In Your Room Page 2

  “That’s my little guy.” The cat sauntered up and planted himself in her lap as she sorted through the mess around her. “You think this house swap is the dumbest thing ever, don’t you?” she said, scratching the folds of loose fur beneath his chin. The cat let out a steady stream of purring. “Yeah, that’s right. I do too.”

  A few remnants of Molly’s childhood dotted the room: a once-abundant stuffed animal collection lined the top of the bookcase and was only visible if she was lying in bed; a now-dilapidated dollhouse Laura had commissioned for Molly after her father died jutted out from a nook in the back of the room. In its heyday, it boasted pristine yellow paint on the exterior and every luxury within, from intricate china-patterned dishware to Jacuzzi tub bathrooms and a giant playroom with every toy imaginable. Most of these items had long since been lost or destroyed, but Molly couldn’t bring herself to get rid of the house or even remove it from her room.

  But more than anything, the room resembled the studio of a budding designer. The bookshelves were lined with four years of Vogue and Teen Vogue back issues, as well as various books on fashion, photography, and art. A bare canvas dress form stood in the corner by the back window with multicolored pins protruding from it at every angle. It stood next to Molly’s prized possession, a 1978 Singer sewing machine she’d inherited from her grandmother. It stood on a table of its own in the corner of the room near the far left window so that Molly could see the street below while she worked. Sketches, both rough and complete, of dresses, skirts, shirts, and pants were posted on a bulletin board propped against the wall behind it, some with corresponding Polaroids of the finished products tacked below.

  Her grandmother’s vanity, aligned against the right wall, displayed her perfumes and makeup, what little she had, and what Molly liked to call her “snapshot of life”—a giant corkboard collage of her friends, mainly of Rina and Celeste, and inspirational magazine cutouts—covered half of the back wall by the door so that every day Molly went to sleep and woke up looking at it.

  “It’s not like the Arctic, you know,” Celeste announced, barging into the room. She had grown up across the street but had probably spent more time in Molly’s bedroom than her own.

  Molly continued sorting through her winter sweaters, deciding which ones to take. “Well, there’s snow there all year long. I’ve seen it on the Weather Channel.”

  Celeste rolled her eyes and made a beeline for the closet. “That’s only at the top of the mountains at, like, fifty thousand feet or whatever. And we both know you won’t be making any treks up there.”

  Celeste’s supermodel-thin body, long, wavy blond hair, and perma-tan made her a Cali girl through and through. Molly had long accepted the fact that when she was with Celeste, boys would never pay her any notice, or if they did, it would be as a result of an ill-conceived plan that Molly could get Celeste to like them. Molly had also tacitly accepted the fact that her shoulder-length black hair, almost-as-black eyes, and pale skin were not the prototype for female beauty, especially in Los Angeles.

  A few minutes later Rina arrived. “I’ve been trying to get here forever but my mom made me sit through dinner with the Singhs, which makes absolutely no sense since we’re about to spend the next six weeks in India with them, starting with a very long plane ride in two days.” She plunked herself down on the floor next to Molly and began sorting through her discarded piles. “Ugh. Don’t even ask how I’m going to survive.”

  Molly had been friends with Rina since freshman year when they were partners in biology. Rina was the definition of an old soul and understood Molly’s thoughts without needing much explanation. Celeste, on the other hand, was only interested in talking about one thing: boys.

  Celeste emerged from the closet wearing a red summer dress. She adjusted the mirror hanging on the back of the closet door to get a better view of her backside. “Can I borrow this for the summer?”

  “No way,” Molly said, transferring a neat stack of notebooks on the floor next to her bed to a box labeled JUNIOR YEAR.

  “Oh, come on! You’re clearly leaving all your best stuff behind for a reason.”

  “I’m all too aware of what happens to clothes you borrow.”

  “And what’s that?” Celeste asked innocently.

  “They disappear forever.”

  Celeste smirked. “Okay. A proposition. I only borrow one item at a time and return it to your closet before taking something else. Like Netflix.”

  “It’s not like I have any way of knowing if you’re lying all the way from Boulder.”

  “You have my word. And besides, I can be your spy to make sure nothing is out of place or stolen with the aliens living here.”

  “Okay, fine. One item at a time, including belts,” Molly conceded. Half her wardrobe would likely be missing or ruined by the time she came back. “But you can’t use your key. Even if they are aliens, they still deserve a little privacy.”

  “Aren’t you bringing this?” Rina asked, holding up a purple folder. In it was the application for a coveted fall internship with Cynthia Vincent, Molly’s favorite designer.

  “I changed my mind,” Molly said, putting the folder back on the desk. She had been working on her application for the last month and had been planning on spending the summer finalizing her sketches, shopping for fabric, and making one of the dresses in her portfolio before the August first deadline. She had also been planning on accomplishing all this in the place where she was most creative—her room. It seemed stupid, but she didn’t feel like she could pull it off in some strange house, in a strange city, with none of her usual materials or resources at her disposal. “I need my own things around me to be able to focus.”

  “You never know how you’ll feel when you get there,” Rina suggested, slipping the folder into Molly’s laptop bag. “Take it. Just in case.”

  “Well, if you’re not working, it will at least give you more time to get to know some Boulder boys,” Celeste said.

  “Right. I’m so glad my social calendar is wide open,” Molly snorted.

  Celeste tsked. “You’ll never get a bearded mountain man with that attitude.”

  Molly shook her head. Celeste could never last for more than a month without being lavished with attention by at least one suitor. For Molly, it wasn’t that simple. “You’re not exactly one to talk. This is the longest you’ve been single since the fifth grade.”

  “Precisely!” Celeste said. “Which is why I’m going to seduce some unsuspecting hottie after you guys both abandon me for the summer.”

  Rina laughed. “And we have no doubt you’ll succeed. Multiple times.”

  Molly envied Celeste’s ability to not only fall in love but to fall out of it just as quickly. She was immune to the perils of heartache and turned any breakup into an opportunity to meet someone else. Celeste believed that the key to happiness was to never look back. Molly didn’t have all that much to look back on except for a hopeless yearlong crush on Jacob Miller that had culminated in a single date at the end of freshman year, right before he went away to summer camp. He had kissed her on the cheek and told her he’d see her in August. Molly spent the next six weeks reliving that kiss—her first—and imagining all the real kissing they’d be doing when he got back.

  Only Jacob had never called or responded to her e-mails, and she’d had to wait until the first day of school to find out that he was already dating someone else.

  She hadn’t liked anyone since. If love hurt so much before she even got a chance to experience it, she couldn’t imagine how bad it would feel to get her heart broken for real.

  “Well, I say you’re going to be a famous designer with or without the internship. And going to Boulder’s your chance to stir things up,” Celeste said, parading in front of the mirror in her newly borrowed red dress. “You’ll see. This summer is going to be great. Now finish packing.”

  • • •

  “You almost packed?” Lisa called out from down the hall. She was in Charlie’s sister
s’ room, getting things organized for the trip.

  People often asked if it was confusing having two moms, as in, did he ever get them mixed up, which he thought was a really dumb question. In fact, he got asked that more about his moms than he did about his sisters, who were actually twins, and he certainly didn’t have any trouble telling Mia and Heather apart.

  “Getting there,” he yelled back. He was lying on top of his unmade bed, tossing a baseball and watching it arc up and barely graze the ceiling before spinning back down and landing in his glove. He’d gotten both the ball and glove as a birthday present from his paranoid great-uncle whom he’d never met, but who always sent Charlie sports-related gifts to make sure he was exposed to enough “guy things.”

  “I can hear the ball. That means you’re not packing.”

  “Fine,” he droned. It was amazing the way his mom had supersonic hearing when she needed it. He slid the ball and glove beneath the bed and got up to survey the room. It was a mess: piles of clean and dirty clothes were strewn across the floor, half the sheets hung off the bed exposing the mattress, and books were scattered everywhere. The poster of Adam Craig, his favorite mountain bike rider, was torn and starting to curl at the corners, but Charlie wasn’t prepared to let it go.

  He hauled a beat-up blue-and-yellow duffel bag out of the closet, dragging with it a few dust bunnies, several magazines, and a book on the history of mountain biking. He scooped the clothes off the floor and dumped them in the bag, figuring that if he’d worn them recently they were good enough to wear all summer.

  He sat down next to clear off his desk and unceremoniously swept the unused stack of fliers advertising his bike tours into the blue recycling bin next to his chair, accidentally knocking over a picture frame that had previously been obscured. He turned it over to the snapshot of him and Sylvia on their first date. Now that she was, as of two days ago, his ex-girlfriend, he unfastened the hooks, slid the velvet back off the frame, and removed the photo. Looking at it closely, he could see that even back then he wasn’t that into her. He knew he should have trusted his instincts and not bothered going out with her. Had he paid a little more attention to this picture and all the other signs telling him to jump ship two months earlier, he would have saved himself a lot of trouble and not made an enemy out of her.

  Charlie’s cell rang and he snapped it open. “I’m on my way,” he said preemptively. “Of course I’m not bailing.”

  He looked around at his now half-disheveled room. The rest of the packing could wait. “See you guys in ten.”

  “You’re not staying for dinner?” Sally appeared in the hall holding a spatula, wearing the orange apron Charlie had given her a few birthdays ago.

  “Can’t. Dan and Teddy are already waiting,” he said, opening the door to the garage.

  “I know this is your last night with your friends, but try not to make it too late, okay? We want to get an early start.”

  “I won’t.” He wanted to leave before he got roped back in. It wasn’t all the talk of clothes and girl stuff that he minded, living in an all-female house, but the power his moms, and even his sisters, often had over him. He was a sucker for a nice gesture and felt, as the only male figure in the house, the tug of obligation. When he was away from home he could just be himself.

  • • •

  Even at seven P.M., the sun was still high up in the sky, giving the impression it was never going to set. This was what he loved most about Boulder nights in the summer—the feeling of endless possibility. He released his hands out to the side like wings and closed his eyes, taking in the clean, crisp mountain air, and the summer sounds of sprinklers, mockingbirds, and mosquitoes.

  Charlie heard the low hum of Central Park from over a block away. From that distance, the white lights embracing the trees around the garden sparkled like diamonds, even in the light of day. Charlie stopped pedaling so he could coast the rest of the way, enjoying the view for as long as possible.

  As he reached the bike rack, the low hum turned into overlapping conversations. The party was in full effect. Several bars were set up on the perimeter, with tables scattered across the grassy middle. Slide 99, a local band comprised mainly of Fairview High alumni, performed on a stage at the back.

  “Duuuuude!” a loud voice called.

  Charlie turned around and saw Teddy and Dan surrounded by a group of girls on the grass.

  “Come on over, bro!” Teddy yelled again. He had his arms draped around two of the girls, whom Charlie recognized from school. Freshmen, if he remembered correctly.

  “What took you so long? We’ve been here for almost an hour,” Teddy said when Charlie reached them.

  “Hey, guys,” Charlie said. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Well, you’re here now. Let the games begin,” Dan said, greeting Charlie with a half-hug and a backslap.

  Charlie, Dan, and Teddy had all met in ski school when they were five. They had been the three best in their age group and always found themselves down the slope first with time to spare while they waited for everyone else. The coach eventually hired an assistant for the stragglers so he could focus on the threesome, with the hopes of finding Olympic potential among them. They all ended up wasting away their talent, according to the coach—Charlie fell in love with mountain biking, Dan fell in love with soccer, and, by the age of ten, Teddy fell in love with girls.

  “Dude, promise when you’re in L.A., you’ll go to a strip club and get a lap dance for me.”

  Charlie rolled his eyes, but Teddy pressed further. “Promise, dude,” he said, holding his clenched fist out. “It’s all I ask.”

  Unable to resist Teddy’s charm, Charlie broke into a smile and punched it in.

  “That’s my boy. And keep track of the real-or-fake quotient. It’ll keep you busy for hours in that city.”

  “What’s real or fake?” one of the girls piped up.

  “Here, let me show you,” Teddy said, running at her, zombie style, with his arms extended, reaching for her chest.

  “You’re unbelievable,” Charlie said, shaking his head and laughing while the girl playfully swatted Teddy away.

  Another girl, a cute brunette, sidled up to Charlie. “I know you,” she said, fake-punching his arm. “You’re Charlie Richards.”

  “Oh, here it comes,” Dan said.

  “That I am,” he responded, taking in her compact, slender build. She looked like a cheerleader. Too bad. Charlie wasn’t in the mood to flirt. “Anyone need a drink?” he asked, trying to exit the situation as gracefully as possible.

  “I’ll come with you,” Dan said.

  “Wait up,” Teddy called, leaving the girls behind. He turned Charlie around to face him. “Dude, she was totally into you. You’d better not be this picky in L.A.”

  Charlie shrugged. “You call it picky—I call it getting wiser with age.” He never tried all that hard or gave much thought to his appearance, but for some reason girls were drawn to his floppy blond hair and lanky build. He was done, though, going out with someone just because she was cute and willing; it was a recipe for things ending badly.

  “Incoming,” Teddy alerted his friends. Charlie looked up to see a group of six kids—three girls and three boys—gliding through the crowd. And Sylvia—his ex—was among them. She was unmistakable, with her green eyes and ponytailed red hair that swung like a pendulum in the middle of her back. While she didn’t make eye contact with Charlie, it was clear she knew he was there by the self-conscious way she pushed an imaginary hair away from her face and started to laugh.

  “Maybe we should walk the other way,” Dan suggested.

  “No, I’m good,” Charlie said, as the group approached.

  “It’s not you I’m worried about,” Dan said.

  “Walking away makes me an asshole.”

  “And not walking away invites a scene,” Teddy said. “Dude, the girl’s obsessed with you.”

  “Give her a little more credit,” Charlie said. He had originally planned on letti
ng things with Sylvia peter out through the summer, but when he’d found out he was going to L.A., it had seemed better to make a clean break. Sylvia hadn’t seen it that way. She’d begged Charlie to give her another chance and forced him to admit that he didn’t like her anymore.

  It was true, but it had sounded much harsher out loud.

  When she got closer, Charlie broke away from his friends to approach her. “Hi, Sylvia.”

  She walked right past, her eyes fixed ahead, like she didn’t even see him.

  He had expected her to blow him off, but he didn’t want to be a jerk and ignore her too, especially after hurting her so much.

  “All right, we can go now,” he said, returning to Dan and Teddy.

  “To the bar?” Teddy asked, raising his empty plastic beer cup.

  Charlie surveyed the crowd in the middle of the park near the band. Everyone was drinking and dancing to the music, having what seemed like the time of their lives. If he were staying for the summer he would have been among them, probably even dancing with Sylvia, but he was no longer in the mood for a party. “You guys go ahead. I still haven’t packed, and we’re pretty much leaving at the crack of dawn.”

  “But this is our last night, dude,” Teddy protested.

  “I’ll be back so fast you won’t even know I was gone,” Charlie said, breaking off in the other direction.

  “Hey! Don’t forget! I’ll see you in Utah, bro!” Dan called out.

  Charlie pumped his fist in the air in response and jogged off across the grass toward his bike.

  He pedaled down the street away from the park, the music and chatter floating up into the dark sky behind him. A few blocks down he arrived at a gate with a sign that read CLOSED FROM SUNSET TO SUNRISE. He ignored it, slipping through an opening in the side. With no one else in his way and the moonlight guiding him, he made it up to a ridge in just fifteen minutes, followed it a few hundred feet, and then turned down a barely visible passage that had been formed by Charlie’s use.

  He charged down, full speed, anticipating every fallen branch and exposed root in his path. With no apparent deceleration, he made a sudden left onto another barely formed trail, which descended at a more gradual rate, until it ended at an outcropping of rocks.