Page 27 of Room to Breathe

At one point I’d given up, traded my pen out for a pencil, and shaded the entire paper, leaving spots open for stars. I colored in a single shooting star. It was black instead of white, and I had it crashing into the ground, leaving a crater. The side of my hand was black from the transfer. I rubbed at it.

Beau moved his feet out of the sink and filled the jar. He held it up as though examining the clarity of it.

“Best not to think about it too much,” I said.

“You’re good at that,” he returned.

“Rule one,” I said.

He didn’t respond, just took a swig. Then he ripped open a packaged mint and dropped it into the water. I wanted to sayGood call, but I didn’t.

“Better,” he said after his next drink.

“I have to pee,” I said suddenly. It wasn’t a sudden sensation, though. I’d been holding it for thirty minutes.

“Then pee,” he said. “This is the right place for that.”

I sighed. I really didn’t want to. Not even when we were best friends had I peed in the same room as him. But I knew I couldn’t hold it much longer. “I’m going to need you to cover your ears and gola la la.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes, seriously. I don’t want you listening to me pee.”

“It is a natural function. Everyone does it.”

I put my fingers in my ears in slow motion and then in a serious monotone voice said, “La la la.”

“Indy.”

“This ismyrule number one,” I said.

“That we have to plug our ears and sing while the other person pees?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said firmly.

“You’re wasting a rule on this?”

“Not a waste.”

He rolled his eyes but did as I’d instructed. Unlike my la la las, as his continued they became melodic, pleasant to listen to.

“Can you hear me?” I asked as I unzipped my pants in the far stall, which I had locked and triple-checked. He didn’t respond, so either he really couldn’t hear me or he was pretending he couldn’t. The window above the toilet was still open, but I didn’t mess with it. There was obviously nobody out there. I put down a seat protector and sat. It sounded like his melody had turned into an actual song; it seemed familiar, but I couldn’t make out what it was. Maybe what he’d been listening to when he came into the bathroom earlier.

The music. That he’d been listening to. I let out a loud gasp.

“What?” he said. “Are you okay?”

“You punk! Plug your ears and sing.”

“I am!”

“Obviously not loud enough!”

His song became louder.

I finished my task, flushed, and buttoned up, rushing out of the stall and to the sink to wash my hands.

He took his fingers out of his ears and stopped singing. “Did you fall in?”