“Do you want the logical explanation or the one she gave me?” I ask.
“I think we’re gonna have to kick her out,” Margot says, not answering.
“And the revolving door continues,” I groan.
Margot reaches into her bag and haphazardly takes out a small purple glass pipe we once named Sylvia Plath and packs it with weed. I momentarily consider telling her about the strange message from Zoya but don’t. I’m not sure why; five minutes ago it’s all I wanted to do. Margot and I usually talk about everything. But something about the strange missive makes me quiet.
“She keeps coming home at four a.m., and blasting country music like no one is trying to sleep,” Margot says, then taps the green nugget down into the bowl. A lighter surfaces out of her bag and she uses it to take a hit. As she lets out the smoke, she adds, “Then when I ask her to turn it down, she moves the knob back and forth until I leave. Not to mention all the homeless people she brings around. Can I wake up one morning and not find a stranger on our couch?”
“Actually, most of them are just hippies, not homeless people…” I don’t add that I also like seeing people in our house in the morning; it makes me feel like we are at the center of something. The center of what, I don’t know, but I like it anyway.
“—And why is she running around the house naked?” Margot interrupts.
“Oh. She thinks she has scabies,” I explain. “She’s going to burn all her clothes in the yard.”
Margot hands me the pipe, and I take a drag. “Jesus,” she says.
“I don’t know about kicking her out, though. I like Abby. She’s fun,” I say, letting out the smoke. I hand the pipe back.
Margot takes another hit before answering me. “I knew you would say that. Have you ever stopped to think if you are actually ever having this fun you’re so obsessed with?”
I frown, because obviously I do have fun; if anything, a little too much. Lately, since we both got accepted to the Honors Department, Margot has been getting frustrated that she has to work harder to get an A, and can’t go out with me anymore most nights. She would never admit this to me, but she also doesn’t know how to be subtle, so she might as well have. Not that I care about grades. Who would ever look at them again? A finished degree is all you really need these days, and that’s only if you want a regular job teaching or in an office. If you don’t, you may as well skip the financial burden of school altogether. I would have done this myself if not for the extreme parental pressure to go.
“Let’s just talk to her about it,” I say. Now that I’m feeling more relaxed—likely from the pot—I turn my body to face her. She’s knee-deep in her Art History 101 textbook. Correction: my Art History textbook from the first semester of freshman year, when I still thought I might major in painting. Just try telling a Russian immigrant that bit of news. “She’s probably only worried about scabies because Riley and Jackie had it at their house and she is secretly having sex with Riley. I mean, not so secretly, because it’s fairly obvious. In fact, this whole charade is probably to announce it to the world.”
“So we can add home-wrecker to her list of wonderful attributes.” Margot rolls her eyes, then grabs the pipe and the lighter, which says Gemini on it, and puts it on my windowsill. “Fine. I guess you better hope she doesn’t burn our entire house down,” she sighs with defeat.
“…It’s literally the worst disease in the world!” I hear Abby scream from the other room.
“Should we tell her about cancer? Or AIDS?” I ask, which makes Margot laugh.
As if she knows we are talking about her, Abby opens the door and barges into my room, still naked and holding a giant garbage bag. “Okay, I got all my stuff. I found some gasoline. I have a lighter. I need your clothes now.”
“Uh, no,” Margot says. She turns the page of her art history book from Lucien Freud’s grotesque impressionism to Francis Bacon’s even-more grotesque surrealism. I get a brief surge of excitement, like I always do when I see art to aspire toward, followed by a pit in my stomach, remembering that’s not what I do anymore.
“Margot!” Abby screams, distracting me again from my roller coaster of emotions. It’s hard to think deeply when a naked eighteen-year-old girl is standing in your periphery vision, even if you are straight. “Come on.”
“Do you want to borrow something to wear?” I ask, getting more concerned about her nudity now that it’s in my face. I’ve seen most of my friends naked, but it’s usually at a distance, in some body of water. Up close it’s more uncomfortable. Plus, her body is too perfect; stick thin down to her hips, where she curves out into an hourglass shape before thinning out again at the legs. Perfect, semi-tanned skin, not a blemish or pimple to be seen. I will never be that thin or have blemish-free skin; my hormones are too wacky. Looking at her—or, trying not to look at her—is starting to make me feel as grotesque as Freud’s portraits.
But Margot, who is just as thin from playing competitive soccer all of her life, is only annoyed, not jealous. “Abby, you don’t have scabies,” Margot sighs without looking up. “Just take a shower for once.”
“You definitely can’t burn my clothes,” I tell her, trying to diffuse the tension. “I don’t even have enough money for groceries, let alone a new wardrobe. This shirt is like five years old.”
“That’s my shirt,” Margot says, glancing up at my top, a dark gray v-neck with a tiny pocket. “I got it last year at Salvation Army.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, in that case, it’s probably more than five years old.”
“It’s the only way to get rid of it! Our whole house is probably infected,” Abby whines. She looks back and forth between us with skepticism. “I can’t believe you guys aren’t more supportive.” Her lower lip, which is cartoonishly larger than the top one, so much that you could always see a stretch of cigarette-stained teeth, droops down like a permanent pout. But her eyes, they are wild with excitement. Or no, that’s probably Adderall. We’ve been ingesting a lot of that stuff lately. Half the dollar bills in my wallet are still covered with orange powder at the tips, which has made for some uncomfortable interactions with the baristas at Fuel.
“Fine, don’t believe me,” Abby sulks. “You’ll see soon enough when you wake up itchier than you’ve ever been in your life.” Then she walks off without closing the door.
I get up to close it, then Margot finally looks up from her book. She and I exchange wide-eyed glances.
“God, some people are really hard to live with,” Margot says.
“Isn’t it funny how the people who complain about you not being supportive enough are the ones who totally disappear when you need something?” I ask. “One time I called Abby to pick me up from school when there was a blizzard, and she didn’t even answer her phone. For the rest of the week.”
“Yeah, it’s hilarious,” Margot says flatly. Then she goes back to her textbook, now onto Andy Warhol, the beginning of the end. When art becomes a question instead of an answer. Personally, I would prefer the latter; isn’t life confusing enough without every person trying to decide if something is transcending its own nature? A toilet is a toilet. A chair is a chair. If you think the majority of people can distinguish whether a photo or an object is successful based on the artist’s intentions, then you’ve never been to a DMV. “You know that you don’t have to be friends with everyone who asks you to hang out, right? You’re not in high school anymore.”