Page 101 of My Roommate from Hell
I end the call and catch Zarmenus watching me.
“It’s so cute the way you talk to your parents,” he says. “How are they doing with the whole empty-nest thing?”
“Pretty good, I think,” I say. “They’re eating at a lot of restaurants, which they never used to. Dad always sends me the pictures. How are your parents handling it?”
“Mom never talks about her feelings, so I’m not sure about her. But Dad apparently misses me a lot. He’s started training for the bloody triathlon. It’s one of the hardest physical tests in Hell, and it’s all he talks about now. Hey, is this shirt cute?”
He’s holding up a black shirt that honestly doesn’t look that different from his other black shirts.
“Or I could wear that shirt you gave me,” he says before I can answer. “Yeah, I’ll do that.”
He puts it on, and it makes me laugh. Seeing Zarmenus in linen is something I never expected. He looks so cute, and younger than he usually does. Normally he looks at least a little dangerous, but now he looks surprisingly wholesome.
“Oh shit, we’re going to be late,” he says. “Hurry up and get ready.”
Who is this boy, and what happened to Zarmenus?
Zarmenus lets go of my hand.
We’ve been holding hands for practically the entire day. We held hands all throughout the tailgate, which ended up being really fun. We ate the best chili I’ve ever had, and we weren’t attacked by any demon hunters or bothered by any paparazzi. Now we’re way back in the bleachers of Point’s football stadium, surrounded by a sea of students, waiting for the game to start.
“Bathroom,” says Zarmenus. “Be back soon, babe.”
He plants a kiss on the top of my forehead. Avery, who is seated down the row from us, pretends to gag.
Before the tailgate, we hung out in Tyrell’s dorm room, where he played music and people drank. Zarmenus and I sat side by side on Tyrell’s bed, our hands interlocked. For almost the entire time, we were holding hands. It’s all for our act. But there’s no denying how much I liked it. Even if it’s fake, it’s magical.
“I’m so jealous,” says Tyrell, pulling me from my thoughts and back into the stadium. “I miss Myron.”
As relieved as I am that he believes us, the now familiar sting comes back. Will we even hang out like this once the truth comes out?
I think about telling him the truth, but it’s too risky. Between his social media and the articles that he’s writing for Point, he would be the worst possible person to figure out about our lie. If he chose to, he could spread the word to the entire world in minutes.
“So things are going well?” asks Tyrell.
“Yeah, he’s amazing,” I say. “I’m so lucky. How are you? I love your stories by the way, I read them as soon as they’re posted.”
“Thanks. I’m okay. Truth be told I’m pretty worn out. Leeke’s practically writing everything that gets posted on her own now. It’s not really what I wanted, you know? I feel like I’ve sold out and the worst part is I’m not even getting paid.”
“You could quit?”
“No way,” he says. “This might not be ideal, but it’s for my future. I’m a freshman with national exposure, and last week I had a journalist at theNew York Timesreach out to say how much they love my work. I can put aside my morals if it means I get the future I want.”
He has no idea how much I can relate.
“All right, folks,” calls an announcer, their voice booming around the stadium. “Give it up for the Point cheerleaders and Petey the Piranha!”
The Point cheerleaders run out onto the field to the song “Bat Out of Hell,” but that’s not the thing that’s concerning. It’s thepiranha, who is dressed in a devil costume. He runs out into the middle of the stadium, and is lit by flashing orange lights. The guitars on the song wail, and the routine begins. Petey strums his giant fake guitar while the cheerleaders tumble and flip around him.
Across from me, I see Zarmenus as he returns from the bathroom. He’s now holding two paper cones of bright orange cotton candy, and doesn’t yet seem to have noticed the Hell-themed show going on below. He reaches his seat and offers me one of the cotton candies before sitting.
“For you,” he says.
“Thanks, babe,” I say, trying out the word for the first time.
Avery makes a retching noise. The song switches to “Gives You Hell” by the All-American Rejects.
The cheerleaders have now produced ribbons of red and orange, twirling them around as if to mimic flames. I brace for Zarmenus to be outraged or offended, which he might very well have the right to be.
