Emma’s Place, Part 1

When I returned to our room this morning she wasn’t there.

Last night, I went to the campus pub to meet some friends. A friend of a friend joined us. He was tall, light-haired, almost blonde, and spoke with the most alluring English accent. When he suggested we repair to my room for a nightcap, I said, “No, I would rather see the etchings in yours.” We laughed, more as a result of the giddiness of anticipation than the humour.

The next morning she wasn’t in our room and her bed hadn’t been slept in. I figured she too had gotten lucky the night before, though not likely with a good-looking Englishman: there were too few of them to go around. I dashed off to class, fifteen minutes late. I regretted my tardiness. We were discussing “Her Story” and the “Yellow Wallpaper,” two of my favourites.

After class, lunch with the girls. 

On my way, I thought I heard them talking about me. As I neared the table they stopped talking. Zoey looked guilty. Zoey always looked guilty. When I sat down they stared at me with – oh, I don’t know – sorrow, pity: something like that. In response I opened my hands palms up, and said, “What?” as I looked from one to the other.

Sybil spoke. “We were saying that you didn’t seem quite yourself of late.”

“Really. Who do I seem?” My response had come out a bit sharper than intended.

Rosemarie explained, “You’re not as perky as usual.”

“‘Perky’! ‘Perky’! Mary Richards was perky. Goldie Hawn was perky. I’m not perky.” My comment left Rosemarie gawping uncomprehendingly at me. You are blanking on the name Mary Richards, aren’t you, Romy. Mary Tyler Moore? The Mary Tyler Moore Show? No? Nothing? I guess you’ll just have to take my word for it: Mary was perky.

“What Romy meant was ‘vivacious,’ perhaps,” Sybil interrupted. 

“Romy needs an interpreter, does she?” I said.

“We’re concerned is all. You seem different. You don’t have as much life, liveliness as you ordinarily do.” Sybil was the alpha female: always had to dominate, always had to be right, always had to be the centre of attention. Most of the time I just wanted her to disappear, her and her green-and-purple hair. With hair that bright you needed sunglasses to look at her.

I decided to play along. “I’ve been a bit under the weather. Maybe a touch of the flu. Or COVID.” Whereupon I faked a cough. Everyone smiled or laughed at my imaginary illness, except Zoey. Zoey probably thought I really did have some dread communicable disease. She was paranoid: always thought someone was out to do her harm.

She was probably right. Who wouldn’t want to harm such an insipid milquetoast? One would need the forbearance of Yahweh not to take offence at someone so thoroughly inoffensive. I coughed again. For Zoey’s sake.

Rosemarie put her two words in. “I’ve heard it’s making a comeback, the COVID.” Romy, Romy, Romy, just because you look a little like Sandra Dee is no reason to dress like her. Who on god’s green earth has worn pleated, knee-length skirts since the 50s? And speaking of “perky”, that peculiar hair-do with the ends curling up like wings, that’s “perky”.

Zoey: “I heard it never left us.”

“Such good ears everyone has,” I said. “As a graceful segue, let me ask: has anyone heard anything from Amelia lately, or seen her?”

“Why, what did you do to her?” asked Sybil accusingly.

“Nothing. What are you implying?”

“Joking, joking.” Sybil held her palms forward in a pacifying gesture. “Cripes, can’t you even take a joke?”

“Yeah, you are quite the wit. I am sure people are constantly confusing you with Oscar Wilde.”

“Who?” asked Rosemarie.

I rolled my eyes skyward. Engineering students! “You should have heard of him, Romy. He wrote the ‘Importance of Being a Chemical Engineer.’ Everyone’s read it. A classic.”

Zoey, the appeaser, brought us back to the main subject. “Why do you ask about Amelia?” she asked me.

“She didn’t come back to the residence last night. I figured she just, you know, met a guy. But I’m not so sure.”

Sybil raised her chin a bit and puffed up her already ample chest, obviously intending to reassert control. Her hair glowed under the fluorescent lights. The colours were ruining my appetite. “‘Met a guy’? Amelia hooking up is absurd.”

“Amelia the virgin,” interjected Rosemarie with a titter.

Sybil gave her a withering glance. “Knock it off. Whether she’s a virgin or the opposite” – here looking at me – “it’s her choice and not our business. I frankly admire her dedication and smarts. No one wants to get into med school more than her and she does the work.”

Rosemarie added, “I thought she wanted to be an architect.”

“One or the other.” Sybil was now talking exclusively to me. “It’s just one night, which is probably a little early to get alarmed, although it is unlike her to act unpredictably.”

“You’re right,” I conceded. “It’s one night. She’s an adult. Plenty of reasons for a single night’s furlough. She’ll probably be back this evening.”

“Did you try her phone?” Zoey asked.

“Golly gee, no, I didn’t. The idea of phoning her, or texting her, or emailing her was just too complicated for me. If only you were around more often to remind me of the obvious.” I knew I should feel guilty about being so abrupt with Zoey, whose nickname (unbeknownst to her) was “Mouse” but I didn’t, even as she visibly shrank in her chair. Mice are made to be stepped on.

“I’ll let you all know if there are any developments.” I rose from my chair. There is only so much green and purple my stomach can stand at lunch time.

“You didn’t eat your sandwich,” said Rosemarie. “Can I have it?”

I stuffed the wrapped sandwich into my backpack. “No.”

As I walked away I heard Rosemarie whisper, “Who’s this Amelia person anyway?”

Sybil shrugged. “Haven’t the faintest idea.”

Zoey: “She left her butter tart. Dibs.”

* * *

Amelia had been back to the room during my absence. Her clothes were still hanging in the closet but the bathroom was emptied of her things, the toiletries, make-up, and the rest. I looked around for a note or a message from her that might inform me of her whereabouts, but nada. Then a loud banging at the door gave me a start.

“Who is it?” I called through the door. 

“Brad.”

My heart sank. What was he doing here? One night together was one night, not a lifetime. Does everything have to be ‘splained to these guys? “Yes, Bradley, how can I help you?” 

“It’s ‘Brad’ not ‘Bradley.’” 

OMG. Brad, Chad, Todd, who cares? Indistinguishable names for indistinguishable boys. I opened the door. “Yes, Bra-a-ad?” I asked, stressing his preferred name.

“I wanted to say hello, see how you were doing,” he said smiling, his ruddy, pimply face lit up like a puppy dog expecting a bone. “Hello. How are you doing?”

“Tip top. Look, Brad. I’m in the middle of something here. So if you don’t mind…”

“In the middle of what?”

This guy could not take a hint. “Not your concern.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“If you must know, I’m looking for my roommate, Amelia. She’s missing. Have you seen her?”

“Have you looked under the bed? That’s where I always lose things,” he said with a laugh. Met only with my glare, he said, “Sorry, I don’t know Amelia. I have never seen her. I didn’t even know you had a roommate.” He looked around, the brightness leaving his face. “How can you have a roommate? This room is only a single.”

“Obviously it’s not. If it was a single, how could I have a roommate? Now if you’ll excuse me. I have to find her.”

Bradley evidently got the message at last. He started to back out the door with a puzzled look on his face, which made me feel a touch of sympathy for him. “Hold on. I’m on my way out. I’ll go down with you.”

“No, that’s okay. Thanks. I have to run, um… Classes.” He turned on his heels and hurried away. 

For the love of all that is holy: you want to see me, you don’t want to see me. Make up your pimply, adolescent, undergraduate mind. I locked the door and walked over to the elevator. Bradley was already gone.

To be continued…

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Read Emma’s Place, Part 2 and Part 3 next.

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In the meantime, enjoy some other fantastic stories from the MockingOwl Roost contributors and staff:

• Mondays – nonfiction
• Anatomy of a Memory, Part 1 & Part 2 – serialized fiction
• The Night You Wanted Money – flash fiction
• Closing Chapter on Friendship: Things I Wish I Had Said
• Epiphany – fiction