to put a whole country between me and my father’s disappointment. Even after I had won photography awards in college, he still believed I had no future in it.
“No, just you so far.”
“Lucky me,” she said earnestly. “How are the dorms? Have you seen the photo lab yet?” My mom was the only one who supported me. She loved being the subject of my photos. When I was young, she gave me her father’s old Ciro-Flex camera, which started my obsession. By ten, I was taking photos of everything and everyone I could.
“The dorms are fine, and the lab is great.”
“Have you made any friends?”
“A girl. Grace.”
“Ahhh . . .”
“No, it’s not like that, Mom. We’re just friends. I met her and talked to her for a minute yesterday.”
Wuv-you girl was back. She sat on the couch, leaned over the arm dramatically, and stared at me, upside down. Her weird, upside-down face made me uneasy.
“Is she into the arts, like you?”
“Yes, music. She was nice. Friendly.”
“That’s wonderful.” I could hear dishes clinking around. I thought idly that my mom wouldn’t have to do the dishes if she were still married to my dad. My father was a successful entertainment lawyer while my mom taught art at the private school for a meager salary. They divorced when I was fourteen. My dad remarried right away, but my mom remained single. Growing up, I chose to live with my dad and stepmother, even though my mom’s tiny bungalow in Pasadena always felt more like home. There was more space at my dad’s for my older brother and me.
“Well, that’s nice. Did Alexander tell you that he asked Monica to marry him?”
“Really? When?”
“A few days before you left. I thought you would have heard by now.”
My brother and I didn’t talk, especially about Monica, who was once my girlfriend. He was following in my dad’s footsteps and was about to pass the bar in California. He thought I was a loser.
“Good for him,” I said.
“Yeah, they’re well suited for each other.” There were a few beats of silence. “You’ll find someone, Matt.”
I laughed. “Mom, who said I was looking?”
“Just stay away from the bar scene.”
“I went to more bars before I was twenty-one than I do now.” Wuv-you girl rolled her eyes at me. “I’ve gotta go, Mom.”
“Okay, honey. Call me again soon. I want to hear more about Grace.”
“Okay. Wuv you, Mom.” I winked at the girl as she stared me down a foot away.
“Wuv you, too?” She laughed.
5. You Were Like a Light
Matt
I killed time by rearranging my portfolio. At some point I knew I’d have to get out and make friends, but for the time being I was hoping to catch one person in particular, either on her way in or out. I’m not sure how obvious I was being by leaving my door cracked, but I didn’t care, especially when I finally heard Grace’s voice from the hall.
“Knock-knock.” I got up to put on a shirt but she pressed the door open with her index finger before I had time.
“Oh, sorry,” she said.
“No worries.” I opened the door all the way and smiled. “Hey, neighbor.”
She leaned against the doorjamb as her eyes fell from my face and traveled down my chest, to where my jeans hung below my boxers, and then further down to my black boots.
“I like your . . . boots.” She looked back up to my eyes. Her mouth was open very slightly.
“Thanks. Do you want to come in?”
She shook her head. “No, actually I came by to see if you wanted to get lunch. It’s free,” she said quickly, and before I had time to answer she added, “They’ll actually pay you.”