I wake up my computer and go to the KREX website, but I can’t find the link to the race. The chat window is located on the bottom right corner of the page. I watch the scrolling conversations. From what I can tell, there are seven or eight other people in the chat room besides Jon_KREX.
My fingers hover over the keys. Before I change my mind, I click the sign-in button and choose a screen name.
IOTR: Is the race still open to entries?
I watch the box. It takes him precisely two seconds to reply.
Jon_KREX: Welcome IOTR! Yes, it’s still open. Hold on. Let me get you the link.
He posts it a moment later.
IOTR: Cool. Thanks.
A few other people in the chat room thank him also.
Jon_KREX: RU a runner?
IOTR: Yep.
Jon_KREX: Good! Cuz you know what rule number one is, don’t you?
I laugh. He’s quoting Zombieland.
IOTR: Cardio.
Jon_KREX: Exactly.
Others chime in and pretty soon everyone in the chat room is talking about the double tap and Woody Harrelson’s quest for Twinkies. Meanwhile, Jon introduces another song, so he’s not participating in the conversation. Someone named Church_Lady mentions Terminator 2, and suddenly they’re all quoting Arnold lines.
Church_Lady: Have you seen it, IOTR?
IOTR: Nope.
Church_Lady: U totally need 2 watch. It’s on PSU Net all month.
IOTR: That’s what I hear.
I double-check that Jon’s still not in the chat room. His last comment has already scrolled off the page. The song ends and now he’s back on the air talking about some band in Seattle.
IOTR: A friend told me I should watch it.
Church_Lady: U definitely should! It’s my fave of all of them.
Viva la Vaughn’s music is loud. I can hear it even though I’ve got headphones on. I get up to close my door and step into my overflowing hamper, scattering dirty clothes on the floor. Oh yeah, I was going to do laundry tonight.
Friday and Saturday nights are the best times to wash clothes because you can usually get a washer and you don’t have to wait for a dryer. In case you’re wondering when the worst time is, that would be Sunday afternoon. Never do laundry in the dorms on a Sunday afternoon. You’ll spend waaaay too much time down there waiting for a spot. And if your clothes are hanging out in the washer for more than, like, five minutes after they’re done, someone will plop them on the center table between the washers and dryers. Meaning everyone who comes in will get a peek at your wet underwear.
I pick up the clothes, grab my detergent pods, and as I turn to go to the laundry room, my computer beeps. I haven’t heard that notification sound before. I set down the hamper and look at the screen. Someone from the KREX chat room has side-messaged me.
When I click open the private window, my breath catches in my throat.
Jon_KREX: Ivy is that you?
How did he figure that out? Was I that obvious? Oh God, he’s not thinking I’m stalking him, is he? I wipe my hands on my pajama bottoms before I type out a reply.
IOTR: Um, yeah.
Jon_KREX: Ivy On The Roof. Clever.
Obviously, not clever enough.
IOTR: Thx for the link about the zombie run.
Being an emoji addict, I have to stop myself from including a smiley-face.
Jon_KREX: NP
I’m not sure whether to head down to the laundry room now or continue the conversation. Maybe that’s all he intended to say.
IOTR: Good show tonight. Good music.
Jon_KREX: Thx
I wait for a moment, but he doesn’t type anything more. Okay then. I can take a hint.
IOTR: Talk to you later.
Jon_KREX: Going out?
Wow, that was a fast reply.
IOTR: Nope. C is gone so I’m studying for a test on Monday. And doing laundry.
I want to ask what he’s been up to. Tell him that I miss him and wish he could come over. When he doesn’t answer right away, I decide not to wait.
The extraordinarily beautiful laundry room (I’m saying that facetiously, because the cement walls are painted this really gross green color and it’s got a low, claustrophobic ceiling) is located in the basement, along with some storage rooms where the housing department keeps extra furniture. Bike storage is down here, too.
A couple of the washers and dryers are in use, but there are plenty of empty ones. Two is my lucky number, so I lift the lid of the second one from the door and dump in my whites. In the next one go my darks. A detergent pod in each and I’m good to go. I like that we don’t have to pay. Guess they include the cost of doing laundry in the housing bill each quarter.
As I exit the laundry room and head for the stairs, an out-of-place sound draws my attention. I hesitate. It’s a scuffling, scratching sound, like an animal. Rats? Or could it be something banging around in one of the dryers?
I jump onto the first stair and look into all the corners. The room at the bottom of the stairs is glaringly bright, but I don’t see anything that could’ve made that noise.
Then I hear it again. Definitely not the dryers, but it could be an animal.
I glance down the long hallway toward the basement door where people bring their bikes in and out. There are several doorways leading into various storage spaces. None of them have actual doors. One of the lights is burned out, so much of the hallway is in shadow. In fact, the brightness here makes the darkness down there seem really dark.
If it’s not an animal, is it a couple hooking up?
“If anyone’s there and you’re just messing around, tell me you’re okay and I’ll leave you alone.” The silence is deafening. Running up to the first landing, I call down. “Okay, I’m going upstairs to get the RA.”
I wasn’t really expecting to hear anything. But there’s another scuffle and then a small cry. Oh my God, is someone in trouble? I’m so pissed off at myself that I left my phone in the room. There is no way in hell I’m going down that hallway unless I know someone’s with me. I take three giant steps up to the next landing and open the door to the first floor residence hall.
“Help! I need help downstairs.” A few people stick their heads out of their rooms. “Hurry! I think someone’s hurt.” I motion for them to follow me but I don’t wait for them.
With my hand on the railing, I practically jump to the first landing again. That’s when I hear the slamming of the basement door. Three more giant steps and I’m back in the basement. Just as I round the corner, a girl stumbles out of one of the storage rooms, her shirt torn, her hair messy. I recognize her—I think she lives on the second floor—but I don’t know her name.
“Please...help me.” She looks like she’s ready to topple over.
I run to her, wrap my arm around her shoulder and usher her toward the stairs. “What happened?”
Multiple sets of footsteps echo in the stairwell, and three students, breathing hard, join us.
“I…I…someone attacked me. Back there. When I was bringing my bike in.” Then she breaks down into gasping sobs.
“What did he look like?” one of the guys says. The girl with them is dialing 9-1-1.
“Um…I…About this tall—” She holds her hand an inch or two over her head.
“Old? Young?”
“I don’t know. A…a student, I think.”