Their Paid Girl

Their Paid Girl - Part 30

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          “Joel?” I asked hesitantly, knocking on the familiar dorm room door. “Uhh, it’s Shawna. I was hoping we could talk.”

          There was a scuffling sound from behind the door, but I received no response. I sighed.

          Was he honestly going to ignore me for something I had no control over? It wasn’t my fault that I forgot my own name on a regular basis as soon as Adam was in close proximity. He had some strange, dubious power over me, and for the life of me I don’t know why I’d told him I had a boyfriend just a couple hours ago.

          “Look, there’s nothing going on between me and Adam,” I told the door, feeling a pang at the truth in my words. I also knew perfectly well that Joel could hear me and I felt like an idiot because he wasn’t opening. When there was still no response to my confession, I grimaced and continued, hoping to make him feel better about the whole situation so we could have a face-to-face.

“What you saw there in the café didn’t mean anything," I went on, "That was the first time I talked to him in, like, a week. I swear you have no reason to be angry. And I’m also here for Esther,” I mentioned, hoping maybe a speck of decency might make him relent.

Nothing. “Joel, dammit, stop ignoring me!” I said angrily after a long awkward silence.

          There was definite movement going on in that room, and I was getting a bit tired of speaking to a doorknob. I struggled to remain patient with his melodrama, trying to be understanding. I would probably be pissed too, if I'd seen Adam having a conversation with another girl right after I'd been led to believe that I was meeting just him.

“Joel?” I asked, softening my voice, leaning my forehead against the crack in the frame and ignoring the odd look I received from a guy walking by, “It would mean a lot to me if you opened the door so we could talk.”

          There was a loud sigh from the other side, and then it was flung open. I nearly lost my balance but I clutched the doorway, staring in bewilderment at a short, stocky Jamaican lady holding a laundry hamper and wearing a maid’s uniform, accompanied by a flat expression on her wide face.

          “Can I help you?” she said shortly, looking me up and down and pursing her full lips.

          “You’re not Joel,” I said unnecessarily. My arteries prepared themselves to baptize my face in red again, as I realized that I’d been talking to a door and Joel’s hired maid this entire time.

          “Listen, lady,” said the woman in her rich accent, shifting the basket onto her hip, “You wanna find Joel, you wait fo’ him to find you here,” she said the word ‘here’ like he-ah. “I canna help you.”

          “Thanks,” I muttered, feeling my face blaze as she waddled past me without another glance. “Sorry for the, uh, drama on the other side of the door.”

          “Next time you wanna figure tings out wi’ a man, you make sure it is a man you talkin’ to,” she told me from the threshhold, raising her eyebrows knowingly. And then she left, snapping the door shut.

          I stared at the closed door in confusion, then turned to Joel’s immaculate room. No wonder it was so clean – he had hired help, coming in to keep things neat and tidy for him. I rolled my eyes.

          Rich people. The things they spent money on never ceased to amaze me.

          It occurred to me then, that I was inside Joel’s room without any witnesses. Curiously, and also guiltily, I approached what I knew was Joel’s desk. It was littered with papers and I noticed a brown leather-bound journal lying beneath an old economics paper of his. He’d gotten an eighty, I noticed. That was a fantastic grade, for university.