Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93224 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 466(@200wpm)___ 373(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
My hand spasms around the tape. “That’s awesome,” I say, the words coming out too loud.
Stella plops onto the exposed mattress, kicking off her shoes. “It’s, like, completely unprecedented. He usually just wires me money and tells me to call a moving service. But now he’s all, ‘I’ll be there by five, get your boxes ready.’” She leans back, crossing her legs. “He must be in a good mood. Maybe he just made a billion dollars. I don’t know.”
She starts scrolling her phone, tapping at the screen with quick, impatient flicks. “God, I hope he brings the Lambo. He posted a pic of it last week, parked on some bridge like it was no big deal.” She doesn’t look at me, just keeps talking. “He never does this. Ever. I don’t think he’s set foot in a college dorm since the Bush administration.”
I nod, folding the flaps of the box with deliberate care. My pulse is galloping, but I keep my hands steady, tucking the mug deeper into the paper cocoon. “That’s really sweet of him to help you move,” I say, and even I can hear the strain in my voice.
Stella glances up, smiling mischievously. “I know, right?”
I clear my throat, force a smile. “Yes, absolutely. He must really want to see you.”
She considers this, then shrugs. “Or maybe he got a bad news alert and needs to check if I’m still alive. My dad can be weird that way.” She slaps the mattress with both hands. “Anyway! We have to be ready. If he shows up and we’re not packed, he’ll probably just leave again. He’s that busy.”
I nod, too fast, and turn away, pretending to fuss with the box labels. Out in the hallway, I can hear the scrape and rumble of plastic bins rolling over the scuffed linoleum. A girl’s voice shouts, “Hold the door!” and another one curses as something topples and clatters. The heavy fire door at the end of the corridor is propped with a wedge of cardboard, and every so often, a gust of late-spring air shoves it wider, bringing in a faint whiff of cigarettes from the patio below.
The light in the hall is brutal: fluorescent, hard-edged, unforgiving. It turns everyone into ghosts, even the girls hauling bags and boxes past my open door. Their voices are bright and echo-y, rising and falling in random waves.
I wrap another mug, careful and slow. My hands are steady now, each motion exaggerated, like I’m starring in a how-to video on packing fragile things. Stella keeps talking, half to herself, half to me. She wonders if her dad will bring food, or if he’ll make them eat in the cafeteria like normal people. She wonders if he’ll be alone, or if he’ll show up with “some random girl he met on a plane.” She wonders if he’ll remember to bring the little moving dolly he promised last year.
I keep nodding, but my ears are ringing with something else. I’m not worried he’ll bring a girlfriend, or that he’ll forget the pizza. I’m worried he’ll walk in, see me, and for one fatal second, let something slip. A too-intimate look, a word, a joke that means nothing to Stella but everything to me. I can handle Thomas one-on-one, in the dark, in the private corners of the world. But out here? In the blinding daylight, with his daughter right there? I don’t know if I can keep my cool.
“Hey,” Stella says, suddenly close. She’s right in front of me, her eyes searching my face. “Are you okay? You look kind of pale.”
I force a smile. “Yeah, just tired. Haven’t slept much.”
She laughs, and it’s a nice sound. “Me neither. End-of-year stress dreams. You know, the one where you show up to the final naked, or you can’t find your room, or the walls collapse and you’re just floating in space.”
I nod, and the motion feels like a lie.
Stella sits on the bare bed again, bouncing a little. She’s still so excited to see her dad that it’s endearing. I almost want to tell her about us, but instead, I finish wrapping the mug, set it in the box, and tape the top shut with a sharp, final rip.
Out in the hallway, a group of girls lugs a mini-fridge past my door, their laughter echoing up and down the corridor. I hear the slap of flip-flops, the squeak of a rolling suitcase, the faint call of a RA reminding everyone to sign their checkout forms. The world is still spinning. It doesn’t know anything, and it won’t, not unless I decide otherwise.
“That’s really sweet of your dad,” I say again, softer this time, and Stella smiles like it’s the first time anyone’s ever told her that.
I put the tape down, dust my hands, and look out at the bright, busy hallway. I could be anyone, right now. I could be Stella’s friend, or her rival, or just some girl with a box full of mugs and nothing to hide.