shame?” she teased, tossing me some plaid pajama bottoms.
I approached my door and tried the knob. Locked. So I knocked loudly, waited. Knocked again. Rang the buzzer. Leaned on the buzzer. And started to panic. Because my mom was on her fucking way.
I didn’t have my phone. Dallas had the super’s number in hers, so I tried calling, but he didn’t pick up and she warned me he didn’t work weekends. Or really ever. Dallas demonstrated that their door could be kicked open when it’s locked, so we tried it on mine. Of course it didn’t work and I got worried about breaking the door.
Panic. My mother was zipping off the highway by now, barreling down Flushing Avenue in Dad’s Subaru. I started coming up with crazy schemes. I could just hide out until a roommate came back, worry my mother sick. I could knock on neighbors’ doors, borrow some stranger’s clothes, tell my mom I got locked out trying to get the mail. Dallas’s suggestion was to just act like I had absolutely no idea what had happened the night before. I looked down at my way-too-small girl-size pants. “Uh, it’s pretty obvious what happened.”
New idea: the back door off the kitchen, the one leading to the fire escape over the alleyway. Locked religiously every time I checked, all three locks on the inner door and the deadbolt on the outer door, but it had been a Friday night, maybe some people had gone out there to smoke or something? Could I borrow some sandals?
Dallas gave me some also-way-too-small green flip-flops. Plaid pajama pants, doll-size sandals, my mother minutes away, I charged through the back alley to our little fire escape. I scaled up a few levels and the outer door was open and—the inside one, too! Thank the baby Jesus. I stumbled inside, half registering that the apartment was an absolute wreck. Dallas had climbed up after me, and I thanked her and shoved her out the door, telling her I’d bring back her clothes soon.
I pulled on jeans and a shirt, no time to do anything about my awful breath or gummy contacts. Then I grabbed Dallas’s clothes and ran to her door, carefully not locking myself out this time. Her front door was ajar, so I gave it a token knock and wandered in, bleating “Hello?” Finally I came upon her standing in a bra and shorts in the kitchen, holding (I swear) a potato, and she gave me the strangest look and asked, “Did you kick in the door?”
I gave her an equally bewildered face. “No…it was…open.”
Madison. I think that was her name. Or Addison? Something like that.
Then it was back to cleanup, throwing dishes in the sink, dragging beer cans to the trash. Mom burst in at noon on the dot. I was just playing it off like I’d overslept and hadn’t gotten a chance to clean yet when Kevin sauntered in, all sex-mussed, and before he could open his mouth, I was, like, “HI KEVIN MY MOM JUST GOT HERE WHAT’S UP MAN?” He kind of chuckled and went into his room, locking the door behind him.
Mom was about as horrified as I expected. She could tell I was hungover, but at least she had no way of detecting that I’d almost answered the door in a pair of women’s pants. Animal purred and rubbed her ankles and she made a face and raised her palms like she was convinced she’d pick up some serious disease in our apartment, avian flu or SARS or whatever. She asked me to lead her back out into the street and I took her to where Dad’s sedan was parked, past the cigarette butts, empty beer cans, and not one but two sleeping bodies in the hallway and staircase.
“I don’t want you living like this,” she told me seriously as we weaved toward the expressway.
“It’s what I can afford,” I replied. “And besides, there’s tons of talented people in the building. Who could really help me one day. The guitarist from The Sinks lived here.”
“The who?”
“The Sinks. They’re, like, millionaires now. You’re the one always telling me to network or whatever.”
She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “It just doesn’t look safe. I mean, who were those people asleep in the hallway?”
“I told you to come later in the day.”
“Noon on a Saturday is not exactly bright and early.”
I was too hungover to come up with a reply. Ugh. Why are moms always awesome