Page 8 of Rent: Paid in Full

“Ryan Haraway,” Bev booms, “that better not be you.”

Emily looks up at me nervously.

“It is me.” I smile sheepishly, holding out my hand to her.

She takes it in hers. Her grip is light, her hands bony and soft. “Emily.”

I think I do a reasonable job of pretending that’s new information, but I’m not sure. “Don’t worry about Bev. This is how we…play. Come on, I’ll come with you.”

“Bev, just give me a second. You are going tolovethis.” I happen to know that Bev’s been in this role for almost twelve years, and the main reason she’s still doing it is because she lives for horrifying roommate stories. Lives for them. Eats them up and takes them home in a doggy bag to share with her husband, Mal.

I sit on one of the seats in her cubicle and Emily takes the other. I hand Bev the red velvet cupcake. She eyes it suspiciously, but she takes it. It’s a good sign.

“Student number,” she says, tapping impossibly long, brightly colored nails on her keyboard while maintaining unblinking eye contact with Emily.

I hardly think she needs my student number. Probably has it memorized or written on a Post-it stuck on her computer screen right under the wordsBannedorBlacklistedorDo not engage with this person.

I give it to her anyway, just to be safe.

Emily launches into her tale of woe, her voice weak and quivery but gaining strength as she goes.

“Uh uh.” Bev’s eyes widen with disgust. If you know her like I do, you’ll detect a subtle undercurrent of interest neatly pinchedin the corners of her eyes and mouth. “And this chicken, was it roast chicken or fried?”

She’ll need this level of detail to take home to Mal.

“Uh, I think it’s just rotisserie chicken. You know, the kind you get from Costco at the counter in those plastic containers.” Bev nods sympathetically. “She keeps the containers too.”

“Nuh-uh,” Bev says three or four times as the story escalates, head shaking in disbelief. “Oh no, she did not!” she cries when Emily gets to the bloody mural. “Girl! You should have been down here months ago. You can’t live like this!”

Emily crumples in relief, dropping her face into her hands and omitting annoyingly sweet little sniffles and the odd hiccup.

Bev widens her eyes at me and, when I don’t get her drift, points hard at Emily and then makes a very unsubtle patting motion.

Oh.

I reach over and pat Emily’s shoulder lightly three times, half expecting her to recoil. Instead, she leans into my touch and cries onto my shoulder while Bev taps away furiously.

“Okay,” she says at last. “I got a place for you. It’s a one-bed.”A one-bed?? Aone-bed? What the hell, Bev? You’ve been swearing black and blue for months that there are no one-beds left on the entire campus.“I keep this one open for emergencies like this.”

Emily takes the tissue Bev offers her, wipes her eyes, and blows her nose. Her lashes are wet and sticking together, making her look like she’s wearing glittery mascara. There’s no hint of bloodshot eyes or blotchy cheeks. In fact, she might look better now than she did before she started crying.

Life really is a cruel and unusual little bitch, isn’t she?

“I take it you’re only here to help your friend, Emily,” Bev says.

“No, no, ‘fraid not, Bev. Sadly, the new roommate isn’t working out.”

Bev crosses her arms tightly across her chest. “Oh no? Why not?”

I’ll be honest: no one wants to follow an act like Emily’s when complaining about a roommate. You just don’t. It’s thrown me off my game a little. I find myself struggling to come up with something that isn’t “He makes me coffee in the mornings and serves it to me in a dick mug” or “He doesn’t know the difference between Superman and Clark Kent glasses.”

This isn’t my first rodeo, and even though I know Bev has a soft spot for me and red velvet cake, she’d laugh me out of the building for that.

“Irreconcilable differences,” I say firmly. Sometimes, less is more when it comes to making formal complaints. Sometimes, real power comes from showing restraint.

Bev’s mouth squeezes into a tiny puckered dot. She doesn’t blink. She doesn’t look amused in the slightest. If dealing with me isn’t the last thing she needs in her life, it’s definitely second or third to last. She’s not remotely in the right mood to help me right now.

“More irreconcilable than Steve the Snorer?” she asks snippily.