“Everyone pisses in the showers.” Mike curls his lip at me. “What, you wait in line for the bathroom?”
I fight revulsion as I fly down the stairs to my floor. What was I thinking? I could’ve just contracted any number of life-threatening diseases. There’s no way Dave has EVER cleaned his room. I think back to St. Clair’s tidy, pleasant space, and I’m jealous of El ie in an entirely new way. St. Clair would never
hang up a poster of beer bottles or hold house parties in his room or use his shower as a toilet.
How did I end up with Dave? It was never a decision, it just happened. Was I only with him because I’m mad at St. Clair? The thought strikes a nerve.
Now I feel ashamed as well as stupid. I reach for my necklace, and a new panic sets in.
Key. I don’t have my key.
Where did I leave it? I curse, because there’s no way I’m going back to Dave’s room. Maybe it’s downstairs. Or maybe I never grabbed it in the first
place. Does this mean I have go to the front desk? Except—I swear again—they’re striking. Which means I have to go to Nate’s, which means I have to
wake him up in middle of the night. Which means he’l get mad at me.
Mer’s door flies open. It’s St. Clair.
“Night,” he says, clicking her door shut. She cal s good night back. He glares at me, and I flinch. He knew I was out here.
“You and Higgenbaum have a nice time?” He sneers.
I don’t want to talk about Dave. I want to find my freaking room key, and I want St. Clair to go away. “Yes. Great. Thank you.”
St. Clair blinks. “You’re crying. That’s the second time tonight.” A new edge to his voice. “Did he hurt you?”
I wipe my eyes. “What?”
“I’l KILL that bloody—”
He’s already halfway to the stairs before I can yank him back. “No!” St. Clair looks at my hand on his arm, and I hastily remove it. “I’m locked out. I’m just upset because I lost my stupid key.”
“Oh.”
We stand there for a moment, unsure of what to do with ourselves. “I’m going downstairs.” I avoid his gaze. “Maybe I left it there.”
St. Clair fol ows me, and I’m too exhausted to argue. His boots echo in the empty stairwel . Clomp. Clomp. Clomp. The lobby is dark and empty. The March wind rattles the glass on the front door. He fumbles around and switches on a light. It’s a Tiffany lamp, red dragonflies with bulbous turquoise eyes. I start lifting couch cushions.
“But you were on the floor the whole time,” he says. I think back, and he’s right. He points to a chair. “Help me lift this. Maybe it was kicked under here.”
We move it aside. No key.
“Could you have left it upstairs?” He’s uncomfortable, so I know he means at Dave’s.
“I don’t know. I’m so tired.”
“Shal we check?” He hesitates. “Or . . . shal I check?”
I shake my head no, and I’m relieved when he doesn’t press me.
He looks relieved, too. “Nate?”
“I don’t want to wake him.”
St. Clair bites his thumbnail. He’s nervous. “You could sleep in my room. I’l sleep on the floor, you can have my bed. We don’t have to, er, sleep
together. Again. If you don’t want to.”