Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Iris
Did anyone ever write a song about Tuesdays?
A quick search on my phone doesn’t show many, but “Tuesday Moon” by Neutral Milk Hotel sounds fascinating.
I stumble through another strange morning. I start to question whether I was ever a competent, put-together adult, because I seem to have become someone who can’t make it out of my apartment on time or unstained.
I may have finally reached the age where I’m not able to stay up after midnight and still function the next day.
Tragic.
I vault through the process of getting ready, grab a package of Pop-Tarts from the cupboard, and rush into the hallway.
I take one step out the door and I feel something beneath my foot.
There, now creased in half, is a rolled-up newspaper on my welcome mat.
Again?
I let out a frustrated groan as I narrow my eyes, like there’s a tiny Matteo Morgan inside the pages and he can see how annoyed I am that his stuff is on my mat .
A tiny piece of me is intrigued that I might get to see him again.
But only a tiny piece.
I lock my door and storm down the hall, dramatically dropping the paper on the floor outside of his probably fancy corner apartment, hoping there is a hidden camera somewhere recording my overacted release.
As the paper drops, I notice he does not have a welcome mat.
Figures.
“Nice to meet you too , new neighbor who took time out of her busy morning to return something that belongs to me . . .” I mumble the words under my breath as I adjust the strap of my bag and start back down the hall toward the stairs.
I’m about to walk past my apartment when something stops me.
There’s a rolled-up newspaper on my welcome mat.
Wait. Is that . . .?
I lean back and peer down the hall toward Matteo’s apartment. The newspaper I’ve just dropped outside his door is gone.
I look back at the one in front of my door. Then at his. Then at mine.
Surely that can’t be the same paper.
I didn’t hear his door open, but maybe he grabbed it when I had my back turned?
But that doesn’t explain why there is another newspaper at my door. I’m certain there hasn’t been another person in this hallway since I walked out of my apartment.
I pick it up and turn it over. Like the others, it’s wrapped in a plastic sleeve with an address label stuck to the outside. Also like the others, it’s addressed to Matteo Morgan .
Super hot chef and owner of Aria, a little Italian bistro down the block and around the corner.
Ok, so, maybe I googled him. And yeah, maybe I lingered a little too long on the photo I found of him in his chef’s whites, turned to the side, holding the knives. And maybe I will deny that with the full force of the Acting 101 class I took in college when I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do with my life .
I look once more toward the door of his corner apartment and tromp back down the hall. I drop it again in front of his door and stare at it.
Stay. There.
I wait a good ten seconds, then turn away to walk back down the hall and stop again.
There’s a rolled-up newspaper on my welcome mat.
I look back at his, and the one I left there is gone.
Okay. Okay. Now I’m bewildered and annoyed.
I march back to my apartment, grab the paper, march back to his, and set it in front of his door. Again.
Instead of turning, I walk backwards down the hall, eyes locked on the paper, until I’m right in front of my door. The paper stays put, as papers should.
“Ha- HA! ” I say, triumphantly. I relax my shoulders and look down.
There’s a rolled-up paper on my welcome mat.
I whip my head back to his apartment, and the paper I just set there is gone.
What?!
If this is some kind of joke, it’s really not funny. But I don’t have time to figure out what’s happening. I can’t be late for work again.
Mr. Charles Kincaid will not be happy.
I grab the paper, and this time, I walk halfway down the hallway and chuck it overhand toward his door. While it’s still mid-air, I turn back to my door in time to watch a rolled-up newspaper appear from nowhere and drop in front of my door as if someone has just thrown it .
I gasp. What. Is. Happening?
Magic, my brain says.
“Shut up,” I retort.
There’s no such thing.
“Fine,” I say out loud, to no one. “ Fine . Think you can outsmart me? Ha! I’m an art teacher. ”
I take the paper from my door in one hand, and in the other I grab my phone. I confidently walk down to Matteo’s door.
If there’s someone playing a trick, I’ll catch them, I think.
I open the camera, zoom in on my welcome mat, and hit record. Holding the camera pointed down the hall at my door, I drop the paper in front of his.
Looking at the screen, I see there isn’t a paper in front of mine. I look down, and the paper still sits right in front of his door.
“Ha! There! See?” I keep the camera on my mat as I walk back to my door. Still aiming the camera on it, I look back at his door.
The paper is still there.
I start narrating.
“So, someone has been trying to play a prank this morning with a stupid newspaper that keeps appearing in front of my door. It must be a magic trick or something, but I think I finally outsmarted whoever is pranking me. See?” I whip the camera down to Matteo’s door, and there still sits the paper. “Paper. By his door. His paper, his name, his problem.”
I turn the phone back to my mat . . . which is still empty. “And there! Look! No paper!”
I swing the camera around at my face.
“Take that, magic building. ”
I click off the camera and look down.
There’s a rolled-up paper on my welcome mat.
I cover my mouth and stare at it in disbelief. My eyes are wide as I search the halls for some sort of hidden camera or something—anything—to explain what is happening.
But no. There’s not.
There’s just a rolled-up newspaper on my welcome mat. There has to be a logical explanation for this.
Drugs? No. Gas leak causing hallucinations? Plausible.
I start sniffing around the hallway, trying to find a tell-tale rotten egg smell. That has to be it. I angle up and down, moving around like a bloodhound having a breakdown. I don’t realize what I’m doing or how I look until my elderly neighbor opens her door to find me on all fours, nose pressed against her door jamb.
I look up at her face, which is a mix of surprise and confusion.
“Oh! Ha, ha, I was . . . erm . . .” I frantically look around and pretend to grab something from the floor. “. . . I was just looking for this, uh . . . pen cap! Found it!”
I try to shrink as I get up and plaster on a huge smile.
“Are you having an episode?” the woman asks me.
“I’m all good!” I wave at her. “Gotta go!” I turn and shuffle down the hallway.
Brooke and Liz have gotten in my head. That’s all this is. I’m imagining things. Or maybe I’m still asleep. Stuck in a dream state. Right? That’s it. I’m still stuck in a dream.
MAGIC, my brain insists.
“I said, shut up already,” I tell my brain.
I pinch the thin skin of my wrist. It hurts. So . . . definitely awake. Definitely think my mind is playing tricks on me.
That happens sometimes, right ?
As I briskly walk down the hall to the stairs, I glance at the rolled-up newspaper on my welcome mat.
I try to tell myself that when I get back home after school today, the newspaper will be gone.
I walk outside toward the parking garage, and when I get in the car and turn on the engine, the radio, turned up at full blast, shouts at me, Do you believe in magic?
I flip it off and force myself to take three slow, deep breaths.
But as I pull out of my parking place, I can’t help but thinking . . . maybe I do.