Page 17 of The Invisible Roommate

“No,” Emory said, realizing too late that his answer would only elongate an interaction that he sincerely had no time for. What did he care if Marvel was having a birthday party at their apartment? As long as nobody went into his room, it was of no consequence to him. There was a 115 percent chance he would be in this lab anyway.

Marvel went over his plan again, slower this time, using his TA voice.

“Tell them whatever you want. I’m busy right now,” Emory said.

“Word on the street is that you’re working on something new,” Marvel said. This was always his way, preferring to jabber over actually getting anything done.

Emory shook out his cramping hand. “I am.”

“That’s good to hear. We’re getting you back on the right path. None of those wild theories of yours anymore. Pretty late in the game to switch, though, huh?” Marvel asked, though he seemed to already not be listening. Emory suppressed his groan. This was the last topic he wanted to be discussing, and Marvel was the last person he wanted to be discussing it with. “You stressed?”

“How could you tell?” Emory deadpanned.

“You throwing me this party is coming at the perfect time.” Had Marvel believed his own lie? Certainly he couldn’t have been under the impression Emory would ever volunteer to throw a party, let alone a birthday party for him, a man who never wiped the seat after he took a piss. “You’ll blow off a little steam, and we’ll find you a girl and get you laid. You never have anybody over.”

At his assumed heterosexuality, Emory froze. What, did Marvel want to listen in on him having sex next door? Emory shuddered but forced a smile onto his face. “Can we talk about this later? I really need to keep working.”

Marvel nodded, backing toward his own workstation. “You got it.”

Emory mistakenly assumed “later” would never come.

Late on Thursday night, just as he was sneaking out of his apartment to get back to the lab, he ran directly into Marvel, coming as he was going.

“Whoa, there,” Marvel said, smelling of alcohol and some woman’s floral perfume. Clearly, he’d started celebrating his birthday early. “Where you off to in such a hurry?”

Emory came up with a quick lie. “The gas station down the road. My stomach hurts. I think I might have a bug. I need ginger ale and some crackers.” Through his windbreaker, he pressed a hand to his belly, trying to sell it. He shifted his barely zipped backpack behind his legs before Marvel got a look at it.

“Shiiiiiiit,” Marvel said. “Better not be an airborne thing. I don’t want my party canceled because you’re blowing chunks.”

“It’ll be fine. It’s probably just something I ate,” Emory said, though he honestly couldn’t remember the last time he sat down and had a meal. He existed entirely on protein bars and energy chews, which did strange things to his digestive system that one day he’d have to study.

Marvel let out a sigh of relief. Emory recoiled from his rancid-smelling breath. “That’s good. I don’t want my party canceled. Oh yeah, about the party. My dad is taking me golfing tomorrow and then we’re meeting my mom and brother for late lunch at the club.” Marvel always referred to the country club his family belonged to as “the club,” as if it were an on-campus affinity group anyone could join and not some pretentious fortress for North Carolina’s über-rich. He never failed to make Emory feel like some sad street urchin. “I’m going to be out all day. I need you to pick up my cake from the bakery in the afternoon. I can leave you the keys to my truck.”

Marvel had not one but two cars on campus. Clearly, though, he’d forgotten one crucial detail. “I don’t have a license.” Emory’s foster parents hadn’t helped him get a permit, and by the time he was eighteen, he barely thought about driving. All he cared about was going to college and starting over.

“It’s not a far walk,” Marvel said, leaning on the doorframe, which barely contained him. With all the friends Marvel had, Emory didn’t understand why he was asking this of him, of all people. But there was something pitiable and even sweet about drunk Marcus Marvel, and Emory really needed to get to the lab at that point, so despite his better judgment, he agreed.

“I’ll text you the bakery’s address tomorrow.”

Emory tried to get around him, but they were suddenly back at square one. “Where are you off to in such a hurry?”

Uninterested in lying again, when Marvel was obviously just going to forget, he said, “Out,” and left, too excited by that night’s agenda.

By the next evening, Emory had forgotten all about the drunken exchange with Marvel in the doorway. Calendars and conversations were discarded in his brain, replaced with solutions and calculations as he feverishly sought out an innovation before anyone discovered what he was up to.

It was 8 PM on Friday, and Emory was still in the lab, growing frustrated that his fatigued hands refused to move as fast as his mind was firing. Physiology was the study of the human body; he knew all about how it functioned, and yet it constantly worked against him. Still, he pressed on.

Prepared, he had a viable serum and a lab-bred albino mouse to use as a test case. All he needed now was to summon the willpower to pick up the needle. He had done his due diligence. There was very little chance of toxicity. In his gloved hands, the mouse seemed calm.

“Here goes nothing,” he said to the mouse before performing the subcutaneous injection in the loose skin at the back of its neck.

He then returned the mouse to its cage and sat there waiting.

And waiting …

And waiting …

Hours ticked by, and nothing happened. The mouse moved about and drank water like usual. Emory’s eyes grew dry as disappointment swept through his body. Hoping some big mistake stuck out to him, he checked his notes.