Eventually his mom had just broken down and kissed his cheek and hugged him, saying how proud she was of him, while ruffling his hair.
Now Jonas was back in his room, watching Star Wars: A New Hope. Outside, the humid air lay over everything like a hot, wet blanket. Inside, the air conditioner seemed like it was constantly running, struggling to keep up.
He was wearing the prosthesis. His gaze kept gravitating to his left foot. He stared at the sock. It was a knit sock (his grandma had made it), but he couldn’t feel it—the knitting was rough, uneven, but for all his fake left foot would know, it could have been the most luxuriously soft sock in the world. He stared at it some more, as if that might make him magically regain feeling in the plastic toes. At least they looked normal right now—with the prosthesis on and covered, he could pretend. The prosthesis was a good one. His mom had done all the research on features, compared all the prices, and come up with a final wish list, the result of which was the current leg. (I think we want a dynamic response foot, and something called a cosmetic shell that lets you wear shoes and socks like normal, she’d said, squinting at the notes she’d made on her phone, and then at Jonas. That was how she’d woken him up that morning, sitting on the side of his bed with squinty-tired eyes and messy hair, hunched over her laptop. He would later find out that she hadn’t slept the previous several nights, instead sitting in the living room and pouring herself into reading about prosthetic legs and feet. So he let her bring her list to the appointment with the prosthetist.)
Jonas dragged his gaze away from his left foot and picked up his phone. Unlocking it, he opened his texts. A number without a name, but still no doubt who it belonged to. The texts had arrived last night.
The first message: Is this fender bender Jonas?
Jonas’s brow furrowed and he frowned at the screen.
The second message: Anyway, I just wanted to tell you the dent popped out of my car. No harm done. No need to pay.
He squinted at the phone a bit, in thought.
The third message: This is Brennan, by the way.
Of course it was Brennan. Who else would it be?
Jonas sighed. He debated over whether or not to respond to her. He had what he needed, after all—the dent had popped out of her car. That was as much as he needed to know. Should he say something back? (Did anything need to be said back?)
He would probably never see her again anyway. He’d go off to school in a month. She’d go off to school. Or at least, he assumed she was around his age. She’d had graduation tassels on her rearview mirror. Recent senior, just like him? Maybe.
So to text Brennan or not? He wasn’t really looking to form any new attachments to people in his hometown. It just got awkward once you went off to college and then, eventually, you’d fall out of touch. He’d seen it happen with Rhys, although it was a bit messier for his brother because there were not only best friends (several) and sports buddies (many), but there was also a girlfriend (Madison, whom Jonas generally tended to hide from, especially since her intended major in biomedical engineering made her way too interested in Jonas’s prosthetic leg—What kind of foot did you choose? I mean, there are lots of options. If it was me, I’d want something that allowed for more movement.).
No, attachments weren’t for Jonas. For him, friends he’d had in his hometown were a before and the friends he’d (hopefully) make at college would be an after.
So why did he feel like saying something to Brennan, even if it meant she might say something back?
8
brennan
Sometimes, it was just as hard being off work as it was actually going to work.
Especially when your impending freshman year of college was taking up the majority of your thoughts every time you had a nonbusy moment to fill with anxiety.
It was a hot and sunny Wednesday. Brennan tried to concentrate on writing. Ing was standing out front of the pristine (too pristine; blindingly white) House of Games in Santos, preparing to put her name in for the Game that could decide the rest of her life. If she didn’t think too hard about it, Ing could almost imagine that this was just any other September first … Not thinking too hard. That was the key. That was what Brennan was missing—what she couldn’t do.
She squinted at her laptop screen. She couldn’t get the words right, much like in real life. Ing had gone inside, where she was to write her name on a slip of paper, drop it into a bowl, and … and … Ing should say something, probably, in response to the good luck proffered to her by the attendant at the entry table. Brennan sighed. Maybe if she was better at talking, her characters would be better at talking.
She closed her laptop and pulled her phone out. She opened the allfixx app and pulled up the draft of her story. She thought about publishing a summary—just a taste, to judge interest. Then again, she didn’t even have a title yet. She closed allfixx and opened her Messenger window with Emma.
Hey, can I bounce some novel ideas off of you?
Nothing back. Emma was probably at work.
Brennan sighed again and swung her legs over the side of the bed.
What to do, what to do.
She thought about her few encounters with the boy who’d rear-ended her. Jonas. It was kind of nice, knowing his name instead of just thinking of him as the guy who ran into her car. It had been weird, because she had actually managed to talk to him—like somehow he’d made her actually want to speak, which was an entirely new level of weird that she wasn’t ready to deal with yet. The Walls, her brain whispered. Keep the Walls up. Brennan’s Walls had been up at least since high school, if not before then. It felt safer with them up, like she was less vulnerable.
Anyway, something was off about Jonas. She didn’t quite know what, but whatever it was, it didn’t seem like something bad. It was almost easier to talk to him since he seemed like he was irritated 100 percent of the time. If he was already irritated, Brennan couldn’t be the one to make him grumpy.
Easier to talk to or not, you shouldn’t have messaged him. Her stomach twisted just thinking about it, and her brain threatened to pull her into an anxiety spiral. Down and down and down.
She sighed and checked her email again for the hundredth time (not an exaggeration; she’d likely checked it at least that many times since the message came last week). There it was. The dreaded roommate email from SIUE. For the hundredth time, Brennan read it over (as if she didn’t already know it by memory).
Important Information about Your Fall 2014-Spring 2015 Housing Assignment.
She read on, the words blurring into one another in black and white lines. Prairie Hall, room 165, PRS. And then the abbreviation key: PRS = shared bedroom. Shared. Shared.
Your roommate is Ambreen Saluja.
Ambreen. Brennan liked the name.
She wondered how Ambreen would be. Was she social? Extroverted? Or could it be possible that there was someone out there even more reclusive than Brennan? Would she have lots of people over? Stay up late? Would she play loud music? Would she like having music played at all? And most importantly, would she even like Brennan?
Brennan pulled her phone out again and opened Facebook. She searched for Ambreen.
She held her breath and hit Add Friend. Friend request sent, it said. Brennan sighed and hit the Message button.
She stared at the screen for a moment. What was she supposed to say? Hi, I’m Brennan! I’m your totally wigged out roommate who is really afraid you’ll hate her. Will you hate me?