It was remarkable to me how far I had come in less than a year’s time, since I had
escaped to Callister. I had gone from having no idea how to do anything without hired help to
being completely self-sufficient—well, most days anyway. There were signs of my abnormality, of
course—like the time I had tried to make hard-boiled eggs. I found out the hard way that you
needed to add water to the pot, and the house reeked of burnt eggshells for a week. I learned
through observation and a lot of trial and error.
Inside, the laundromat was bright, with blue plastic chairs lined against the white walls and
tumbleweeds of lint rolling on the checkered floor. I loved the smell of the laundromat—to me
it smelled of fresh starts, possibilities, independence.
I started by going through all my pockets—good thing I did, or I would have washed my new
pocket-sized music player—before stuffing two machines with as much clothes as they could take
and threw half a roll of quarters in. Then I sat on one of the machines, threw my feet over on
the lid of the other machine, and waited. The most important rule of the laundromat: never leave
your clothes unattended, not even for a second, even when the place seems to be completely
deserted of people. Otherwise, you’ll see some local flavor walking around the next day wearing
your tweed pants as a scarf, your underwear as a hat … another lesson I had learned the hard
way.
I wasted my idle time playing with my new toy. It took me a good five minutes to remember how to
turn it on, and then another half hour to navigate through the different features to find music.
Bob Marley was there, along with every one of his albums that was ever made or remade. Who knew
there were so many remakes of “One Love”?
I scrolled down to the next name on the list: this obscure band called Purple Faced Ragamuffins
—I didn’t even know they had recorded an actual album. I had seen them play once in this dingy
bar in Soho when I was still totally underage. I had snuck out of school with a girl from my
soccer team. She was stalking the drummer.
The music-thingy must have had over a thousand songs, most of which I recognized—surprising
given my limited music knowledge. But, in the end, I settled with what was safe and familiar and
finished laundry night with Bob.
When I got back from the laundromat, a red dot was blinking on my cell phone. Skylar had left me
a message from an airport phone—it was rapidly worded, like he had been afraid that I might
pick up the line and he would be forced to actually talk to me. I could hear his flight being
called in the background—nothing like waiting to the very last minute. He said all the right
things: that he wasn’t mad, that he would miss me, that he would call me as soon as he got
settled at home. And then the line went dead. I wondered if it was normal that I wasn’t sad.
Chapter Three:
Haunted
Day two of my four-month escape from civilization, and another sleepless night. Insomnia was
becoming a bad habit.
My brain was cluttered with things I didn’t need: the fear of boredom, of being alone with my
thoughts without distraction, Skylar’s effortless desertion … the boy in the gray sweater. I
spent more time thinking about the latter.
There was no question in my mind that this boy was odd and beautiful—a dangerous combination.
Something about his guardedness, something about the way others in the projects had looked at
him with fear, made me think that I should probably run the other way next time and concentrate
on not thinking about him.
I had spent the night trying to figure out why I had been the target of his, at weird times,
moments of anger. And then there was the final warning—or was it a threat? When the light of
morning rose, I still didn’t have an answer to my questions. He was a roller coaster of
incomprehensible emotions—and I was borderline obsessed.
At midnight I had given up trying to sleep, stuck my new earphones in, and cleaned the house. By
five a.m., the house was museum spotless, but I had exhausted the sole source of entertainment
originally saved for the now-looming, lonely weekend.
At work, I was a speed demon with my new music blaring in my ears. By the time lunchtime came
around, I looked at the cart of scanned books in horror—it was already full. I would have a
hard time trying to explain that much evidence away. I decided to take an extra-long lunch to
think about what I’d done.
Lunch bag in hand, I walked out of the library, careful to take the stairs and do a quick scan
of the perimeter so that I wouldn’t run into another awkward moment with Jeremy … or his cute
blonde.
It was humid outside. The sun was beating down on the abandoned university grounds; the smart
people were hiding in the air-conditioned cafeteria. I considered doing just that myself, but
that would be tempting fate with more Jeremy-awkwardness.
I settled on a table that sat under the shade of a maple tree, took my peanut butter and stale
bread sandwich out, and opened the book that I had borrowed from my scanned stack. Dummy
Variables for Stata—it turned out to be not as interesting as it sounded.