Undertow (2 page)

“You posted in Housing that you need a roommate. Two bedrooms, right?” Hopefully, the girl would get back on topic, cut to the chase already. “Bathrooms?”

“Just one, sorry.” She didn’t sound apologetic, but rather, a little bit hopeful, like maybe she could get this weird girl to find a different apartment.

“Okay, so how much?” Marissa circled another ad in the Shared Housing column in the classifieds. Maybe that roommate would be less high maintenance than the girl on the phone.

“Three hundred for your half of the rent, and split the utilities fifty-fifty. They run about two fifty a month. Since the quarter starts next week, I already paid up the first and last for deposit. No smoking.” She waited a second and added: “You don’t listen to rap do you? Or metal? That’s a no-go.”

Two days later, Marissa crammed all her belongings into Kelly’s purple VW bus and sailed down I-5 doing the maximum fifty-eight miles per hour the old boat could handle. The loaner was great, but the c
ars were flying by her and she got sick of the other drivers scowling at her when they finally managed to pass. A million cars were on the road, half of them with California plates. Sure, Oregon was an awesome place to live. But did everybody have to move here?

 “This traffic’s like a heart attack about to strike the place dead,” her mother ranted during a drive to Portland a few months ago, briefly interrupting her offensive against Marissa’s plan to live with Drake during college. “Sweetheart, you’re only seventeen.
Seventeen
! You should wait to live with a man until after college, after marriage. Can’t you see he’s just using you?”           

“For what, Mom?” Marissa snorted. “Sex?”      

 “No, Marissa, not just sex,” her mother snapped, turning the color of the cheap wine she preferred. “It’s more like . . . well, playing house. There’s no commitment. He gets all the benefits of marriage, but none of the actual obligations.”

“Maybe I don’t want a commitment. Seriously, Mom, do you really want me married already?”

 Her mother clenched her jaw. “Of course not. It's just that you are too young for this.”

Eighteen won't come soon enough
, Marissa thought, gripping the wheel until her knuckles turned white.
Three more months.

But the truth stung. Drake
had
been using her and Marissa was an idiot not to realize it. Of course she’d wanted a commitment from him. Sharing an apartment was supposed to be a trial run—Drake would realize how much he really loved her and needed her in his life. Then he’d propose. They’d wait until he got his degree, of course, maybe until she got hers, too. But even if they didn’t marry, Drake and Marissa would stay together forever. She’d never have to go back to her parents again.

Whatever. It was all history now, thanks to that bastard.
She looked up in time to spot the sign for the Corvallis exit.
It led off through mile after mile of farmland until Marissa began to suspect she’d picked a stupid way to escape Drake and Amy and their whole crew. 

Erin, the new roommate, probably had a total personality disorder or something, because when the van pulled up to the curb, she bounded down the steps from the apartment to greet her. Hard to pick who would be worse to bunk with: the hostile, suspicious Erin on the phone, or this hyped up chick. Maybe she had a split personality. That’d be perfect.

“Hey, you’re here! Fun drive, huh?” the girl chirped, flipping her bangs off her forehead. They immediately fell back to obscure her left eye.

She must have been a cheerleader in high school, one with a bull as its mascot,
Marissa figured. “Yeah, scenic.” She arranged her lips into a smile and stuck out her left hand, since her right had the keys to the van digging into her fist.

“Come on up and check the place out, get a drink,” Erin offered. “I’ll help you unload your stuff.”

“Sounds good; thanks. I have to get the bus back tomorrow.”

“No worries—we’ll get it done.” Erin turned and jumped up the steps.

Marissa followed Erin into the apartment and scoped out the living room. Gold carpet, decent enough; a brown leather sofa, scuffed; old recliner, faintly orange. Not too awful. Several potted plants hung from the ceiling in the corners. Their vines trailed down and sprawled across the TV.

In the kitchen, Erin plunked ice cubes into a glass. She called over the bar, “I got Diet Coke, Mountain Dew, or Red Bull.”

As if the girl needs any more caffeine
, Marissa thought.
She ought to lay off before she turns into Tigger.
“Coke’s great, thanks.”

Glasses in hand, Erin reappeared. She gave Marissa her drink and walked with her down the hall. The bedroom was barely big enough for a bed and dresser, but had a huge window. It would work. She turned to Erin. “So, you’re a junior, right? What happened to the last girl?”

“Oh, she moved in with her boyfriend. Swears they’ll have their wedding next summer when he graduates. She’s so lucky!”

Marissa winced.
Good luck with that,
she thought.
Maybe the ex-roommate would get a better deal than she got with Drake.

As if on cue to provide her with an out from this stupid conversation, her cell rang. “Hey Kels. Yeah, I’m here now. Just getting ready to haul my stuff in.”

“Well, that was crazy fast. What’d you do, eighty?” Without waiting for an answer, she said, “Change your mind yet?
Please
? You can still come back. I’ve got a sofa, you know. Or you could live with your mom for a while.” Kelly stifled a giggle and it sounded like she was choking.

Marissa snorted into the phone. “Seriously? I’d kill her—or she’d kill me. And, just so you know, your sofa sucks. My back will be out for a month from sleeping on that beast for the past week.”

Kelly laughed. “Okay, just checking, you know. You met your roomie yet?”

“Yeah. Actually, Erin’s right here, showing me around the place,” Marissa said. She left out the bit about how her roommate obviously considered it some palatial residence rather than a slum lord special in the sticks. With ratty gold carpet.

“Call me before you drive back tomorrow so I’ll get my lazy butt out of bed, okay? It’s Sunday, you know,” Kelly said.

“Sure—I make a great alarm clock. See you tomorrow. Thanks for the van, and for getting all the stuff I left at Drake’s.”

Reprieve over, she hung up and turned to find Erin standing less than an arm’s length away.
Geez
, she thought.
No boundaries
.

“Who’s Drake?”

“Nobody.” Among all the topics that fell under the don’t-go-there category, Drake was right up there at the top.

Erin scowled like Marissa had just smacked her in the face. “Okay, then. Well, the bathroom’s right there, at the end of the hall.” She pointed. “Let me know when you want to start bringing your stuff in, okay?” She made a sour face and huffed off.

Three

M
arissa yawned and stretched, spreading her fingers as far apart as they would go, as if she might physically grasp the dream rapidly receding from her mind . . . his beautiful translucent face floating in the water . . . no luck. Damn. Even though the details were fading, no doubt the hazy lost-in-another-world funk would stick around all morning like it did most days.

Resigned to face another crappy day in paradise, Marissa sat up in bed and blinked at the unexpected light filling the room. Ironic that the sun should shine on a day which felt as though the perpetual clouds blanketing the valley had finally smothered her.

With a sigh, she shuffled into the bathroom and splashed water on her face. She scrubbed at her face with the towel and caught her blurry reflection above the sink. She wouldn’t have a better view all day. For a while at least, it was an image Monet would paint, soft and romantic. She wished she could throw the awful contacts away. The world seemed so soft and gentle when she forgot to wear them. Like a friendlier place. Marissa dutifully stuck the cursed lenses in, flinching when they touched her eyeballs. The day was going to suck anyway, so what the hell. Now the face in the mirror was all sharp angles and harsh lines. Not the face of somebody who was still seventeen. More like twenty-four, at least. Maybe it was just the blood shot eyes betraying the insomnia she had suffered these past few weeks. Plus the bouts of crying that still crashed her party without warning.
Depressed
, her mother had declared when she saw her last week.

“Honey, you need to just get over this. He’s not worth it. Once you start school again, you will have more boys following you around than you will know what to do with. Just let him go, already.”

The memory of her mother’s visit put her in an even darker mood. She stepped into the shower and braced against the cool water, wishing she hadn’t gotten out of bed. After she turned the shower off, she stood immobile for a few minutes. There was a familiarity to the sensation of her skin, wet and slick; it drew her back to the crazy dream she’d had nearly every night since she fell asleep on that beach. What
was
it that kept tugging on her mind? An image which wouldn’t leave her alone, one her mind insisted was crucial for her to remember.

The moisture evaporated in the cool air, making her shiver, and she toweled herself off with the thick gray towel she’d splurged on, relishing the moment of luxury. The best part of her day was over already. How to deal with the other fourteen hours or so before bedtime rolled around was the challenge.

She squeezed into a pair of jeans from the top of the pile in the corner without even checking whether they passed the sniff test. The daily details of her life, such as dressing, didn’t seem to matter anymore. No one noticed her, so why should she care? 

In the kitchen, she dragged out the espresso machine; a gift from Drake which he probably figured would save him money, given Marissa’s cappuccino habit. They’d planned to live together the minute she got her diploma so she could bail out of her mother’s condo before either of them went postal. Drake’s father let her move in until they could afford a place of their own. Amy got him a job waiting tables at Othello’s as a favor to Marissa. Some favor. Amy probably started reeling him in when they starting pulling shifts together.

Amy’s face flashed in her mind triumphantly, mocking her. That bitch. If not for her, Marissa would still spend her nights snuggling with Drake. She wouldn’t have these horrible dreams. It was all Amy’s fault. Drake—well, he was only a man, after all. He didn’t have the will to resist, apparently. Maybe no guy would.

Furious about Drake and Amy, Marissa stifled an urge to smash the coffee maker into bits. She hated the damn machine now, hated the apartment, hated her life. She grabbed a book and walked a couple of blocks to the coffee shop to disappear for a while and try to recapture the threads of her dream.

The coffee shop was crammed with people hanging out and yakking, frying her concentration. Indie rock wafted from the speakers. It was as loud as sirens going off in the room. She clutched her latte like a life line and panic welled up as the dream flooded back in:

Light peered through from the sky above as she thrashed in the cold water. Her mouth involuntarily gasped for air, filling with water instead, burning her lungs. Soon, she’d die.

The long-haired guy with sleepy eyes who had taken her order appeared in front of Marissa, startling her. “You need anything?” he asked, flashing a mischievous smile.

She shook her head and glared at him. He gave her a quizzical look, like, “What’s your problem?” Shrugging, he ambled off.

Old blues from the speakers filled the air. She wrestled to gain control again and cast about in her mind for more details. This morning, something was different. Same dream as every night, but when she woke up there was a weird new vibe, intermingled with the usual foreboding. A lingering . . . desire. Which seemed totally bizarre, unless she had a death wish.
Maybe she
was
depressed.