9. Outer Space Treaty #2
“What are you working on, anyway?”
“My thesis.” No smile to tell me she’s joking.
“Thesis?”
“Yeah, remember?” She quirks an eyebrow. “You’re banging a co-ed.” She turns back to her phone.
I try and cover my shock with a joke. “Must be going senile in my old age.” I hadn’t really thought of Rose as the studious type. Which makes me a dick.
She smiles as if reading my thoughts and turns her attention back to her phone.
Inching up, I look over her shoulder and read as she toggles over to her student email account. One inbox heading reads: Business Fellow Program .
Once, during a social compatibility session during astronaut training (required as NASA is effectively launching a bunch of high-achieving individuals into space to live in tight quarters with each other for months on end), I read a research paper on different personality strengths.
One of them was humor. The paper delved into the intellection levels of famous comedians.
Almost all of them have an above average IQ.
It makes sense when you think about how fast funny people’s minds have to work. How, in order to hit just the right note of hilarity, they need to have a firm understanding of their contextual landscape while taking into account the variables of the audience.
I reach for my own phone on the floor next to the bed, still in my back jean pocket, and google Baylor Business Fellows. A minute later I have a newfound respect for the woman next to me.
The Business Fellows program is a separate division of the standard business degree that you have to apply for even after being accepted into Baylor University, a prestigious school in its own right.
A student needs to be ranked in the top three percent of their class and have National Merit status.
In other words, Rose West, billionaire and National Merit scholar, is going places. She’ll have no problem letting me go when it’s time for me to fly. I’ll be a small blip on her way to world domination.
No wonder she’s so good at ignoring me.
She lets go of her phone long enough to slap my shoulder. “All right, old man. You need to head out. I gotta go see your mamma about a pole.”
“Ugh.” I sink back on my pillow, arm over my eyes. “I forgot it’s Sunday.”
Rose laughs, getting out of bed. I watch as she walks over to the en suite bathroom door.
“Are you gonna drive your mom again?” she calls out once she closes the door.
“No, thank God.” I raise my voice but stay in bed, too comfortable to contemplate moving quite yet. The sheets smell like sugar, spice, and glitter. “I only drove her last time because her car was having its tires rotated.”
“Hmmm.” Water starts running, and a minute later she emerges, walking toward the closet. “Are we doing this on the down-low or are we lying to people?” As she’s still naked, it takes me longer to answer.
“What do you mean?”
She pulls open the double doors and steps inside. From my vantage point on the bed, her closet looks bigger than my entire apartment.
“I mean, the questions. Everyone always has questions.” She moves farther in so I can’t see her, but I hear drawers opening. “Like your mother. I may have told her we banged.”
I cringe.
“Sorry not sorry,” Rose adds. “ Plus you asked me out in front of her.”
“Yeah, I forgot about that,” I mumble.
Another drawer closes. “Besides giving you a sex education refresh, I’m sure she’s gonna have lots of questions.”
“Thanks again for that, by the way.” I shiver, remembering my mother’s ‘talk.’
“You’re welcome,” she sing-songs.
Brat.
“And then there are the girls. You came on pretty strong last night. There is no way they’re just going to let that go.”
“Why don’t we just tell them the truth?” Seems simple enough.
“Yeah, that’ll work.” Rose clears her throat. “Hey, Helen, don’t mind me, I’m just banging your son like a tasty side-piece.”
“Tasty side-piece?”
“You prefer old man?”
“Tasty side-piece works.”
I hear her chuckle and more drawers opening and closing. What the hell is she doing in there?
After a minute of thought, I come up with a solution. “How about we tell people we’re dating?”
“Dating?” she calls out, and her voice has an odd edge to it.
“Not for real,” I assure her, not wanting her to think I’m asking for more than she wants. “But people date all the time, you know. Doesn’t mean they get married. So when it’s time for me to fly up, we’ll just say it didn’t work out.”
A drawer slams hard. “Huh.”
“And by the time I get back”—I lean back, hands behind my head, feeling pretty smart—"you and I will be old news.”
The only sound I hear is of fabric rustling.
“Rose?” I slide my hands out from behind me, worried, wondering if I’m not as clever as I thought I was.
“I’m still here.” She emerges from the closet.
My jaw drops.
Rose is decked out in a leopard print leotard, gold belt, black fishnet stockings over sheer neon pink tights, and black patent leather platforms. Her hair is in a messy top-knot, complete with a braided neon pink sweatband.
She’s every Weird Science fantasy come to life. And I’ve had quite a few in my time. Hello, eighties teenager.
She runs her hands down the slick sides of her leotard. “You better leave before I set off the glitter bomb.”
“Glitter bomb?” I blink, breaking the stare.
“Yep. Glitter bomb.” She spins on her heels and walks out.
I grab my pants off the floor and shrug into them, nearly falling over when I see how high the leotard is cut in the back.
“So, uh, what did you think of my idea?” I run my hands through my hair as I follow her down the hall. The glare off the white marble floor makes it look like she’s walking on a cloud of pink.
“The fake dating one?” she asks, still walking ahead of me, still not sounding one hundred percent like Rose.
“Yeah.” Now that we aren’t ripping each other’s clothes off, I get a better look around the place. White walls, neutral furniture.
“Sounds good.” She pauses in front of a closed door.
The only things on her shelves in the main living room are gaming stations. Every gaming station ever made. And rows of games.
Besides those things, the room is devoid of life. No personal pictures or touches. “How long have you lived here?”
“About four years.”
I’m about to question the flat tone to her voice when she opens the door.
I’m blinded.
Glitter walls, glitter ceiling, glitter floor. It looks like it might once have been an office, with wall-to-ceiling built-ins along the back wall—which are also covered in glitter. I can’t tell if it’s paint or dust.
Holding my hand up as if to ward off the light, I back up a step. “What is that room?”
“My glitter room.” She looks at me like I’m slow.
“Ah, I see.” I don’t see. Probably because my retinas are scalded by the light reflecting off the billions of mica particles. It’s like I went on a space walk without my sun shield. On one hand, who has a glitter bomb room? On the other, it’s the only room I’ve seen that seems remotely Rose-like.
She steps inside and wiggles her fingers at me. “Booty call me later.” And with that, she closes the door.
I’m left pants-undone and dismissed.
This is starting to become a habit of hers.