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Authors: Jen Lancaster
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hand. Maybe we’ll get in a quick cycle after all. “I’m just peachy. What’s up?”
He gestures toward the television with the remote. The news is on, but it’s paused. “Watch.” I lean into him and rest my head on his shoulder, placing my hand on his thigh, but he doesn’t pull me toward him. Instead he says, “Brace yourself, babe. It’s about Betsy.”
And suddenly, I’m wide-awake.
CHAPTER FOUR
Evanston, Illinois
December 1993
“We should live in Ellison Hall,” I suggest. “Campus is kind of a hike, but the rooms are big. Bonus, right? Plus, it’s coed. John-John lived there freshman year and I remember it being nice.”
Sars and I are sitting at the breakfast bar, poring over the colorful brochures we just received from the university’s housing department. We started off in the family room at her house, but her mom chased us out due to her hosting a Tupperware party later this afternoon. Too bad, because Sars’s mom always has fresh-baked cookies in a jar for us and keeps an endless supply of milk on hand. We also never have to drink out of jelly jars over there when all the regular glasses are dirty at the same time, largely because their glasses are never all dirty at the same time. I glance at the sink, brimming with dishes.
Welcome to Jelly-Glass City, Population, Us.
“Ahh! I can’t do a coed dorm, Jack!” Sars squeals, eyes huge behind her thick tortoise-shell Lisa Loeb glasses. “No way!”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Um,
boys
!” she replies, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. She seems so keyed up she’s practically vibrating in her chair.
My brother Bobby looks up from his spot on the leather couch. He’s seated next to Gretzky, one of our enormous black Labs, while inhaling a mixing bowl full of Count Chocula. Until a moment ago, he was intently watching cartoons.
Sometimes I wonder how he’s
nineteen
and not nine.
Bobby claims his deep and abiding love for
Scooby-Doo
has only grown more deep and more abiding after taking his first bong hit at college last year. He says he finally understands why Scooby and Shaggy are perpetually so hungry.
“The munchies are
real
,” he’d said, like he was sharing a sage truth.
“Why, what’d we do, Sars?” Bobby asks, through a mouthful of cereal. He seems genuinely confused and a bit hurt. Bobby and Sars have been buddies for as long as she and I have. The neighborhood’s called us the Three Musketeers for years.
“You didn’t do anything, Bobby,” Sars explains with a giggle. “I just can’t live with boys.”
“Is it the smell?” he asks. He sticks his face inside his shirt and takes a whiff, then shrugs. “You get used to it after a while.”
It’s true.
You do eventually become immune to the masculine stink. Live with it long enough and it’s like someone playing a jam box too loud on the el train; you tune it out. For me, three brothers minus one mother plus a host of flatulent dogs and perpetually unwashed bags of athletic gear over many years equals a lifetime of olfactory indifference.
I explain, “Sars, the dorm’s segregated by floor—guys on the evens, gals on the odds. Boys won’t live next door. You’re not going to bump into dudes walking down the hallway wearing nothing but a towel.”
“Wanna see a dude in a towel? ’Cause I could make that happen right now if you’d like,” Bobby teases, waggling his eyebrows.
Normally, this would prompt Sars to effortlessly lob an insult in return, but today she says, “Um, can I take a rain check?” and shriek-giggles some more as her face turns pink.
Wait, is Sars
blushing
? Over something
Bobby
said? And what’s with the affected laugh? I peer at her flushed cheeks. Nah, not blushing. She’s probably just coming down with the flu.
“Offer’s on the table when you change your mind,” he says, returning his focus to the television. He’s not sure what to make of her odd reaction, either.
To deflect, I tell him,
He gestures toward the television with the remote. The news is on, but it’s paused. “Watch.” I lean into him and rest my head on his shoulder, placing my hand on his thigh, but he doesn’t pull me toward him. Instead he says, “Brace yourself, babe. It’s about Betsy.”
And suddenly, I’m wide-awake.
CHAPTER FOUR
Evanston, Illinois
December 1993
“We should live in Ellison Hall,” I suggest. “Campus is kind of a hike, but the rooms are big. Bonus, right? Plus, it’s coed. John-John lived there freshman year and I remember it being nice.”
Sars and I are sitting at the breakfast bar, poring over the colorful brochures we just received from the university’s housing department. We started off in the family room at her house, but her mom chased us out due to her hosting a Tupperware party later this afternoon. Too bad, because Sars’s mom always has fresh-baked cookies in a jar for us and keeps an endless supply of milk on hand. We also never have to drink out of jelly jars over there when all the regular glasses are dirty at the same time, largely because their glasses are never all dirty at the same time. I glance at the sink, brimming with dishes.
Welcome to Jelly-Glass City, Population, Us.
“Ahh! I can’t do a coed dorm, Jack!” Sars squeals, eyes huge behind her thick tortoise-shell Lisa Loeb glasses. “No way!”
“Why not?” I ask.
“Um,
boys
!” she replies, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world. She seems so keyed up she’s practically vibrating in her chair.
My brother Bobby looks up from his spot on the leather couch. He’s seated next to Gretzky, one of our enormous black Labs, while inhaling a mixing bowl full of Count Chocula. Until a moment ago, he was intently watching cartoons.
Sometimes I wonder how he’s
nineteen
and not nine.
Bobby claims his deep and abiding love for
Scooby-Doo
has only grown more deep and more abiding after taking his first bong hit at college last year. He says he finally understands why Scooby and Shaggy are perpetually so hungry.
“The munchies are
real
,” he’d said, like he was sharing a sage truth.
“Why, what’d we do, Sars?” Bobby asks, through a mouthful of cereal. He seems genuinely confused and a bit hurt. Bobby and Sars have been buddies for as long as she and I have. The neighborhood’s called us the Three Musketeers for years.
“You didn’t do anything, Bobby,” Sars explains with a giggle. “I just can’t live with boys.”
“Is it the smell?” he asks. He sticks his face inside his shirt and takes a whiff, then shrugs. “You get used to it after a while.”
It’s true.
You do eventually become immune to the masculine stink. Live with it long enough and it’s like someone playing a jam box too loud on the el train; you tune it out. For me, three brothers minus one mother plus a host of flatulent dogs and perpetually unwashed bags of athletic gear over many years equals a lifetime of olfactory indifference.
I explain, “Sars, the dorm’s segregated by floor—guys on the evens, gals on the odds. Boys won’t live next door. You’re not going to bump into dudes walking down the hallway wearing nothing but a towel.”
“Wanna see a dude in a towel? ’Cause I could make that happen right now if you’d like,” Bobby teases, waggling his eyebrows.
Normally, this would prompt Sars to effortlessly lob an insult in return, but today she says, “Um, can I take a rain check?” and shriek-giggles some more as her face turns pink.
Wait, is Sars
blushing
? Over something
Bobby
said? And what’s with the affected laugh? I peer at her flushed cheeks. Nah, not blushing. She’s probably just coming down with the flu.
“Offer’s on the table when you change your mind,” he says, returning his focus to the television. He’s not sure what to make of her odd reaction, either.
To deflect, I tell him,
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