You Must Fall In Love

Chapter Nine

When Christine first heard the term Student Lodge, her mind had conjured up something between a church and a chateau — not that Jen's repeated insistence on Whitetail's cheapness had allowed her much room for imagination. She knew it was dirt-cheap. She knew it was undersized. She knew that barely anyone lived in there.

But still, she had expected something a little less Chinese.

"This is Whitetail?" she asked, staring through the cloud of her breath. "That's not even what the sign says."

It was true. The sign sticking out above the door was a sad jade-green affair, graced with two flaky white koi, a chipped double-prosperity ideogram, and in fading red:

福禄寿酒楼

The building itself was stern, chapped, and vaguely pond-gray. Four balconies stuck out from above, with worn bronze handrails and sliding doors that looked like they hadn't been opened all winter. Christine tried to look through the white curtains, only to realize that a) the snow made that impossible and b) she was being a bit of a creep.

"Well," said Jen, "it flows better than Fortune-Prosperity-Longevity Hotel. Come on, Christine."

"Hold on, ladies," said Uncle Walter, sticking his red face out from under the boot cover. "I just realized, Christine, but don't you have any luggage?"

Jen looked at her with such a hapless expression that Christine burst out laughing.

"No!" she giggled. "I don't have any! I can't... you didn't... oh, come on, you've got to be kidding me..."

Uncle Walter smiled, but blankly, as if cataloging this Gen Z joke for later.

"Christine's going to borrow my stuff for a while," Jen said, wrestling with her keys and phone at the same time. "You know, the skinnier stuff. Older stuff. Stuff that might fit her stuff. Speaking of which, Dad, we need to go home and get some more clothes. I'll explain on the way back."

"Free clothes!" snorted Christine, before dissolving into a fresh round of hilarity.

"Right," said Uncle Walter, walking gingerly to the driver's seat. "Well, whenever you're ready."

The door was bright red and had a slot for mail; it was marked 88 on the front. Jen slid the very large iron key into the ancient-looking keyhole, gave it a cautious twist in each direction, then turned with gusto. The door creaked, groaned, and at last gave way. Christine skipped in as fast as possible, hopping on the rubber mat to get her blood moving, stupid grin still on her numb face.

"No keycard?" asked Christine, shuffling from foot to foot. "Just a key?"

Now that the door was shut and the snow was gone, she could feel the ache in her fingers and a desperate need to find heat, any heat. The fluorescent bulb wasn't cutting it.

"When you're on a budget, you do things old-school," said Jen. "Get your bones warm first. I'll take you up to my room."

"Sure," said Christine, looking around as she hopped. "What's with the carpet?"

"What is with the carpet?" asked Jen. "I don't see anything wrong with the carpet."

"Jen, look at that patch there. There isn't any carpet. It doesn't exist. I can see the floorboards."

"Oh, you're right," said Jen, poking the offending hole with her boot. "Well, out of sight, out of mind, right?"

"In my experience," said Christine, "things go deeper into my mind the less I see them."

The whole place looked like a cottage crammed into an old 70s shopping mall — same crazy angles, same disregard for space. The carpet was rust-red, the jambs and lintels of the empty doorframes were chipped white, and the ceiling was a strange checkered light green, run through with silver lines. It was like the interior designer had been given a handful of cash and a license to do whatever he wanted, only with the weirdest colors imaginable. What with the spastic lightbulb, everything was soaked in a deep shade of yellow that somehow went to brown.

There was a staircase that hinted at mysterious floors above, although the stairs themselves had no sense of mystery whatsoever. The air was ratty and smelt vaguely damp, but at least it didn't smell like old clothes.

As they went up the stairs, Christine looked at the deer stuck to the wallpaper, red stags and brown does over a souring cream white. She ran her knuckles along it, feeling the bumps like pockmarks on the back of her hand.

Mum would hate this place. She would take one look, throw up her hands and drive away to somewhere that she wouldn't have to clean up, muttering excuses about being a busy woman.

Christine grinned.

Even if Rob did live in it, she could probably learn to like Whitetail Student Lodge.