TWO
M y new residence, East House, is on the other side of campus, and walking there with three bags and a box is hellish. Actually, doing anything in Toronto winter is hellish, and this year has been particularly bad. Cold. Icy. Treacherous. I push through blistering wind and blowing snow on the narrow path snaking through campus, cursing past Aleeza for not agreeing with the campus-housing guy who suggested I wait and move out on the weekend because of the snowstorm. But once I made the decision to move, I knew I needed to leave Mia as soon as possible.
When I put in the request for a midyear room change, the guy in the office immediately warned me he probably wouldn’t find me a vacant room, as a month into second term is a weird time to move. But I had a gut feeling that there would be something for me. The room he found wasn’t anything to celebrate, though. East House is the oldest, smallest, and least desirable residence at school, and the room was described as ... modest. But it would be fine. I would deal. This would be my fresh start.
“Do you need help?” a voice behind me asks.
I turn and see a person about my height wearing a gray wool hat, an enormous blue parka with the hood up, and an orange scarf pulled up over her nose. Her voice sounds familiar, but beneath all the winter gear, I can’t see her face.
“Oh, it’s fine. I got it.” I smile, but then remember she can’t see me under my scarf either. I turn down the less-maintained path that leads to East House.
I can barely see thanks to the blowing snow, and I can’t feel my cheeks even with my scarf on by the time I get there. The muddy-brown building is old. Even ... crumbling. It was originally an early 1900s mansion that the university converted into residences in the nineties. I frown as I stand in front of the main entrance. I have no clue how to scan my card to open the door with all this stuff in my hands.
“Now will you accept some help?” I hear from behind me. I turn. It’s the girl in the blue parka from earlier. She sounds friendly and amused.
I nod. “Yeah. My card is around my neck. I’m just moving in.” I don’t want her to think I’m breaking in. With all my possessions. During a snowstorm.
“I got it. I live here too.” She takes her pass from her pocket and taps it on the card reader. After opening the door, she takes the box from me. With my hands now free, I push my scarf off my face as I walk into the residence.
The entrance opens to a lobby common area with a few couches. Very few of the mansion’s original features remain here, only white walls and gray industrial carpet. To the right of the front door is the mailroom, with a bulletin board absolutely packed with small pieces of paper, flyers, and even artwork. I have no idea how it’s still attached to the wall with the weight of all that crap on it.
“Where are you heading?” the girl asks.
“Um . . . second floor?”
She turns back to look at me, and I can see her eyes still look amused. “You’re moving to the second floor? That’s only professor offices.”
“Oh ... it’s supposed to be room 225.”
The expression in the girl’s eyes changes immediately, and all her friendliness drains away. She takes a step backward, as if I just told her I have lice.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
She shakes her head and walks toward a set of stairs across from the mailroom. After resting the box on a stair, she pushes her scarf down and looks at me. That’s when I realize I do know this person. It’s Gracie Song from my politics seminar. I think she’s also in my Introduction to Journalism lecture. I’m pretty sure she’s a first-year journalism student like me, but I’ve never spoken to her. “Room 225 is on the third floor,” she says.
I shake my head. “That makes no sense.”
Gracie shrugs and starts climbing the steps with my box.
Ugh. Meeting people is awkward. I don’t know what to say. But I don’t have Mia anymore, so I need to make an effort. “Um, thanks for taking my box,” I say as I climb behind her.
“No worries.”
“You live here too?” I ask. Dumb. She already told me she lives here.
I see the back of her head nod. I’ve never spoken to her before, but I’ve seen Gracie Song around enough to know that she’s normally chatty. Social. But right now she seems like she’d rather be stuck on this staircase with a dead skunk instead of me.
My heart beats heavily. I have no idea why Gracie doesn’t like me now when a few moments ago she asked if I needed help.
“What floor are you on?” I ask.
“Same as you.” She still sounds pissed off.
Why does it bother her so much that we’ll be living on the same floor?
When we get to the third floor, she turns right and sets the box down. She points to the first door. “That’s you,” she says. “The bathroom’s down the hall.” She disappears in the same direction, walking past my room.
Okay. That was weird.
I look at the door in question, and yes, the number 225 is on it. I unlock the door and drag my things into what will be my room for the rest of my first year of university.
Modest is an understatement. The room is small . There’s a shallow closet on one side of the door and a window on the left wall. The furniture is old and looks more run-down than what I had in West Hall. There are two twin beds, two desks with wood chairs, and two small dressers. Why are there two of everything? The housing guy told me it was a single room. With all the furniture, it’s incredibly cramped, especially compared to the apartment-style room Mia and I had in West Hall. I have no idea how anyone could share a room this small. If a person slept on each bed, they could hold hands.
But there’s no sign of a roommate. Both mattresses are bare, and there’s nothing on either desk. Alone, I could make this room work. Put up some posters and tapestries. Some octopuses. Make it my own.
I drop my box and bags on the floor and search for sheets to make up the beds. I’ll use the bed near the window for sitting on, and sleep on the other one. After making both beds, I toss Tentacle Ted on the bed by the window and start putting my clothes away. Eventually, I run out of space in one of the small dressers. I have a lot of bulky sweatshirts, so I’ll need to use both dressers.
But when I open the bottom drawer of the second dresser, it’s not empty. I try the other drawers, and they’re full too. A stack of black T-shirts (men’s size medium), jeans, and a drawer full of boxer briefs. This room is supposed to be empty. Maybe I do have a roommate? But this looks like a male-identifying person’s stuff. The dorms at the school are coed, but individual rooms are not.
The top drawer has some mail in it. I hate to snoop—but I need to know who, or what, I’m dealing with here.
The top letter is from the school registrar and is addressed to Jay Hoque .
My breath hitches. I know that name. Jay Hoque is the missing guy. The one who Mia thinks is most definitely dead . That’s why Gracie looked at me like I was moving into a ghost’s room. I am.
At that moment, my phone buzzes with a message. When I check it, I see that it’s from the roommate-chatting feature on ResConnect. It’s probably Mia begging me to come back. I open the app, intending to tell her I’m not her roommate anymore.
But it’s not Mia.
Jay: Hey I just got notice you’re my new roommate. Don’t get too comfortable. I’ll be fighting this. They told me I’d be alone all year.
I stare at the phone, blinking. So ... Jay is back? How did I miss that the guy finally turned up? Maybe that’s what that newspaper article is about?
I don’t write back. What am I supposed to say? Yay, you’re not dead ?
This means I’ve been assigned to a room with a person already living in it. A male person. And the school won’t allow a female student to live with a male one, especially in such a tiny room. The housing guy said there’s nothing else in the school. I’m going to be sent back to Mia’s room.
Ugh. There goes my chance for a fresh start.