1.) The first night in my new apartment, the idea of having a permanent residence again was all it took to thrill me. I inflated my air mattress, and made the bed. I unpacked my clothes and stacked my books underneath the windowsills (no bookshelf). I plugged in my laptop and connected to the wireless, and then I pulled my hair into a quick ponytail and ran down the stairs. (I have stairs! Like in early ’90s family sitcoms!) “So, uh, nice meeting you, again!” I called to my new roommates. “See ya later!”
“Leaving already? K, . . . bye!”
And I don’t even remember what I did that night. Several things, one hundred. Maybe I watched Tool Academy at Tamar’s and ate mint ice cream. Maybe I walked the Minuteman alone, staring up at the dimly-lit leaves, passing the playground where a former love and I used to swing. Maybe I made out on the porch of someone new, or maybe I snuck my wet laundry into your basement. I don’t know, life has been crazy. But somehow it didn’t occur to me to return until two in the morning. Braden and Josh, responsible professionals that they are, had already been asleep for hours, and I tiptoed up our back staircase like a cartoon thief. “Tee hee,” I thought, taking my heels off at the door and walking barefoot in the dark, “I am sixteen years old. And bad news.”
I stopped in front of my bedroom, turned the handle.
Or, tried to turn the handle. It choked, resisted, clack-clacked.
Locked.
What?
2.) My first thought:
“Shit. There’s nothing for it. I’ll have to break the door.”
My second thought:
“How much do doors cost, anyway? And what do I need? A machete? A gun? Will it be loud?”
My third thought:
“I could just sleep on the living room couch and deal with this in the morning.”
My fourth thought:
“. . . Didn’t I leave a window open?”
