Page 50 - WTP Vol. XI #2

Mother, Other (continued from page 38)
sight of him already sitting in Poppy’s chair when
she opened the door.
She left campus in December, rosy in the glow of aced finals and a mysteriously vanished Fred. She returned to the coldest January on record and to Fred hunched over a scratched iBook outside her dorm room.
His head snapped up. His energy evaporated when he realized who it was. “Hi.”
“Did Poppy kick you out?”
“No.” Fred leaned forward, knocking his knuckles against the wall as he scratched the back of his neck. “No, I’m trying to fix some stuff with her.”
“She’s not home right now.”
“I thought she didn’t have class until four.”
“She has a new schedule this semester. She’s blocked off from one to six now. Did she not tell you?”
“We haven’t talked in a couple weeks.” He closed his laptop. “Has she told you anything about me?”
“We don’t really talk. We just exchange schedules.” “But you’re roommates.”
“Poppy takes long showers. Are you going to sit out- side until six?”
“I guess so.”
“That makes me really uncomfortable.” She was get- ting better at this whole college thing. Just last week she asked Poppy not to flick on all the lights at two in the morning to make ramen.
“My bad. Sorry, I’ll go now.” He pressed both palms against the floor and eased himself to his feet.
She watched him go, a lanky figure in an oversized Junior Mathletes T-shirt, as she dug her fingers into her backpack and groped blindly beneath the rubble of crumpled test papers and blunted pencils. “Fuck.”
Fred turned. “Something wrong?” “I lost my key.”
“Oh, shit.” He took a step forward. “What are you go- ing to do now?”
“Wait for Poppy.” 43
He didn’t hide his smile as he slid his back down the wall and sat beside her on the carpet.
He was two years older than her, a math major and the secretary of the student government. He was from Arlington, Virginia, and skipped class once a month to escape home for the weekend. The seven- hour drive was apparently worth it: “I have to go home and remind myself of the swamp. And to de- frost my toes.” He played sax in the school musicals and worked at Goodwill on the weekends. “My full name’s Frederick Olinbach, Jr.”
“Sounds important.”
“It’s not. My parents just have very specific taste in names.”
“I wish my name was as impressive as yours.” “I like your name. It’s musical.”
“I don’t know, with a last name like Olinbach, it might sound okay.”
“Are you saying we should get married?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Are you still going to date my roommate?”
“Well—” “Fred?”
Poppy’s keys dangled in front of their faces, jangling at ear level. Their owner’s head was backlit in the hall light as she stared at the two of them. “Were you locked out?”