Chapter 6
As it turns out, I’ve significantly underestimated the worst-case scenario.
They’re coming up! Early!
I get the text from Drew just as I’m frantically trying to fluff the pillows on the couch and make sure our apartment looks as inviting as possible.
I abandon the pillows and settle for fluffing my bangs instead.
It’s been three days since Drew told me he was looking for a subletter, and he’s found one.
Two, actually. Solomon and Sandra both work on staff at Drew’s school.
Apparently, they’ve been living in a yurt on Vashon Island, but the ferry commute was getting to be a headache.
Drew tells me they’re running intensive summer camps in art and theater at the school until the fall term starts, so they want a place near the school right away.
I’m disappointed that it is not sexy history teacher Conor, but maybe they’ll be great.
Art and theater people could be really fun.
I refresh my lipstick, take a deep breath to try (and fail) to calm my nerves, and hope for the best.
Five minutes later, my hopes are deflating like a leaky birthday balloon.
“So this is it then?” Solomon demands heartily, standing in the dining room and looking around in expectation. “Low ceilings, aren’t they?”
A portly, bearded man wearing what appears to be a patchwork velvet cape, he has round black-rimmed glasses and an overly firm handshake.
I dart a look at his partner, Sandra, who is very tall and heavy boned, with long brunette hair swept back in a loose braid.
She is wearing a pumpkin-colored smock smeared with clay and holding a large white cat with a squished face, some sort of Persian, maybe? I was not prepared for the cat.
“You have a cat?” I ask faintly, trying to hide my surprise.
Drew definitely did not mention a cat. I love animals.
I volunteered with an animal rescue in Seattle every Saturday all through college, helping frightened and abused dogs learn to trust humans again.
For my birthday every year, I ask my friends to donate to the Humane Society.
However, I’m pretty sure our building has a strict no-pets policy.
And I think I’m slightly allergic to cats.
“This is Ophelia,” Sandra says indulgently.
“Hi, Ophelia.” I reach toward the cat, trying to be friendly. The cat hisses.
“She doesn’t like strangers,” Sandra tells me, moving away slightly.
I smile weakly, trying to cover the sinking sensation in my stomach. This is going to be a very different summer than I envisioned. And is it my imagination or are my eyes starting to itch?
“Come on back and I’ll show you the bedroom.
” Drew ushers them down the hall. His room is empty now.
He’s leaving early tomorrow morning for LA.
I stare at their backs, worrying my lip.
When Drew mentioned the English teacher and art instructor from his old school would be subletting his room, I pictured quiet school librarian types. I was not prepared for…this.
“Is she clean and quiet?” I can hear Solomon’s voice booming through the wall.
I think they’re talking about me. This is humiliating.
Even with two bathrooms, it is going to be uncomfortably tight in this apartment with three humans and a grouchy cat.
I can already tell they don’t love the idea of living here with me. Ditto.
Sandra comes back into the dining room and looks around critically.
“I’ll need to sage the space,” she announces.
She doesn’t wait for an answer, just lets the cat slide from her arms, and Ophelia promptly darts under the couch and hides.
“She can sense bad energy,” Sandra tells me.
She draws a bundle of dried sage from her large quilted bag and holds up a lighter, not waiting for my reply before she lights the sage.
I stare at her in bewilderment. Bad energy?
“I don’t think our apartment building allows pets,” I tell her.
She ignores me and starts wandering around the apartment, methodically waving the smoking sage and opening windows, then pokes her head into the kitchen and frowns.
“We’re strictly macrobiotic vegans, and we can’t cross-contaminate our bodies with food that’s been poisoned by pesticides, is out of season, from any animal, or grown more than twenty miles away.
” She looks pointedly at the dirty dishes I’ve left sitting by the sink, specifically the remains of an egg salad sandwich and an empty cup of yogurt I had for lunch.
She waves the sage over it. “We can set up a kitchen schedule so we keep our cooking hours separate,” she tells me.
“We like to eat late, at a more Mediterranean hour.”
I stand there numbly, not sure what to do.
There’s a sick sort of feeling of apprehension in my gut when I picture sharing my apartment with these people for the next few months.
I don’t think I can do this. How in the world am I supposed to quickly come up with fifty recipes this summer if I’m sharing an apartment with people so vastly different from me and a cat I think I might be allergic to?
From down the hall I can hear Solomon peppering Drew with questions about everything from parking ordinances to recycling options to requesting measurements for the bathtub and the width of the hallway.
I take another look at Sandra. She is saging the inside of our refrigerator with a look of distaste.
I sink down on the couch, seeing a vision of the summer stretching out before me. It is bleak. From underneath the couch comes a loud hiss and a mew of protest. Ophelia is definitely not happy. And my eyes are absolutely feeling itchy.
“Me too, Ophelia,” I whisper. Clearly, this is not going to work. I need a plan B and quickly.