English as a Second Language by Megan Crane

Author:Megan Crane [CRANE, MEGAN]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780759512115
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

The doorbell started ringing at seven the next morning. The third time it went off, I stared blearily at the ceiling and realized no one else was going to answer it. Groaning in frustration, I crawled out of bed. I staggered down the stairs in my pajama bottoms and a scruffy T-shirt, my hair no doubt standing on end. I planned to rip into the blurry figure I could see through the glass, and yanked open the door to get started.

“Suzanne.” I stared at her. “It’s fucking seven o’clock in the fucking morning.”

“I need to talk to you,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep at all last night—”

“So my sleep should be likewise disrupted?” I was incredulous.

“Don’t be all sarcastic with me!” she shrieked, throwing her hands up. “I can’t take it! I’m not like you!” She burst into tears, standing there in the doorway.

This is how I knew that I would never be a good person: I wanted to kick her right back out and slam the door. I had to strictly forbid my eyes from rolling into the back of my head. I wanted to rewind and get back in bed and pretend no one was home. I think I would have given anything, at that moment, not to have to deal with Suzanne and her tears.

“Okay,” I said. My stomach already hurt in anticipation of the coming discussion. I rubbed at my eyes. “Okay, Suzanne, stop crying.”

“I can’t,” she sobbed. “I don’t think I ever will.”

“Well, you have to,” I said briskly. “Or we can’t talk.”

I stepped aside and sort of tugged her into the house. I thought that maybe I was getting frostbite on my bare feet, I was half asleep, and Suzanne was still snuffling. The tears were real, I saw, but that hardly made me more sympathetic. What was wrong with me? I wondered. Shouldn’t I have more compassion for my fellow man? That’s what therapists are for, I could hear Michael retort. If they’re not going to pay you, why pretend it’s your job to give a shit? I almost smiled, but figured Suzanne would take it amiss.

“Go up to my room,” I ordered her. “I need to make myself some coffee if I’m going to be at all coherent.” I realized she had yet to apologize for yanking me from my bed. I set my jaw. “Coffee or tea for you?”

“Tea,” Suzanne whispered. “Herbal if you have it.” She might as well have been Dumas’s Camille, about to collapse on her chaise. Just so long as there were no arias, I thought I could just about cope.

“Just go up,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”

She started up the stairs and I went into the kitchen and held my head in my hands. What a disaster. Then I remembered it was Friday, a day upon which I had no classes, and I all but gnashed my teeth. I was tired, damn it. I lived a mostly nocturnal life here. What was more, Suzanne knew that.

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