Theoretically Speaking

Chapter Three

“I hate college. Actually, I despise it. Do you know what we’re doing, Brooke?” I pointed to my books. “We’re paying an institution to deprive us of sleep, slowly drive us insane, and to obliterate our social life.”

She looked up from the boxes she’d brought over from her parents’, unmoved by my complaint. “By social life, you’re referring to your search for Vince Graham?” For the last week, my social life had, sadly, only consisted of our Saturday yoga classes and the ultimate search for Vince.

“That’s beyond the point. The point being that we’re paying hundreds of thousands of dollars for our untimely death.” My shoulders slumped and I fell back on the couch, ready to give up on my homework. It was only the second week of classes, yet already I had a five-page paper due soon, and a tone of reading get done. Add to that my unsuccessful search for Vince – there were nearly a hundred Vince Grahams listed in the phonebook – and my equally fruitless search for a job.

“Still can’t find him?” Brooke asked.

My shoulders slumped. “You think I’d be here if I had?”

“It’s a sign.”

I rolled my eyes. “You and your stupid signs.” I pulled one of my textbooks up. “You know, some bitch cheated on me during Galk’s exam. He told us about it and made us re-take it right there.”

She lay over on the dark carpet in the middle of the living room. Her head emerged from a tall box. “Really? What happened?”

“Well, I passed. She pretty much hates my guts now.” At least it was the feeling I got as those deathly eyes of hers subjected my body to every possible death scenarios. 

She lay over on the dark carpet in the middle of the living room, her head emerged in a tall box.

About four months ago, I’d convinced my parents that after eighteen long years of caring for me, they should go out and live their lives, which they interpreted as putting our house under my name and moving to a small town in Hawaii after my graduation. And me, bent on being the supportive daughter that could take care of herself, insisted that they do just that and enjoy themselves. Brooke had then moved in with me, wanting to escape her mother and impossible family. But things were less than ideal, even with the mortgage having been paid as of last year. The bills were higher than Everest, aiming to bury my jobless ass to the ground. It was embarrassing. It was painful. It was scary. So much so that I had developed a habit of simply forgetting the mail in the mailbox. Our electricity bill had once accidentally fallen into the garbage disposal. Accidentally, of course.

Brooke had brought in more of her boxes from home this morning, and was sorting through what she needed to be thrown out and what could be kept. There were four rooms in the house and three bathrooms. Brooke had taken the guest room upstairs, and the things kept piling up every week. It was as if she was trying to rebuild the Tower of Babel. With books. Today the piles were happening on the couch beside her. The trash pile was, of course, the smallest. In fact it didn’t even exist. The middle seat was reserved for that purpose, but there was only a Hello Kitty keychain taking up the space.

The rest of the living room was in order. Off to the left was the electric fireplace, above which was a flat screen that I rarely turned on. The small, dusty piano was on the other side, as often used as the television. Well, even less since none of us really knew how to play. My mother had wanted me to learn when I was younger, but I’d never really warmed up to any of the teachers. Let’s just say that after spilling countless drinks or sticking gums on their pianos, none of them wanted to stick around for long.

My mother’s ringtone brought me out of my thoughts. The screen of the phone lit up on the coffee table. Every weekend, my mother made a point of calling and checking up on me: she wanted to know if I had a boyfriend, a job, and if the house was being taken care of.