"Please don't say anything weird."
"Your mom loves me, it'll be fine."
"Sam, my mom tolerates you at best, I'm sorry, but you know that."
Sam scoffs and rolls their eyes while I fumble around for my house key.
"At least she pretends to like me which is nice." They lean against the brick wall as I slide my key into the lock.
"I mean yeah, I guess." I say, but I'm thinking to myself how uncharacteristic that is of them to say. Usually they're more confident than that. I didn't think they cared about my mom's approval, at least. I'm sure it's fine.
I finally get the door open and realize why it was locked in the first place because my mom isn't even home. I should have figured, but she's usually already home by the time I am, post-yoga and prepping some sort of wellness detox drink.
"Oh look you don't even have to try to win my mom over."
"Aw, I was kind of looking forward to it." Sam shuts the door behind them and lets their bag slide onto one shoulder.
"You'll live. Just twiddle your thumbs or something out here for a sec because I need to fix my room."
"I've seen trash before; you remember my room the last time you were over."
I'm already halfway down the hallway when I say, "Yeah, but your room's like hoarder chic meets death metal and it fits the vibe."
I can't let them know I live here.
I hear their footsteps behind me in the hall as I shove a pile of clothes, dirty and clean, into my closet, and kick a pair of mismatched shoes under my bed. At least I can thank them for taking their time, I think, tossing fistfuls of random objects into the drawer of my nightstand: headphones, loose hair ties, half-empty bottle of aspirin, a receipt with a poem scribbled on the back. I double check my door to make sure it's not open all the way and do a sweep of my bed, stashing my journal away in another drawer and gently tucking my old tattered stuffed bear into the chest at the end of my bed.
I don't like people knowing my business. Sam and I have been friends forever, yeah, I know, but there're just some things they don't get. Sometimes I don't think we're even remotely on the same wavelength. They're usually so ridiculously confident and coy that it's hard to be real with them, and then when I do try to get on their level and give the same jokes back, they're suddenly all serious? I don't get it, but I love them, so I try to just adapt and play along. It doesn't mean I have to or even can let them in on everything though. I don't even think I understand myself enough to let them in on it. Sometimes I feel like I just woke up on this planet yesterday, like I only just came into consciousness. Meanwhile Sam's been doing this forever. They've known who they are since they were seven. I don't even remember what I was doing at seven, other than playing with Barbies.
That reminds me to tuck away the doll I have standing on my bookshelf.
"Alright, that's it, you can come in."
"Finally." They laugh and crack open the door. "Damn, I guess I haven't been in here in a while. When'd you get the desk?"
"I don't know, maybe like August."
"Oh that must've been right after I was here."
"Yeah I guess so."
"Why don't we ever hang out here, again?"
Uh. "My mom's usually on the phone with some important client. She has weird hours." Not necessarily a lie, not necessarily the truth, either.
"Fair enough." They slide their bag off their shoulder. "Project?"
