Page 24 of Rent: Paid in Full

Did someone say stupid?

Because, man-oh-man, do I ever have something stupid in mind.

I mean, I’m not going to do it. Obviously, I’m not going to do it. That would be ridiculous in the extreme, not to mention illegal, I think.

I should probably Google it, but yeah, I don’t think this is the kind of thing Bev was suggesting at all. I bet she’d be shocked shitless if she knew. She’d have to leave work early this evening to get home to tell Mal all about the new craziest roommate situation she’s ever encountered. That’s what she’d have to do.

I’d love to tell her, and if not for the fact I fell into the grip of temporary insanity last week and inadvertently took money in exchange for sexual services, I absolutely would.

I’ve just Googled it, and sex work is definitely illegal outside of Nevada, and even there, it’s tightly regulated. So, things being what they are, I can’t mention anything about Miller and his deviant behavior to Bev on the grounds that I may incriminate myself.

I’m in the quad outside the library, toying with the idea of going inside. I love the library. It’s easily my favorite place on campus. The quiet maze of books, the judgmental hissing of librarians shushing students, the musky smell of old pages, the endless possibility of thousands and thousands of lifetimes lived through ink on parchment. I love it. I love all of it. Even so, since I moved in with Miller, I’ve been spending so much time there that I think I’ve finally worn myself out. It’s a nice day today, and I don’t feel like being cooped up.

I drift around the quad for a while. My favorite bench—the one almost hidden from view by an unruly row of conifers—is occupied by a black-haired girl with her head down and shoulders sloping. She’s blinking slowly, not looking up. Loneliness emanates off her in waves. I watch her for a few seconds and let myself feel what she’s feeling. It’s an emotion I know all too well. Empty and unsure, uncomfortable here by herself, but probably more uncomfortable somewhere with more people.

My palms start to itch with sweat as I approach her. I’d love to stop and do just about anything else, but I made myself apromise a long time ago that if I see someone isolated like this, I’ll wave them over or sit beside them for a while. I swore it, and I make myself do it no matter what the fist has to say about it.

I start walking in her direction, wiping my hands roughly on my jeans as I do, but before I get to her, a lecturer from the economics building takes the seat next to her. I keep an eye on them for a while, and when I see the lecturer offer her half his sandwich, I walk away. I find a spot on a bench that’s practically in the middle of a busy walkway and sit on it instead. I feel like a dork in a display cabinet, so I bury my head in my phone and try to ignore the omnipresent certainty that people are looking and laughing at me.

I see a message from my friend, Ben. Funnily enough, he’s someone I met because of this very same promise. He was hiding in the corner of a coffee shop just off campus during freshman year at the same time I was. I took a seat next to him, and though we didn’t talk much, I liked being in his presence. He felt chaotic but unthreatening and nice to be around. I found him in the same spot the next week and the next. Each week, we talked more, and over time, we moved from being acquaintances to friends. We spent a lot of time together last year, but sadly—or happily, depending on your perspective—he got together with this girl named Nicole at the end of the year, and that changed our dynamic a lot. Don’t get me wrong, Nicole is great. She’s a really lovely girl. I’m happy for him, especially since he was so besotted with her that he was pretty much convinced he was on the brink of death by unrequited love for most of last year.

I’m glad they got together, and I like seeing how happy they are. It’s just that it would be nice if they could get their tongues out of each other’s mouths long enough to hold a short conversation.

Ben: Nic and I are watchingThe Empire Strikes Backtonight. Wanna come over?

That sounds like a fun time. It’s the kind of thing we used to do all the time before he got together with Nicole, and even since then, they make a point of inviting me over every other week or so. Every time is the same, popcorn and a few beers, a cult classic on Ben’s crappy old laptop, followed by a lively debate on the pros and cons of the movie. I spend the entire time pretending not to notice that their hands are under the big crocheted blanket Nicole left in Ben’s room when she first started staying over. Or that their eyes are slightly glazed over.

So, it’s not that it’s not nice—it is super nice of them, and I know it will be a good night—it’s just that it doesn’t feel like something new or fun.

Or stupid.

Another message pops up, and my first thought is that it’s Ben again. My heart sinks when I recognize the number. The quote for my truck repairs is finally in. I’m in no way religious, quite the opposite if anything, but I admit I do offer up a silent prayer on the off chance someone is listening before clicking on the message.

“What?” I say it loudly enough to draw a worried look from a girl walking by.

One thousand three hundred and seventeen dollars.

What the fuck?

The guy said he would do his best to keep the cost down. He said he thought he could do it for “around a thousand.”

I explained my position—I’m a broke-ass, sad motherfucker—in granular detail. There’s no possible way he could have misunderstood. In what world does three hundred dollars not make a huge difference to someone?

My ears and hands start feeling warm and there’s a thin buzzing layer of thick hot air all around my face.

What am I going to do? Even a thousand was miles out of my budget.

I can’t call my parents and ask them for help because they’ll help me even if it means going without themselves, and I can’t stand that. They told me I should go to our local college for this very reason. Unexpected expenses, they called it, and goddammit, I hate it when they’re right about this kind of thing.

I’m so wired I can’t sit still, so I take off at a brisk pace. Going where? I couldn’t tell you. I just need to move. I need some air. Old stone buildings and half-naked trees fly past me as I speed by.

A short while later, I find myself at the door of The Pardon, the bar that happens to be geographically closest to the library. I guess I should have had some inkling that I’d end up here. God knows I could use a drink.

“Tequila,” I say, putting a ten down on the bar.

“What kind? We got…”

“Whatever’s cheapest.” And there you were thinking I had shame. Wrong. I don’t.