Amy & Roger's Epic Detour

“Hey, Leonard,” Roger said.

“Hey, Sullivan,” the guy—presumably Leonard—said, raising one hand for a fist bump without looking up from the screen.

“How’s Honour Quest treating you these days?” Roger asked.

“I made it to the Forest of Doom,” he said.

“I see that,” Roger said, leaning over the couch to look at the TV screen. “Impressive.”

“What are you doing here?” Leonard asked. “I thought you were in California for the summer. Are you here till school starts?”

“No,” said Roger. “Spending the summer in Philadelphia.”

“Bummer,” Leonard said. The virtual him stomped around a bit, waving his sword.

“So we’re crashing here tonight,” Roger said. “I talked to Bron and she said it was fine. Mind if I take the extra bed in your room?”

“Sure,” said Leonard. “The more the merrier, and all that. Just put your stuff anywhere. And I heard there’s going to be a little fiesta tonight at the Quiet Dorm. Should be pretty rocking.” He glanced up and seemed to notice me for the first time. “Oh. Hey,” he said. “Leonard Cho.”

“Amy Curry,” I said.

“Charmed,” he said, turning his attention back to the screen. “Whatever you do, Sullivan, avoid Conrad’s room. He’s been keeping a rabbit in his closet, and it’s turned on him.”

“A rabbit?” I asked, not sure I’d heard right.

“It’s turned on him?” Roger echoed.

Leonard shook his head. “It’s not pretty. Just do yourself a favor and avoid the whole sitch.”

“Sure,” said Roger. “Thanks, man.” He raised his eyebrows at me and headed into the kitchen. I followed, looking around. There were signs that a number of people shared this kitchen, and not all harmoniously, with charts on the wall for trash and cleanup duties, cabinets secured with padlocks, and the words JUST EAT YOUR OWN GODDAMN FOOD AND NOBODY GETS HURT painted on the wall.

“So,” Roger said, crossing the kitchen, “welcome to the International House. My friend Bronwyn’s the RA here for the summer, and she said we could crash for the night. She said you could stay with her.” He headed up a narrow, dark stairway with shoe treads worn into the carpet, and I followed.

“She won’t mind?” I asked, realizing that I now understood the BRON CALLING on his phone earlier. Roger stopped in front of a door with a whiteboard attached to it. It was covered in messages, most of which seemed to have to do with a rabbit.

“Not at all,” he said. “I’m across the hall in Leonard’s room.” He pointed it out. “He’s barely ever off the couch, so I’ll probably get the room to myself.” Roger opened Bronwyn’s door to reveal a small, messy room that seemed to be one giant closet—clothes were hanging everywhere, and the small set of drawers was overflowing and stacked with piles of shirts. There was what I assumed was a bed pushed against one wall, but it was hard to know for sure, as it was covered in clothing.

“Wow,” I said, looking around.

“I know,” he said. “She’s got a bit of a shopping problem.” He looked down at me. “Are you okay with this?” he asked. “I mean, we can always get a hotel if you’d be more comfortable….”

I shook my head. “It’s fine,” I said. It wasn’t, really. I didn’t want to have to stay with a stranger, some college girl who was probably going to resent the fact I was there. But this was so clearly where Roger wanted to be, I didn’t see any way I could get us out of it without disappointing him.

He smiled at me, seeming relieved, and I knew that had been the right answer. “Great. Well, I’ll go get the bags out of the car. Be right back.” Before I could reply, Roger was out the door.

Even without the stacks of clothes, it would have been a tiny room. The stuff everywhere just made it feel that much more claustrophobic. There was basically just the bed, a tiny space of floor next to it, and a desk with science textbooks piled around and on top of it. There was another bulletin board above the desk, and, recognizing Roger in a picture, I stepped inside the room to look at it.

“Hey there!”

I turned around at the sound of the voice and saw a girl standing in the doorway. She had long brown hair and bangs that swept almost into her eyes, and she was around my height and build, if maybe a little curvier. I assumed this was Bronwyn, only because she was wearing the outfit of someone who cared about clothes deeply, as the owner of this room clearly did. She had on jeans and a T-shirt, like me, but that was where the similarity ended. She seemed to have that thing that I’d noticed in girls at school—a way of putting together clothing so that everything just worked, and seemed special and pulled together but also casually effortless. Her white T-shirt was fitted but somehow also loose. She had a few delicate gold necklaces layered on top of each other, and these seemed to coordinate perfectly with her gold flats. I looked down and saw that on my own T-shirt, there was what looked like a blob of jam from the toast I’d had at lunch.

“Hey,” I said, sticking my hands into my pockets, hoping she wouldn’t notice the jam.

“Are you Amy?” she asked, looking at me closely. She walked over to me, somehow managing to avoid stepping on any clothes or shoes. She was looking at me with the friendliest expression I’d ever seen on anyone who wasn’t a flight attendant.

“Yes,” I said, sticking out my hand to shake hers, figuring that maybe this was the thing to do at college. “Hi.”

She didn’t even acknowledge my hand, just took a step closer and hugged me tight. I immediately felt myself stiffening. I hadn’t really hugged anyone in a long time. A few people had hugged me at the funeral, but those had been quick, barely touching, two-pats-on-the-back hugs. This girl wasn’t letting go. After a moment, I tried to extricate myself, but that only seemed to make her hold tighter. It was strange to feel, since we were about the same height, but it seemed like I was being hugged by a much bigger person. I felt something inside me weaken, a splinter or two popping off the dam I’d put up in front of everything I didn’t want to feel. The second I felt this, I took a step back. Bronwyn took a step back of her own and smiled at me.

“So nice to meet you!” she said, and I heard a faint, twangy Southern accent in her words. “You,” for example, seemed to have more syllables in it than I was used to hearing.