A tear slides onto the stained gray carpet of apartment 10A in University Towers in Ann Arbor, Michigan. I watch the tear pearl up on the synthetic fibers then slowly seep down to join heaven knows what other bodily fluids, flakes, and crustinesses that might lurk beneath, stuff that can’t be vacuumed up or shampooed away by the maintenance crew and so pretty much just stays there forever.
And yet there is no escape. I seem to have signed a lease on an apartment that is a sin against God—a perversion, a sickness, and a crime. The price? Four hundred dollars a month. The guys share one bedroom, and I—and someone yet to be determined—will share the other. Oh, I could say no, I guess. I could tell Tony and Joel that this just won’t work for me, that they’ll find someone else no problem. Then I could go out and find the perfect little college commune experience—an old house with a tattered sofa on the porch and happy hippie housemates all cooking up vegetarian cuisine, and warm parties featuring Lambrusco and cats and long talks about the arts around a late-night kitchen table. And wood—lots of splintered, well-worn wooden floors. And ripply windows looking out onto trees that display the time of year.
Yup, I could find that in about three minutes. Everyone wants to live with a dance major, right? But Tony and Joel are the only people I know in this town, and I am simply too nice to cause them any problems. Not causing problems is important to me. In fact, if I ever were to get a tattoo (which I wouldn’t, because it would upset my father) it would be one word: nice.
I walk past the still empty bed next to mine and take a look out the window. I’m on the tenth floor—that’s got to be some kind of selling point, right? But no. University Towers is built in the shape of a huge, angular U, and we are on the inside of said U. All I can see out the window is the window of another room across the air shaft, where the head of an Asian student is bent over a desk, illuminated by a fluorescent reading lamp. If I press my face hard against the dirty glass and look up, I can see a distant triangle of sky. That’s it.
Oh! But furniture is supplied! That’s a plus! Out in the living room, there’s a black Naugahyde sofa with matching chairs. In the bedrooms, everyone gets a fake-wood desk. The two twin beds are placed head-to-head and separated by a fake-wood divider-headboard thing. The first thing I did when I got here was call the maintenance crew and have them remove my bed, leaving the mattress on the floor. Somehow that helped, being a little closer to the earth.
I collapse on the mattress. I really should finish unpacking, but I hear Tony and Joel moving about on the other side of my door and remember that since I am apparently committed to staying here, I need to conquer this roommate issue. In fact, it may already be conquered. In forty-five minutes, someone’s coming over to see the room. She’s a dance major, but I haven’t met her yet—well, not formally.
Earlier today, I was alone in tiny, peaceful Studio C, sitting with my legs splayed into a wide second position, trying to lay my body down on the floor, when Tony popped in and said, “You know that girl who might want the room? She’s next door taking ballet. Do you want to see her?”
“Why would I . . . um, okay, sure.”
Tony opened the door to Studio D a crack. Piano music swelled. “She’s over there,” he whispered over my shoulder. “The thin one.”
Thin. Crap.
I peeked, and my first sight was a wiry, muscular woman with her left hand on the barre, executing a perfect developée to the front (my worst extension), and it’s way over ninety degrees. Her right leg soared. It floated. It flew. Her black tights, cut off somewhere below the knee, revealed glowing white skin. Her foot, in a beat-up pink slipper, pointed up, I swear, at God. Her standing leg remained unconcerned, straight as an arrow and beautiful. I shut the door. Tony looked at me, as if expecting me to say something.
“Cool!” I said. “She looks nice.” She did not look nice. She looked like a warrior. With a spear.
“What do you think?” asked Tony. “Joel and I like her. She’s funny. Different. She’s coming over a little after five.”
“Okay.”
So that’s where we are. I lie on my mattress thinking about the potential roommate. How can I possibly live with someone so thin who has such a high extension? But damn, I certainly haven’t put in a lick of effort to find anyone else. And she needs a place bad, Tony told me. Why, I wonder? Why doesn’t she have a place? She was here last semester. Doesn’t she have any friends? I close my eyes and drift a while.
A soft knock on my door. Voices in the living room. I get up and open the door and there she is, sitting rather primly on the Naugahyde sofa. She smiles and tells me hello. Her speech is weirdly precise, as if she’s been practicing. Tony and Joel are kind of fluttering around the periphery. Everyone starts talking about the department, our teachers, which classes we’re taking, which of our fellow students are “good” and which are not.
Maybe it’s that I’ve just woken up, but I feel disconnected from it all, like I’m hovering over the conversation even as I participate in it. I sit in one of the chairs, my legs tucked under me, and study the woman on the couch. She’s wearing black jeans and a T-shirt she seems to have cut holes in on purpose. She is beautiful in a way that terrifies me. She looks like Scarlett O’Hara, postwar—thin, stretched face, bony shoulders (the shirt drapes over one), hair quite dark, chopped off somehow, as if she did it herself with a knife. Her eyes are huge and green. All of a sudden she gets up and goes in the kitchen, opens the cupboard, takes out my New York City Ballet mug, and pours herself a glass of water. It’s like she already lives here.
She tells us about herself. She’s from some Detroit suburb; her dad works for some car company. She took some classes here last year, but this is her first official semester, and she has a scholarship. Christopher Flynn, the ballet teacher, is her best friend in the world; he got her into dance. They spend a lot of time together.
I stretch my face into a smile and really do try to be open-minded and friendly while at the same time trying to remain true to my feelings of extreme anxiety. I start thinking: Okay, I don’t like this woman, but if she moves in, will I then be friends with Christopher? He’s so colorful and deliciously gay and brilliant. He uses amazing metaphors in ballet class, just amazing. So far, I love his class, though I await with some trepidation his sarcastic corrections. (Earlier today, a girl in the locker room showed me a blood blister on her inner thigh where Flynn pinched her to get her to turn out more. Will he like me more if I’m friends with his protégée? If I’m friends with his protégée, will he not pinch my inner thigh?)
So then Scarlett O. breaks a conversational lull and says, “Gee, Whitley, you don’t look very happy right now. What’s the matter?”
Busted. I stammer something inane but more or less true about current fatigue levels. Then, “But yeah! Sure! You can move in right away. The sooner the better!”
What? What did I just say?
She seems satisfied with this, but more than that, she seems interested, too. She smiles at me, and things lighten a bit. I think. I don’t know. Then the phone rings. It’s my mom, and I tell her I’ll call her right back. By the time I hang up, Tony and Joel have gone into their room to get something and she’s over by the window, her face pressed to the glass, looking up.
And I have a new roommate. Get this: her name is Madonna.