Sarah Mlynowski - Fishbowl

She was waiting for me on the porch of 56 Blake, my new abode, and is now jumping up and down, trampoline-style. “You’re really here!” she says. Jump. Jump, jump. Each jump is punctuated with a clap of her hands. “It’s you!”

I hope she doesn’t lose her footing and topple down the stairs. “It is I,” I answer, and she runs, no, skips toward me. “You must be Allie.”

“That’s me!” Her wide, overjoyed smile overtakes at least fifty percent of her face. “And you’re gorgeous!”

I am? “Thank you.” Terrific. A suck-up.

“And your eyes are so green! They’re like the color of grass!”

“Um…thanks?”

“Mine are blue. And Emma’s are brown. Isn’t that cool? We’re like a rainbow!”

I raise an eyebrow. What in the world is this person rambling about?

“And you have a fish! I’ve always wanted a fish.”

She is referring to the glass bowl I am carrying, which contains one medium-size, mouth-agape goldfish. “You can have mine,” I tell her.

Adam snorts as he walks to the back of the U-Haul. “Don’t take it. She already tried to pawn it off to both me and our parents.”

“Why? What’s wrong with it?” she asks.

“Nothing is wrong with it. My brother makes it sound as if it’s nuclear.”

“She got it as a Valentine’s Day present and has been trying to pawn it off on someone else,” he explains.

“But it’s so cute!”

I watch as Allie pokes the bowl with her—what is that revolting thing? Her finger! It’s her finger! What is wrong with her finger? Why is it bleeding? Is she diseased? “What happened to your hand?”

She hides her hands behind her back. “Nothing. I bite.”

Nail-biting makes no sense. Why would someone mutilate her own body parts? “You did that to yourself? Let me see.”

“No.” She keeps her hands behind her back. “I’m stopping.”

I didn’t mean to offend her, but really, no one should be causing herself that kind of pain. “Good. It’s disgusting.”

“So no one else in your family wants your fish?” she asks, changing the subject.

“I’d take it,” Adam says, “if I didn’t think it was infinitely more amusing to force Jo here to take care of it.” He laughs.

I hate when he calls me Jo. “If it has an unfortunate accident down the toilet, it will be your fault.”

“Poor fish,” Allie says, looking at it as though it was Little Orphan Annie.

“Oh, he doesn’t take it personally,” I say. “He knows I’m not discriminatory—I hate all animals.”

“But I’m sure you’ll like Whiskers.”

Whiskers. What’s a whiskers? My body begins to feel clammy. Any chance her boyfriend is named Whiskers?

“My cat,” she says, smiling. “Adam told you about my cat, didn’t he? You’ll love him. He’s adorable. All black with gold whiskers.”

I swallow. Cat? Allie has a cat? I can’t have a cat. I can’t live in the same vicinity as a cat. I hate cats. They scratch and bite and meow and do nasty things in the moonlight. Terrific. “Um. No one mentioned a cat.”

She giggles.

Dread has manifested itself into a vacuum cleaner, sucking the moisture out of my mouth. Why is she giggling? This is the most horrendous news I have ever heard. I can’t live here. The move is off. Turn the truck around. Back to the parents.

“I’m kidding, Jodine!” she says, and giggles again.

Huh? What? What kind of a sick joke is that? “You’re kidding?”

“I don’t have a cat. Don’t have a heart attack. You just turned white. Are you okay? I’m sorry. I was kidding.”

Kidding? Is this funny? This isn’t funny. Certainly not ha-ha funny. Maybe this is some kind of new Olympic sport, the how-fast-can-she-make-me-dislike-her event. Or maybe all new roommates have to undergo this kind of inane ritual, as though initiating for a sorority. What a way to begin my next life stage. With a heart attack. I hate being teased.

“I’ll take care of the fish,” she says, attempting a peace offering. “I like animals. We’ll keep it in the kitchen. Maybe even think about getting him some playmates. You know, some roomies of his own.” Again, she giggles.

“Okay.” Amity reinstalled. Can I still accidentally drop the fish down the drain?

“What’s up?” she asks my brother as he opens the back of the U-Haul, fish story concluded. “It was nice of you to come help.”

It’s hot. I rub my arm against my hairline and feel beads of sweat. I hate sweat. I have a minor sweating problem. There are certain shirts I cannot wear because I get stains under my arms. It’s because I work out so often. Despite what comedy sketches and character impersonations seem to imply, when your body is accustomed to working out, you break a sweat much faster than if you’re out of shape.

“Not much, Al,” Adam says with a wave. “What’s up with you?”

Allie turns pinkish, possibly at the comfortable way he throws around the name Al, as if they’re best friends. Does she go by Al? When she called, she used the name Allie. But Adam talks to everyone as though they’ve been best beer buds since tenth grade.

“Nothing’s up,” Allie answers, smiling. “I’m just excited that your sister is moving in.”

Is that smile for him or for me? Are they flirting? Oh, God, listening to my brother get it on with my new roommate would be about as pleasurable as having a tooth pulled.

“Don’t say I didn’t try to warn you,” he says. “Jo is a pain in the ass.”

“Don’t call me Jo,” I say. I hate when he calls me Jo.

“Oh, come on, Jo. Al is practically family.”

I hate when he gets like this. But at present, I am unable to publicly be angry with him, as he was decent enough to help me move. “That doesn’t mean that shortening our names should become a tradition.”

“What’s wrong with Jo?” Allie asks.

“I prefer Jodine.”

“If my name were Jodine, I’d prefer Jo,” Adam comments. “What kind of a name is Jodine? What is a Jodine?”

I ignore him as he unloads the boxes off the truck. If I’m going to make him angry, it’s wise to do so after he has unpacked.

“What took you guys so long?” Allie asks, picking up one of my two wicker baskets. “I was getting worried. Did you fly in today?”

“No. I flew in last week. The flight was surprisingly on time. And Mom even remembered to pick me up on time from the airport,” I say to Adam. “But loading the truck took longer than I anticipated.”

Adam shakes his head. “Your new roommate insisted on checking off every item on her list as it entered the truck. And then she double-checked it all. Three times.”

“I had to make sure I didn’t forget anything. And by the way, double-checking three times would imply that I checked it six times, which I most certainly did not.”

“No, it would imply that you’re neurotic, which you most certainly are. So what if you’d forgotten something? You’re not in Siberia. Mom would have brought you it eventually.”

“You are always mocking my list system. Yet you’re the one who is constantly forgetting things, whereas I am on top of things.”

This time, he ignores me. “How’s Marc?” he asks Allie. I deduce that Marc is Allie’s brother. Adam and Allie’s brother were friends in university.

“He’s great. He and Jen just bought their own place. It’s in Belleville, about five blocks from where I live.”

Interesting the way she says where I “live,” not “lived” or where “her parents live.” She obviously considers her Belleville house her home. My parents’ house is just that—my parents’ house. And I’ve been on my own for less than ten minutes.

“His umbilical cord was always sewn on too tight,” Adam says. “At school he drove home every week to see his parents and Jen.” Incredulity is written all over his face, as though he has just realized that Marc’s preferred mode of transportation was his unicycle, or that he ate only food that was beige. My brother, unlike his family-oriented friend, came back maybe at Christmas, if we were lucky enough to be blessed with his company. As soon as he graduated, he moved back to Toronto and rented a place downtown.