Noelle
Light shines from the living room window facing the street when I walk up the driveway. It’s otherwise dark outside, and my fingers are stiff with cold.
Usually, this would be the kind of early night when I would look forward to getting home. To be greeted by warmth and the smell of food. To be able to rest my limbs on the sofa or at least sit in a chair and slouch over my dinner. To drink something hot and maybe even go to bed early.
It was an exhausting day, however exciting and dreamlike to live through.
But tonight is different. My shoulders tense as the door comes closer. These aren’t the parents I know so well. These are Chloe’s parents, and this is yet another performance after a day spent on stage.
I take a deep breath and feel the cold travel through my mouth and down my throat. Then I release it in a huff, watching the cloud of white fog disperse in the cold light of the porch lamp.
My fingers are rigid around the key as I get it out of my bag and unlock the door. But then there is warm air that envelops me, carrying Chloe’s familiar smell.
Taking off my shoes in the way she taught me, I leave them neatly on the shoe rack, and hang my coat on the hanger. I move in a quiet way, always placing the balls of my feet first, my breathing carefully controlled. I leave my bag out in the corridor before opening the door to the kitchen and living room. It’s a large room that awaits me there, with a tall wooden ceiling and a comfortably worn parquet floor that is warm against my feet.
Chloe’s mother is standing by the kitchen counter to the far left of the door, her posture straight in a stiff way as she wipes the surface. She looks up when I come in, and our eyes briefly lock.
She looks older than the last time I saw her. Which, I know it’s been four years, and I know she’s not the youngest, but it still feels like the ground underneath my feet jerks suddenly as I take her in.
Her hair is streaked with grey now, where it used to be the same full blonde as Chloe’s. Wrinkles of worry seem to have joined the ones I knew from before that I always thought made her look more resolute. Her steely eyes seem to have lost that intensity that always made me a little uncomfortable whenever I caught her before she could start to smile, when she was staring off into the distance, or turned too quickly.
She seems tired now. Like how you feel after several days of straining your body just slightly past the limit without proper rest, when everything starts to grow heavy. She doesn’t look like she expects to be able to rest anytime soon.
Chloe’s father is sitting on the couch in the living room to the right, watching some sports program on the large flat screen. His hair was greying even when I first met him, but now there are no traces of black in it. He’s also started to grow a gut where he used to be very athletic. He’s holding a beer in his left hand, and another empty bottle is already on the coffee table.
My stomach clenches. It’s not like I never saw him drink alcohol before, on weekends when I came over, when Ms Sammons would whip up some fancy dinner that consisted of too many cooked vegetables to be actually tasty. Back then, the parents would always have wine, and sometimes Mr Sammons would also have beer. No, what makes me tense is the context Chloe gave me yesterday.
Her parents stopped talking to each other two years ago. Tensions were there long before then, fights as well, but now they seem to have accepted their incompatibility. They still live together, silently reproachful of each other.
Chloe told me that she stopped talking to her father when he started drinking beyond simple enjoyment. Now, there’s no night he goes without several beers. It’s not like he’s the stereotypical drunk and abusive Hollywood dad, but he doesn’t have to be for it to be awful. He’s the reason Chloe doesn’t like to drink. At parties, she only acts like she’s drinking, and people seem to believe it.
Mr Sammons doesn’t even look in my direction. I’m not sure he’s even aware of my presence, but I guess that makes it easier. Chloe had a lot more to worry about with my parents yesterday than I do today with hers.
She’s still on speaking terms with her mother, although they’re not at all close. I suppose they’re not the kinds of parents who would foster a close relationship with their child. Always away on business trips, reminding her and even me to work hard for school, only gathering for meals if at all.
I walk slowly to the kitchen counter.
“I left a plate for you in the microwave,” Ms Sammons says in a low voice, briefly looking up.
I give a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.” Chloe and I had a whole training conversation where she showed me her usual expressions while talking to her mother, so I kind of know what to do. I hope it looks as natural as when I did it with Chloe watching.
I walk past her to the microwave next to the fridge, and open it briefly, looking at the plate inside. There are clumps of meat there, with an aromatic brown sauce spread over them, alongside potatoes and green beans that seem to have been baked with several spices as well. At a glance, I catch rosemary, and there’s definitely garlic in the smell that rises into my nose. Actually looks pretty tasty, though I have to concede that my past self would have had much less appreciation for the effort that must’ve gone into making this. So I close the microwave again and turn the timer to two minutes. I really feel like having a properly warm dinner.
The tips of my fingers are burning now, as the capillaries stretch back to their normal size, soaking in the heat of the room. With a low sigh, I lean against the counter by the microwave in an attempt to alleviate some of the strain even standing upright puts on my body now. I just want to lie down, but I still have to eat before that, and also study a little. Sure, I already did a lot of studying with Chloe earlier, that’s why I’m so late to begin with, but I should still do a little more, just in case. It’s only seven o’clock. I’ll give myself this week to get used to her general life, and next week I’ll start running in the mornings, like Chloe did before we swapped.
Ms Sammons turns, apparently done with wiping the surface of the counter, and washes the dishcloth in the sink next to me.
I watch her as she scrubs crumbs from the fabric, wrings the cloth and hangs it up to dry over the thin wall between the two sinks. Then she stands there for a moment, her eyes unfocused, seemingly lost in thought.
“How was the trip?” I ask finally, unable to bear the silence longer. My voice is soft in the way you speak when you try to avoid drawing other people’s attention. Mr Sammons’, in this case.
She stills, then looks at me. “Good,” she says, her expression unchanged. “We got the deal through with little complication; it’s in the bag. There’ll be more work over the next few weeks, but we’ll manage.”
Both of them work at the same company. Probably the main reason why they haven’t divorced yet, Chloe said. It would give off a bad impression. She doesn’t know what they do at work, or if they still try to evoke the impression of a happy couple, but she doesn’t want to know, either.
“Did you have a good time?” she asks in turn, changing the subject.
I give a short nod. “Yeah. I read a lot. Cooked some. Took a little break before school started again.”
“Nice to hear.” Her eyes linger momentarily, then she turns the tap to hot and pours dish soap into the sink.
“Any major assignments this semester?” she asks then. “Anything I should know about?”
For a second, I just stare at her, stunned. But then I realise that it’s probably just the way Ms Sammons works. Very to the point. I guess she’s also probably too tired to make friendly conversation, not that that’s something I’m here to do anyway. “I have a partner assignment in history,” I say finally. “Together with Jason Monroe.”
“Not with Vivienne?” Ms Sammons asks with a light frown, her eyes focused on the sink as she starts scrubbing the frying pan. “I thought you were friends?”
“We were assigned our partners by Mr Brady.”
“Oh.” Then, looking up as if trying to see the dark garden through her reflection in the window, “Would I know him?”
I shrug. How would I know? I wonder briefly if my answer to that question could give me away, but then I decide that that’s unlikely to happen. Chloe said they barely had any actual conversations over the last several years.
“I don’t know. He’s a cheerleading base, so he’s pretty big. Blonde hair?” I shrug. “He’s nice, so it’s probably gonna be fun, even if it’s not with Vivi.”
Chloe never calls Vivienne by her full name, even if a lot of the others do.
The microwave dings, and I open the door to retrieve my steaming plate. The smell makes my mouth water in spite of the snacks I had when I studied with Chloe. That’s something I won’t have to worry about, at least. Chloe said she doesn’t really gain weight very easily.
“I’m gonna study,” I say, offering a little smile as I turn away. It’s Chloe’s standard excuse if she wants to get away from her parents, although it’s also mostly true. “Good night.”
“Good night,” Ms Sammons replies, meeting my eyes for a fraction of a second.
From the corner of my eye, I feel Mr Sammons’ eyes on me, but I act like I don’t notice and leave my room.
Weirdly, going upstairs and entering Chloe’s room as if it were my own feels even stranger than talking to her parents on a Monday night. The room is like I left it, the blanket and bedspread laid out tidily over the mattress, the pillows arranged as they’re supposed to be.
In spite of my body practically screaming at me to lie down, I take a seat at the desk. I don’t have any more homework to do for today. Chloe and I did everything together, but I would do well to read up on some of the things I missed.
I push the laptop to the side and get out Chloe’s folders. There are dozens upon dozens of sheets of notes in her neat handwriting, summarising the contents of class as if there was even a sliver of a chance she might forget.
But I never make it to the actual studying. I’ve only started blowing at the first fork of meat and potato when the screen of my phone lights up and it begins to vibrate. I look over and my stomach clenches at the sight of the name that’s written underneath the picture of a girl who’s sticking out her tongue while scrunching up her face.
Vivienne.
I knew this was likely to happen. Vivienne calls Chloe almost daily, and Chloe said that she pretty much always picks up, at least to talk a little. Or they just do their own stuff while they’re on call, without really talking at all. So, sure, I could not pick up and present some elaborate excuse about being in the middle of something, but it would seem weird.
My finger shakes a little as I reach out and swipe up the green camera icon. I pick up the phone as Vivienne’s face appears on the screen, and hold it so that I’m visible for her as well, offering my best smile.
“Hey, giiirl,” Vivienne says, grinning. She’s lying in bed, hair hidden underneath a towel turban, and the perspective of the camera is entirely unfavourable for her face, but she doesn’t really seem to care. “Thought I’d check in and make sure you’re not already back to studying all day.”
My face grows hot, but I don’t think it shows in the low light of my desk lamp and the fairy lights around the room. It’s not like I don’t need to study, though. But she doesn’t know that.
So I offer a crooked grin and tilt the camera so she can see the open folder next to my plate.
“Nooooo,” she yells theatrically, and briefly, I’m worried she might be audible through the door.
Vivienne hesitates. Then she says, in a lower voice, “Oh, your parents are back, right?”
I give a little nod. “Yeah.”
“Same old?” she asks, and I shrug.
“Mum asked who I was doing the history assignment with and she seemed a little bummed out when I told her it wasn’t you.”
I’d meant it as a little joke, because Chloe said they were pretty close, but Vivienne doesn’t seem to pick up on that. Instead of laughing, she frowns.
“Like it would ever make a difference who your partner was if you’re in the group,” she says, and her voice sounds unusually harsh.
To save myself from answering, I shrug and finally put the fork into my mouth.
She gives a dry laugh. “Those two are so undeserving of your presence, you know that, right? They can’t even begin to comprehend just how smart you are.”