I don’t like Greta, either. And I’m also jealous of her.
To amuse myself, and to pass the time, I spool out fantasies of the future, and in each one, Greta is at my disposal: I’m a doctor giving her a terminal diagnosis that includes no hope whatsoever, even for clinical trials. I’m the judge whose gavel sentences her to a death penalty after she drives drunk and kills a family of four on their way home from their oldest son’s high school graduation. I’m the boss who fires her from her dream job, and then the banker who forecloses on her house after she fails to make payments, and finally the mortician who does her corpse’s makeup badly on purpose after she commits suicide due to her financial reversal.
I am karma. I am vengeance. I am a hundred thousand pounds of payback that lands on her head and crushes her.
For once, I am grateful that there is such a thin veil between my imagination and reality. I experience all of these vignettes as if they are actually happening, and I especially enjoy standing over Greta’s cold corpse and smudging her red lipstick so that she looks like a clown who’s wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, everything dragged to one side. Even though my clothes are wet and clinging to me now, I’m bummed as Tellmer Hall comes into view because I have to close the Book of Spite and return it to the library section of Never Going to Happen. These particular flights of fancy felt voluntary and highly satisfying, and I wish I could partner with my madness more often.
As I enter the dorm, I reflexively check my mailbox. There’s a flyer reminding us that Mountain Day is coming soon. From what I understand, Mountain Day is a school-wide day off, called at random by the headmaster. We will know when it occurs because bells will ring first thing in the morning. Instead of attending classes, we climb a mountain, and we therefore must be ready with proper shoe wear and clothing. I’m grateful for the tips, although the idea of hiking up Pennhold Rise, whatever that is, fills me with dread. I’d prefer to stick with our regular schedule. I’m likely in the minority on this.
I’m about to follow in the damp footsteps of the Brunettes up to the second floor when I remember the instructions I was given about the dyeing process. I need salt. I look over my shoulder and see Wycliffe through the wavy glass of the phone room windows. I doubt the kitchen will give me as much as I need. I could go and steal a couple of salt shakers, but I’m not sure how to measure the required dose properly, and after the intense discussion between Roni and Margie over their dye vs. ColorStay donation decision, and the money that they gave me, I feel compelled to do things properly not just to resurrect my clothes, but to honor the two women who were so accommodating of needs I was unaware of possessing.
I look past the stairwell’s banister to a closed door. As the most obvious solution presents itself, I groan, but there seems to be no other avenue. I’m too shy to approach Hot RA about anything, especially after he played chauffeur for Greta, and I have no ties to the married couple on the third floor at all. I need someone who’ll be compelled into service on my behalf, and accordingly, I drag myself to Ms. Crenshaw’s apartment entryway.
Knocking softly, I hope that she is not home, although this is also what I do not want.
The door opens quickly, and there is excited expectation on Ms. Crenshaw’s makeup-free face, as if she’s elated to finally be called upon to residentially advise.
“Sarah! How are you?”
The odor that exudes from the dark interior is musky and thick, as if she eats a lot of takeout and doesn’t open her windows.
“What can I do you for?” she asks as if she hopes the vernacular will make her seem more approachable.
“May I please borrow a cup of salt?” Under the same principle, I hit back with the formal “may” instead of the casual “can” because I want there to be as much distance between us as possible.
“Of course! Come on in! Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
I step across the threshold and am overwhelmed by the amount of fabric hanging everywhere. It’s on the walls, the couch, the armchair, at the windows. Everything is batiked and tie-dyed, the colors discordant, the patterns overlapping, and as if that isn’t enough, Buddhist prayer flags are strung from the ceiling.
And there’s weird incense burning.
“Now,” she prompts. “What can I get you as a snack?”
She is standing next to the galley kitchen, her body tilted forward like she’s in a stiff wind. The anticipation on her face makes me wish I’d just waited to steal some saltshakers at dinner.
“I’m okay,” I say. “Thank you. Just the salt. Please.”
“I have pomegranate juice.”
“I’m allergic.” Even though I’ve never had the stuff before.
“Oh, that’s a shame.” She turns to her countertop with a mournful expression. “It’s so healthy. And I was just making some.”
In the opposite direction from her den of inedibility is a set of floor-to-ceiling shelves, and I look toward them in desperation, like they’re a shoal I can use to climb out of grasping waves.
Behind me, Ms. Crenshaw is opening her cupboards one after the other like she can’t find that which she is certain she has. I have a thought her salt supply is hiding from her. I have no idea what she’s saying, but I think it’s a monologue on the role of vitamin C when it comes to boosting the immune system. I walk over to her library and look at the titles on the spines. There’s a lot on meditation. Mother Nature. Animals on the verge of extinction.
“You’re welcome to borrow anything you like,” she announces right behind me. “Do you have an interest in meditation?”
I nearly laugh in her face. I’m interested in not hallucinating on the sidewalk. How about we start there.
“Thank you for the salt,” I say, holding out my hand.
When Ms. Crenshaw’s eyes drop to my soggy sleeve, I see that I haven’t pulled it back into place. The scars on my wrist are very obvious, and as I yank things down, I have a thought I have just drawn a proverbial circle around them.
Ms. Crenshaw clutches the baggie of white stuff to her chest. “Sarah, I’m here for you. You know that, right.”
I blink. Until now, I wasn’t sure whether the RAs had been told about my “situation.” But as she asks no questions, it is clear a report has been made.
“Thank you.” I put my hand out again. “For the salt.”
She opens her mouth like she wants desperately to jump into my madness and save me from myself. It’s kind of her. But no offense, if Dr. Warten can’t do it with all the pharmaceuticals and talk therapy at the mental hospital, no one who teaches geometry in a prep school is going to get far with a mind like mine.
“I’m always here for you,” she says as she puts the Morton’s in my palms.
As I walk out like I stole the stuff, I wave over my shoulder. I don’t want to be rude, I really don’t, and the fact that she probably gets a lot of hasty goodbyes makes me feel bad for her. But damn.
When I’m back up on the second floor, I take my laundry bag, which is full of bleach-stained yet clean clothes, and slip the dye, the ColorStay, and the plastic baggie of one cup of salt through the aperture created by the drawstring. After I swing the load onto my shoulder, I pick up the worn navy blue backpack that has my geometry and English homework in it. I’m bringing work with me because I anticipate I’ll be down there for a while and I’m never leaving any of my washer and dryer cycles unattended again.