Turning

You jolt awake. Your cell phone alarm sounds from under the covers. You blink bleary eyes as you rise fully dressed from your bed. Running a brush through your hair you pad to the bathroom and realize that you’ve already been awake today, at six a.m. when your roommate decided to begin work on his latest Rorschachian mural on the wall of your loft.

You unscrew the cap from the case holding your left contact, inserting first that contact and then the right into your eyes, wincing as you scratch your cornea with a finger nail. You blink furiously, turning away from your roommate to avoid his scrutinizing, bespectacled gaze. You check your white shirt for wrinkles before pulling socks on over the black leather leggings you have just worn in bed for five hours.

In the kitchen, you pull a banana off the shelf, grabbing a Kashi bar and a carton of milk. You have fifteen minutes before class starts and you sit down on the couch to write, pulling your knees up under your chin. Artemis your cat slinks up the back of the couch and curls around your neck, strangling you with his fur.

You hear techno blaring from upstairs and Jack’s footsteps as he races from one end of the loft to the other. Flicking on the television, you track Matthew Fox’s face as he runs across the screen, pursued by something large and black.

You lie back on the couch and stare at the ceiling fan. The front door opens and you flinch.

Molly has returned from New York with four pieces of luggage and an oversized Barney’s bag that she struggles to haul inside. It is raining.

You stand up and gather your books, wrapping a red scarf around your neck. “Bye Mol,” you call over your shoulder as you walk past her to the open door.

You shut the door, consciously leaving it unlocked. A boy passes by your feet and you track him with your eyes. His hair is sticking straight up out of his head and blue. You say, “Paul, give me your umbrella. I’m late to class.”

He grins up at you and shakes his head. “Sorry, duckling, I can’t get this wet,” he explains, pointing up at his hair. “You coming this way?”

“No, asshole. I have class in Walsh,” you say, tapping your foot. “See you for dinner? At Peacock?” Your feet splash on the brick steps as you walk down to Paul’s level. You put a hand to Paul’s face, kissing him on the mouth. He tastes like broccoli, which you find strange because he usually tastes like cinnamon in the morning. You push your orange-flavored gum into his mouth with your tongue. You have five minutes to get to your writing class and you don’t want to call attention to yourself today because you have to make a deal with your professor.

You pull your scarf up over your head as you step over the cobblestones in your patent white flats, careful not to get mud on the faces of the mice printed on their toes. You focus on your feet as you cross the road once, twice, three times.

You see Jasper sitting on his windowsill in Nevils, smoking a joint. He reaches his hand back into his room and pulls out a Colombian flag, which he waves at you. It floats for a second, then is too saturated to move. You look away, moving toward the building. “You’d better hurry, Merrin,” Sam calls as she races into Walsh before you.

What an excellent day for an exorcism.