Dreamland City. Larina Lavergne
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around the stubby pencil as I’m drawing, at my face unblemished by the heavy make-up that is war paint for her kind.
She has no idea what to do with me.
After staring at my left ear for a long moment, she finally clears her throat. “OK. Should I sketch out a plan, and then we can talk about it?”
I shrug, eloquently.
She nods slowly and looks around at the other huddled groups talking animatedly amongst themselves. She clears her throat, and then she glances down at my doodle, a slight frown on her face. It wasn’t funny enough earlier, so I’ve added on humongous boobs to the TA as she lies on her back with the unicorn on top of her.
I can’t read what’s in Reagan’s eyes. I can’t imagine what a classy, perfect girl like her must be feeling about my drawing: Dislike? Distaste? Disgust?
Unexpectedly, a tiny smile appears on her face.
7
Reagan and I hardly see each other, despite being roommates. Every day the next few weeks I wander about campus until late, and when I come back, she’s either asleep or out. She’s emailed me a bunch of times, left notes on our door, my bed and even on the top of the pile of my dirty clothes, but I ignore them all.
Finally one Friday morning, my roommate corners me as I’m taking a shower.
“Where’ve you been?” The irritation in her voice is palpable. She’s just woken up—her eyes are slightly puffy and her hair bunched up in weird places, but her skin is still fresh and glowing. Naked and dripping, I eye her cagily, but I don’t say anything in return. Finally, to break the standoff, I turn my back on her, but she then reaches out from around me and turns off the shower.
“Are you serious?” I snarl, dripping, the soap pooling in my eyes and beginning to sting.
“Look, we need to get started on our project.”
I fumble with the knob and turn the shower back on, but Psycho Bitch turns it immediately back off.
“Fuck! Stop that!”
“Stop ignoring me,” Reagan responds coldly.
Breathing heavily, I pivot to face her again. “Why don’t you just do it by yourself?”
“How about we not do that? The Professor will know. You’re not being fair.”
I turn the shower on again, and this time she lets it run. I close my eyes and let the water wash the soap off my face. When I open my eyes again, she’s still there, staring at me with an unreadable expression on her face.
“Fine,” I say, more to get rid of her than from any kind of capitulation. “I’ll do it.”
She nods then, a beginning of a satisfied smile twisting her lips upwards. “OK. When should we meet? This weekend before Thanksgiving break? You’re going to be around, right? You live in Raleigh?”
Why is she going to be around?
“Whenever,” I grind out.
“OK. Tomorrow afternoon?”
“Peachy,” I say. I’ve always liked that word, and so rarely get the chance to say it. To use it sarcastically is a real bonus.
“OK we can decide where to go or maybe even work in our room.”
I’m planning on visiting Tommy for break. I’ll leave extra early tomorrow before she wakes up. I nod at Reagan and turn away, closing my eyes again against the needles of water.
It’s silence except for the sound of the shower. I think she’s left, but as I turn the faucet off, I hear her footsteps walking away; her raspy voice echoes in the bathroom as she calls out, “You know, Lily, you have really pretty hair.”
+++
Saturday rolls up after a night of deadened bouts of sleep punctuated by restless dreams. I wake up with a gasp when it’s still barely light. When I look over, I’m reassured that I didn’t wake Reagan up by the even breathing and the slow rise and fall of her chest. I sneak around the room gathering a few T-shirts strewn on the floor into my backpack and then race out of my dorm back to Dreamland. Outside, the air is crisp, but gaining the promise of mugginess to follow. I inhale it deep up my nose like an addict snorting coke.
The walk to my twenty year-old Geo that Tommy salvaged and fixed up for me last year. It is quiet and peaceful except for the odd morning runner. I see the remnants of partying—solo cups and cigarette packets—on the porches of the row of frat houses: Is this where girls like Reagan go to on Friday nights?
+++
The radio’s busted but I don’t mind: It seems almost wrong to ruin the morning with music anyway, and I enjoy the empty roads. After less than an hour, when I pull off into Paradise Road (the main circulatory of the Dreamland compound,) the day has grown stronger, but an otherworldly mist wraps around the shrubs and grass, curling around my feet and making me feel as if I’m walking on clouds.
No sign of my mother’s car, or Beau’s truck.
When I tentatively open the door, it’s empty again. There’s a barely legible note from Beau stuck on the fridge—who knows when he left it? Apparently he’s gotten a part time trucker gig and won’t be back for weeks. My mother’s never left notes.
I’m dangerously close to self-pity, and I shake it off. It’s not as if I came back to see them anyway.
I head over to Skelly’s and hammer on his door, not caring if I wake everyone up. A stone-faced Neil opens the door. He’s in his cop uniform—I guess he must have an early patrol shift. He gives me a once-over and I back away. And then, a bleary-faced Tommy appears behind him.
Tommy’s expression changes immediately. “There’s my girl,” he roars, lifting me up. I bury my face in his chest, even as Neil brushes by us without saying goodbye.
“I just saw you a couple of weeks ago.”
“But I missed ya,” he says, grinning, still holding me off the ground. “Who else around here gonna snark at me all day?”
I hit his arm and he sets me down. I turn my head to see Neil driving off, but not before giving us a hard stare.
“Where’s Skelly?” I ask as Tommy lets me in.
“He went fishing.”
When I hear that, I immediately launch myself back into his arms. He laughs at my frankness but complies, tearing my dress off. We jump into his tiny bed; he’s licking me deliciously all over my body with his rough tongue. It’s not enough, though, so I grab his hair and shove his head down between my legs.
“Fuck, faster, Tommy. Come on.”
There’s a loud, insistent rap on the door; Tommy jumps away.
I almost scream in frustration, but at least I know it’s not Beau this time.
Wiping his lips, Tommy pulls his boxers back on and disappears into the living room.
“It’s for you.”
He’s standing at the doorway, his expression puzzled.
“Fuck. Is it Beau?” It can’t be. They would be punching each other right now and Tommy wouldn’t be standing here with that quizzical look.
“Um…no. It’s some girl.”
“Huh?”
He shrugs, his eyebrows semaphoring I don’t know and holds the door open for me.
Cursing, I pull on my dress, storm out of the bedroom, and then I stop short at the sight that greets me.
Reagan Van Stieg, of possibly the Van Stiegs of New York, in all her immaculate glory, is sitting gingerly on the edge of the sofa in the living room. Her hair is loose, her hands are placed daintily on her lap and she seems to