Page 29 of Dream House
No apartments to be found—at least none within five miles of campus.
Two houses. One is a two-bedroom on East 3rd Street. Right next to the Salvation Army Family Thrift Store. The picture of the house shows a hugeNo Trespassingsign on the front door.
No, thank you.
The next one is a five-bedroom on Girard Park Drive. It has a hot tub and a lap pool. And the rent is about a semester in tuition.
“Maybe if I had twelve roommates,” I mutter to my phone.
Then it hits me. A roommate. Maybe someone near campus is looking for a roommate.
A quick search on Roomies.com is less than encouraging. Too many damn people are looking to rent a room. I thumb past all of those and finally get to the listings of rooms available.
And the third one on the list is a house on St. John Street. Just a half-mile from campus.
The house in the picture looks like it’s seen better days, but the rent is great.
I scroll down, find the contact number and tap it.
I glance up to check on Grayson. He’s making faces at himself in the mirror. The sides of his head are buzzed and the barber is working on the top.
The line rings.
“Hello?” A woman answers. I can hear a loud TV in the background. Cartoons?
“Um… Hi. I’m calling about the room. Is it still available?”
Beep-beep-beep.
I check my phone. Sonofabitch dropped the call.
I punch in her number again. Grayson kicks the barber chair with his heels, making his head bounce around.
“Be still, buddy,” I tell him. “Let the man do his job.”
Grayson stills. The call rings.
“Hi—”
“Hi, sorry about that—”
“You’ve reached Stella Mouton. I’m probably with a client. If you’d like to make an appointment for a cut or color, please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m free…Beep.”
A cut or a color?
“H-Hi…” I stammer. She’s with a client? Not if she works at a salon around here. I know because none of them open until ten. And if she is the rare exception, do her clients watch cartoons at full volume?
I glance back up at Grayson.Then again…
I realize with a jolt the damn voicemail is recording my dead air.
“I… um… I just called about the room, but we got disconnected. I’m a geology student at UL—I’m a senior,” I hurry up and add so she doesn’t think I’m some freshman in the middle of Rush ready to trash her house to impress my future frat brothers. “I’m… kind of in a bind and looking for a place—but it’s nothing bad. My girlfriend and I broke up and… shit, you don’t need to hear that….Um… the name’s Lark. Call me back. Thanks.”
I jab the red circle and contemplate downing the blue cylinder of Barbicide.
“Fuck.”
The barber scowls in profile and Grayson jolts.
