Page 12 of Keeper
The tour made a brief stop in the kitchen, where she poured us two shots of vodka, before continuing on to the living room.
“Here’s where you’ll be sleeping,” Marta said, clearing a few magazines and things off of the overstuffed couch. “I’ll get you some sheets and things.”
I set my backpack on the couch. “This is perfect. Thank you.”
“And this eternally shut door,” Marta said, lowering her voice, “is my roommate’s.”
I lowered my voice, too. “Eternally shut? Why, is she never home?”
“Oh no, she’s home. She’s home right now, actually.”
“Oh. Er … okay?”
I didn’t know what to say. Something about the situation was obviously weird—I wasn’t sure why Marta had a roommate in the first place, since she owned the apartment—then again, it wasn’t really my business.
Marta leaned closer and mouthed the words, “She’s a bitch.”
“Ah. Gotcha.”
Marta grabbed my hand. “Come, I’ll show you my room next.”
She led me to her bedroom. The door didn’t open any wider than a foot, so we had to shimmy in.
“Keeps me thin,” she explained.
I stepped in and looked around. Clothes laid in piles around her room like anthills. Shipping boxes—some opened, but most unopened—were strewn about the room, in stacks on the floor, piled on top of her wardrobe, some even on her bed. Dirty dishes cluttered her night stand.
“I see you haven’t changed much since high school,” I said.
“Damn. I was hoping you’d say I’d gotten better.” She covered her mouth and tittered. “How bad is it? Do I need to go on that hoarders show?”
“It’s messy,” I said. “But you could still sort this all out in a single day. I don’t think you’re quite ready for TV just yet.”
She snapped her fingers. “Ahhhh, fuck.”
I laughed. “Wait, are you telling me you wantto be on that show?”
“Ainsley, I’d doanythingto get on TV.”
We shared a hearty laugh. As ridiculous as Marta could sometimes be, at least she could always laugh at herself.
“Ainsley Carter,” she said, as if she couldn’t believe I were standing in her bedroom. “I’msoglad you’re here.”
“Me too,” I said, smiling.
“AndI’m soexcited for you to get to see my world. You’re the first person from back home to come visit me.”
“Really? That’s hard to believe,” I said. Martawasone of the most popular girls in school, after all. While she was my best friend back then, at least twenty other people could’ve probably called her their best friend, too.
She shrugged. “Everyone says the same thing: they’re too broke and too busy with school to travel. Lame. School’s a waste of time, if you ask me. The degrees they hand out aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on, let alone the tens of thousands of dollars you pay for it. The whole thing’s a scam.”
“Yeah, I got that sense from you when we talked on the phone.”
“It’s true, you know. I meant it. You’re a wonderful photographer and you could start making money for yourself this very day, if you just committed yourself to it.”
I demurred. “I don’t know, Marta … it’s not that easy.”
“Actually, it is. Seriously. Look at me—I did it. Don’t get me wrong, it took a ton of work. But things are different now—we’re living in a golden age where anyone with an internet connection can make a name for themselves if they justwant itenough. People need to have faith in themselves, put in the work, and justdowhat they want to do. You’re talented enough, Ainsley. You could go pro. Leave the school and the soul-sucking office jobs for the mediocre masses.”
