Page 2 of When the Lights Come On
I lunge for the lamp on my bedside table—the table that is also my desk, home studio, and partial bookshelf. It’s a tiny-ass room to begin with, and most of it is filled with bulky music production gear, milk crates stuffed with my CD collection, and stray articles of clothing that have found a permanent home on the floor since half my tiny-ass closet is also full of bulky music production gear.
I end up tripping on a milk crate and bashing my shin against the edge of the table before I can reach the lamp. I collapse back onto my twin mattress instead and start swearing as pain ricochets up my leg.
“Uh, everything okay in here?”
The lanky frame of my roommate, Zach, appears in the doorway, lit from behind just like Ingrid. It’s like I’m talking to two faceless alien invaders here to observe my pitiful human suffering.
“Fucking fantastic,” I snap as my shin continues to throb.
He steps forward and feels along the wall beside him before finding the switch for the overhead light. Brightness floods the room, revealing his look of concern, and I immediately regret being harsh. Zach is the human equivalent of a golden retriever puppy, and being even slightly rude to him feels as evil as kicking a baby dog in the face.
Ingrid’s sitting on the end of my bed now, and she looks over her shoulder at Zach. “Did you know Paige owns makeup?”
“Ingrid, fuck off. We have to go. Now.”
Ingrid, on the other hand, I have no issues swearing at. She’s the closest thing I have to a friend, and telling each other to fuck off is a big part of our bond.
Plus, the less said about the makeup, the better. If I wanted people to know I own makeup, it wouldn’t live in a box under my bed.
“Fine, fine.” Ingrid pushes herself to her feet, and her full height leaves her an inch or two taller than Zach. Her lean, rockstar-esque build makes her look even taller. Everything about her is rock star-esque—from the bleach blonde pixie cut to the arms covered in sleeve tattoos to the array of piercings in her ears and face—which is fitting, considering she is in fact a rock star. She plays bass for Canada’s latest hit alt-rock band.
I give my shin a final rub and head over to the black cases propped against the wall beside the bedroom door, thankful for whatever music gods were whispering in my ear when I decided to pack my shit up before getting my makeup out tonight.
“Uh, can you...”
Ingrid rolls her eyes as I trail off. “Yes, I can help you carry your gear. It’s not going to kill you to say the word ‘help,’ you know.”
“I can help too!” Zach’s little blonde puppy ears would be perking up if he were actually a dog. He steps forward and grabs the biggest case before leading the way out of the room.
“I’m sorry I didn’t check on you, Paige. I had no idea you were in there. I was about to head over for your show when...” He trails off and gives Ingrid a look as the two of us follow him to the apartment door with the rest of the gear in hand.
“Ingrid,” she confirms.
“When Ingrid showed up. It’s a good thing she did.”
Ingrid laughs. “You know what he said when I told him I was your friend and that I was looking for you? He said, ‘Paige has friends?’”
She keeps laughing like it’s the best punch line she’s heard all year, but Zach flushes.
“I was just, uh— I mean you’ve never, uh, like...”
I freeze him out with a fake glare for a few seconds before I give in and lift the corner of my mouth.
“Don’t worry about it.”
We’re on better terms now and actually eat dinner together on the couch from time to time, but back when he first moved in, the guy was terrified of me. It’s kind of why I picked him from the potential roommate pool. He seemed the most likely to stay out of my business.
The value I place on people staying out of my business also explains his surprise at me having a friend.
“We good to go?” Ingrid asks after sliding on her Vans. “Do you need to...change, or anything?”
We both appraise my black leggings and over-sized, faded black t-shirt that almost reaches my knees. I grab an equally over-sized black hoodie off one of the outdated brass hooks screwed into the wall by the door. I pull it on, shove my phone, wallet, and keys into the pocket, and then flip the hood up over my head.
“Good to go.”
“You want to complete that outfit with a ski mask?” she asks.
I roll my eyes. “You make that joke every time we hang out. It’s not even funny anymore.”
