“That place is disgusting,” someone sneers from the doorway.
Jamie and I both turn to see an angular, dark-haired girl stride into the room. She marches over to the desk and slaps four more textbooks onto its surface.
“Hi,” I squeak. “I’m Jess Canning, and this is my brother Jamie.”
The thin creature turns her face my way, the lenses of her narrow glasses glinting in the fluorescent light. “Violet Smith. Pleasure to meet you.”
Something about the way the girl said “pleasure” makes me wonder if she knows what that word means.
“I’m a first-year nursing student,” I tell her, all the while comparing our two desks. Mine has only two postcards propped up on the book ledge. One is a picture of JJ Watt, which my brothers insist is blasphemous because I’m not allowed to root for a non-Niner, but I don’t care because he’s hot. The other reads Keep Calm and Pour the Wine. Hers looks like a medical school bookstore.
“I’m a first-year, too,” she says with a shrug. “Let’s start with some ground rules, shall we? I need quiet time between six p.m. and six a.m. No music, no speaking. Those are the really valuable study hours, and we’re going to need to hit the books hard just to stay afloat the first trimester. Oh—and no food in the room, because this building has had trouble with ants.”
Did she just say six p.m.? And on my budget, granola bars at my desk are likely to be a main staple of my diet.
“Do you have anything to add?” she prompts.
“Um…” I look to my brother for help, but he’s staring at Violet in fascination. “I’ll let you know,” I finally say, the urge to flee overtaking me. “Jamie? We were on our way out?”
“Right.” He gives me a salute, but I’m already aiming at the door. “Jessie? Don’t forget your keycard. Don’t want to climb through the window on your first night, like you did at State.”
“Jesus.” Violet’s lip curls.
I grab the card off the bed where I’d left it and eject from the room like a fighter pilot whose jet has taken fire.
An hour later I’ve almost calmed down. The vodka in my bloodstream has helped.
Jamie, Wes and I just finished eating at Tonic, a slick new restaurant that’s recently opened in their neighborhood. I couldn’t afford the place, but Wes insisted on buying dinner to welcome me to Toronto. We’d meant to investigate the neighborhood around my new school, but I didn’t object to the change of plans when Wes said he was in the mood for something nicer.
The food had been awesome, too. Now, as I step outside and feel the breeze off Lake Ontario brushing my face, I can almost convince myself that I’m on a mini-vacation in a pretty city. Then I look up the street toward the streetcar stop and feel a new twinge of trepidation.
“Aw, Jessie.” Wes grabs my shoulders and hugs me. “It’s going to be okay. The scary roommate probably has first-day jitters, too.”
“You didn’t meet her,” I point out.
“She was a piece of work,” my brother agrees. “But so what? Even if she wins a Nobel Prize by the second week of school, it doesn’t mean you won’t do well.”
“Of course she’ll do well,” Wes scoffs, releasing me from the hug. “She’s a Canning, and Cannings are smart. They’re smart enough to drink a beer with me right now and watch the first Monday Night Football of the season. Your Niners are playing.”
I hesitate. I’d planned to re-read the schedule for the first week of school and memorize the campus map. But their apartment is just a few steps away, the semester hasn’t even started yet, and my team is playing.
“All right. I’m in.”
A few minutes later, I’m holding a beer and wondering where to sit. It shouldn’t be a tricky question. Wes and Jamie have claimed opposite ends of the sofa, sitting sideways with their legs casually intertwined. All their focus is on the screen.
The screen I can’t see from the counter stool where I’m perched right now.
“Shit,” my brother groans, pointing his beer at the screen. “Jessie, do you believe this?”
I walk behind the couch to catch the replay of the interception our QB shouldn’t have thrown. Nobody was open, damn it. He should’ve just tossed the ball out of bounds. “Oh, man. That is just wrong.”
It’s a good game. My whole family loves football—it’s our thing. I ruffle Jamie’s hair to console him over that awful play.
“Sit down,” my brother says, pointing at the obvious piece of furniture. The one I’ve been avoiding since I crossed their threshold. “The massage chair is awesome,” he adds.
Right.
I approach the chair the way I might approach a bloody crime scene—with both curiosity and discomfort. It still looks brand new, with buttery leather upholstery and a deep seat.
“Something wrong?” Jamie asks. He’s watching me like I’ve lost my mind.