The St. Ambrose School for Girls(80)

This freezes me, even as I tell myself I should not be surprised. But I just assumed Greta would play the made-a-pass card, although why should I have underestimated her. Of course, she would take it further.

“That’s a lie,” I say.

I have seen the heartbreak in Strots’s eyes. I can guess the illusion of mutual love Greta engineered, and having to use her own body to do the job would be totally irrelevant to her.

“I thought we were in a relationship,” Strots says as she bends down and untwists the cap of her soda ashtray. “She saw things very differently, at least according to what she told them.”

“Oh, God… Strots.”

“The charge against me—how did they put it? ‘Conduct unbecoming an Ambrose girl.’ I believe that’s the gay part, but it covers the sexual assault, too.” She laughs in a hard rush. “Get this, though—Greta is refusing to press charges.”

“She better not. She’d have to lie to the police.”

“She says she’s too traumatized, and the school wants to cover it up anyway. Oh, and the physical attack downstairs? They didn’t even bring it up. Then again, they have more than enough against me already. Jesus Christ, to think that I nearly killed her and that’s no big deal compared to this school’s Christian values being offended. Unbelievable.”

“When are you leaving?”

Strots laughs again without smiling. “Well, see, that’s the thing. My father being who he is, and that sports center only half finished? They’re ‘meeting’ with him.”

“Who is?”

“The headmaster. I don’t know what’s going to happen. They want me gone, but they like that new weight room and gymnasium and the endowment. They’re going to try to negotiate to keep the project going.”

“So maybe you’ll get to stay,” I say hopefully.

“Doubt it. My father is pissed at me. If the administration doesn’t kick me out, he’ll probably pull me himself.”

As she taps her ashes into the Coke’s narrow neck, I cannot fathom that we will not sit like this ever again. I begin to tear up.

“I tried,” I say as I look down at my shirt, at the black expanse that has been so completely and competently dyed. “I really did. Maybe if I hadn’t bought the ColorStay…”

“What?”

“I doesn’t matter.” I shake my head, and correct myself. “It. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re right about that.” Strots stares out the window, one arm tucked around her middle, the other up on the vertical so that her hand with the cigarette is right by her tanned face. “I really hate her. I really fucking hate Greta Stanhope.”

Strots drops her butt into the bottle and exhales in exhaustion as she looks around. Then she gets up, goes to her closet, and pulls out the camping backpack and the duffel she walked in with that first day.

As she tosses them on her bed, I say, “Why are you packing? You don’t know you have to go.”

My tone is pleading. I feel like a small child, staring up into the face of an adult who has the power to ruin my life.

“Might as well be ready. And I can’t sit still.”

I take care of the stationary side of things while Strots makes an efficient decampment from her bureau, her desk, and her bed. Even as I keep out of her way, I’m participating in the preparation for her departure: I’m the one doing the crying. Tears are rolling off my face and landing on the dyed shirt that did us in.

I’m crying for Strots. For Keisha. For me.

It’s all so wrong. However, I think that Strots wants to leave. Not because she doesn’t like me or love Keisha, but because she’s done with everything here. I can’t blame her.

When my roommate has finished with her packing, she puts her load by the door. “Listen, I have a favor to ask.”

I sniffle and drag my palms down my eyes and my face. “Anything.”

She points to a plate and a chef’s knife that she took out from under her bed and left on the corner of her desk. “Can you return those to Wycliffe tomorrow? I feel bad throwing ’em out. I shouldn’t have taken them in the first place.”

“Yes, of course.”

“Thanks.” She looks at the ceiling. “Anyway, I’m going upstairs.”

As her voice gets rough, more tears fall from my eyes and I wipe my face again, this time on the rough sleeve of the jacket I’ve forgotten to take off.

“What do I do if someone comes for you?” I ask.

I’m thinking of her father. In my mind, Mr. Strotsberry looks like Ronald Reagan but has a temper like Hulk Hogan, and whether I am right or wrong about either, I do not want to have to see him or talk to him.

“You better bring me back down here,” she says. “My father doesn’t know about Keisha.”

In this, I know she’s talking about the relationship, not the friendship.

“Okay.”

She nods and leaves, shutting the door quietly. I panic that we haven’t said goodbye properly, but her stuff is here. She’ll be back for her things. I’ll have my chance, I tell myself.

Then again, knowing my roommate—my ex-roommate—her request to take the plate and knife back and my agreement to do so is going to be the extent of our parting, the mission assigned and accepted, a substitute for the tight, disconsolate embrace I have in mind.