Page 5 of Caged
“Hey, Viv,” I sniff and wipe at my nose. “When did you get in?”
“A few hours ago, actually. My mom insisted on driving me, so I took advantage of the parental credit card and asked her to take me to the market. Our fridge is stocked, at least,” she offers with a timid grin.
“Thank God for that,” I sigh. “Has Ele arrived yet?”
“She texted me about an hour ago, saying she was almost to campus.”
I nod. “I’m glad one of us will have a car,” I say. “Monroe would have had one too, if she were here – that silver jalopy she inherited from her grandmother – but…”
I can’t finish the sentence, folding in on myself.
“Come on, let’s get out of her room,” Viv coaxes as I fight back a complete breakdown.
“It’s not right, Viv. It’s not right,” I stammer.
“I know, but Monroe must have had her reasons. She’ll resurface at some point, Gabi. She wouldn’t just leave you.”
I want so desperately for Vivienne’s words to be true. Other than that single text back in June, no one has seen or heard from Monroe. I have no idea if she’s still a student at Dornell, or if she managed to complete her classes and exams. Did she fail out? Communication from her became increasingly scant, and by the end of last semester, her presence was a ghost in our group chat.
At first, I chalked it up to her busy schedule and obligations as sorority president, but when weeks passed without a message from her, I could sense that something was off.
Vivienne guides me out into the living room area of our apartment, her delicate hand pressed to the small of my back. We walk over to the window, which has been slid fully open to let in any trace of breeze. Upstate New York is notoriously humid at the beginning of September, the lingering summer weather biding its time until it is replaced by the lashing winds of winter. In a few months, Dornell will be blanketed in newly fallen snow, and this blissful heat, sticky and draining as it is, will feel like a distant fever dream.
We each perch a hip against the ledge to study the commotion below. We’d strategically picked this apartment for its central location smack in the middle of College Avenue and directly across from Tommy O’s, the shitty dive bar that was andstill is the epicenter of nightlife for upperclassmen. The way we squealed with manic exhilaration the day the landlord handed us the keys is cemented in my memory. The people-watching is unmatched. We moved in at the beginning of our junior year, thinking we had won the lottery.
I tear up as I remember the four of us seated along these same windows that semester, two at one, two at the other, watching like vultures as our fellow students queued outside Tommy O’s, hopeful and desperate to be let inside. Our running commentary was judgmental and merciless. We were such assholes. Not about the women, but we couldn’t help but roast all the dickhead frat guys who would saunter up and expect to be let right in as if they were royalty.
At the beginning of that semester, all of us were underage, so we would wait until one of our guy friends took over as bouncer and then dash across the street. He would pretend to check our IDs, a performative show for the boss, then shoo us inside. Once the rank smell of stale beer and bad decisions grew strong enough to singe our nose hairs, we knew we were in the clear.
Vivienne roots around the bag slung over her shoulder and pulls out a box of Parliaments.
“I thought you quit?” I frown.
“I did,” she answers as a cigarette dangles between her teeth. She lights it, taking a long drag, then blows a plume of smoke out the window. I wave it away from my face, disapprovingly. “I’d like to see you try to survive investment banking at Morgan Stanley, Gabi. You’d become a smoker, too.”
“Doubtful. My dad used to smoke,” I say with a shake of my head. “It drove my mom crazy. They would fight about it constantly.”
“Yeah, well, it’s gross. I know,” Vivienne agrees. “But whatever.”
“What does Sophie think about it?”
“We broke up,” Vivienne says with another blow of smoke.
“Oh. I’m sorry,” I stutter, stumbling over my condolences. This explains the smoking. I can see the underlying hurt in her eyes, so I don’t pry any further.
Vivienne shrugs, and neither of us can find the right words to say, so we sit silently and watch the scene unfold below.
The sound of our front door swinging violently open catches us off guard.
“Some help here!” Eleanor groans as she struggles to shove an oversized suitcase across the entryway threshold and into our apartment. Springing to our feet, we run to help her.
“I’ve got more downstairs,” she explains, sprinting back down the two flights of stairs. I follow her as Vivienne pushes the massive suitcase across the linoleum floor.
Ele and I race to unload her double-parked car. I grab as many bags as I can carry and dump them right inside the building door, then run back for more. After several rounds of this frenzied dance, we’ve successfully unloaded her car, and Ele drives off to find street parking. The downside of this place is that there’s no designated parking for building tenants. Monroe was always good about moving her car to avoid getting tickets, but I’m convinced Ele got enough tickets last year to keep the local police force funded for decades.
“Damn, she has a lot of stuff,” I say aloud, sighing as I load myself up with more duffle bags than I can realistically carry. The trudge upstairs feels like I’m training for combat, and I cling to the railing to prevent myself from falling backward. By the time I reach the second floor and door of our apartment, I’m profusely sweating and ready to collapse.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I complain, dropping to my knees as Vivienne rushes to help remove the bags.
