The Seat Exchange

The natural lighting in the living room was slowly diminishing and, with it, my time to work on the current art show submission. Stealing a moment to stretch my back, I swiped fallen tendrils of hair off of my brow with the back of my hand. I’d been painting since I returned home from a renaissance art history lecture earlier that morning and sitting in a stool was starting to take its toll on me. The paint brush in my hand felt heavy and my eyes were having a hard time focusing on the canvas. Maybe it was time to call it quits for the day.

“Charlotte, care for a snack break?”

Veer, my roommate, materialized behind me in the cat-print apron that Alexandra, my twin sister, and I bought him over the winter holidays last year.

I eyed the bowl in his hands through narrowed lids. “What is that?”

If Veer was aware of my suspicion he didn’t show it. Instead, he stepped closer, placing the contents of the bowl on full display. “A little something I threw together, loosely inspired by a dish I saw on the Food Network last night. Want some?”

I inspected the thick, oatmeal-like slime. Why were there chunks?

Veer’s unnaturally white teeth gleamed at me. It was hard to say no when he had a smile like that. But I had learned better than to accept any more of Veer’s experimental dishes. Despite being an engineering student, Veer had absolutely no interest in technology and spent most of his time in the cramped kitchen of our townhouse apartment. On days where Alex and I barely had the brain power to toast a slice of bread, his passion became a heaven sent. It almost outweighed the rare occasions where he’d transform into a mad culinary scientist and accidentally gave us food poisoning.

Almost.

“Is that gravy?” I asked, eyeing the brown sludge that was dripping off the side of the bowl.

“Something like that.”

“I don’t want to know, do I?”

Veer’s nose scrunched up. “Probably not.”

Before the last word was out of his mouth, a mild scent wafted over and assaulted my nose. The salty, and fishy smell reminded me of wet cat food. That thought alone triggered my gag reflex and I covered my mouth with my wrist, a paint-coated brush hanging limply in my fingers. “That’s not what we’re having for dinner, right?”

“Oh God, no.” Veer waved off the suggestion. “You really think I want to clean up your sister’s barf off of the floor again? I’m going to have Daniel try it when he comes over later.”

Daniel was Veer’s freshman boyfriend of six months. And the only person alive that didn’t refuse to be Veer’s guinea pig when it came to his creative recipes. They had met last year when Daniel had come for a campus tour. Alex and I would often joke that if Veer and Daniel ever broke up, he’d have a hard time finding someone else that would put up with his creations.

“Samosas are in the oven,” Veer called over his shoulder as he returned to the kitchen. “We’re having chana masala tonight,” he paused for a moment before adding in a sing-song voice. “And garlic bread.”

I let out a relieved sigh. “Thank God.”

With cramping fingers, I reached around to untie my own––much less pretty––apron, just as the front door swung open.

“It smells so good in here,” Alex announced, the last rays of daylight filtering through the open door.

Fortunately for her, she only smelt the samosas in the oven and did not get a whiff of Veer’s cat-food-fondue.

“How was French?” I asked, tugging the paint splattered fabric over my head.

“No different than when I took it last year,” my identical twin muttered as she shut the door behind her. Her short mousey brown hair was set in light waves that framed her round face.

“I don’t know why you even bother taking it. You’re already fluent,” I said.

She let out a gentle laugh. “Because it’s my minor?”

Alex had been teaching herself French since she was in high school. She would act like she was simply interested in learning other languages, but I knew it was because she planned on making a break for Montreal, Canada the second she completed her BA in English. If she thought she was leaving me behind, she was sadly mistaken.

Alex lowered her bag onto the carpet before sitting on the L-shaped sectional. “You’re either going to love me, or hate me once I tell you who’s in my French tutorial.”

I blinked at her. “Why would I care about who else is in your French tutorial?”

The people I knew from Fenton University were few and far between. I had a couple of acquaintances that I’d made through classes, but besides that I didn’t really go out of my way to socialize. There was no need when I had my sister and her best friend living with me. That was all the social interaction I needed.

That’s probably not what my parents wanted when they sent us away to have a ’true college experience’.

Alex’s hazel eyes sparkled. “Probably because most people aren’t James Rutherford.”

Saliva caught in my throat, causing me to sputter. “Wh–what?”

She paused for my coughing fit before continuing with a giggle. “Yeah, can’t say I was expecting it either.”

James Rutherford. The demigod of the Fine Arts department. He had been in my printmaking class freshman year and stayed on my mind ever since.

I cleared my throat. “I didn’t think James was fluent in French.”

“Well,” Alex said, propping her legging-clad legs up on the couch. “I wouldn’t say he’s fluent.”

“What can’t that boy do?” I sighed, absentmindedly fiddling with paint tubes.

“Take a hint, apparently.”

When I furrowed my brow in her direction, she continued. “You were practically drooling after him from the moment we arrived on campus. You’re telling me he hasn’t picked up on you liking him?”

“I haven’t given him many reasons to think that…” I replied. Suddenly, watching oil paint dry was the most interesting thing I could do at that moment.

“I’d suggest you get a move on with that then.”

“Why’s that?”

Alex was hauling herself off the couch, bag in hand. “Because a little mademoiselle named Elyna is getting ready to pounce.”

My fingers froze––suspended over the yellow ochre. “How would you know?”

“C’mon Charlie. I’ve only seen arm-touching like that from the girls who visit the Hockey House next door.” Alex ran a hand through her shoulder length hair. “I know what flirting looks like.”

Flirting. The thing I was afraid of doing ever since I got rejected by Samuel Harris in tenth grade. Socialize? Sure, I could do that. Occasionally. But flirt? The thought alone made the back of my neck heat up. How did some girls manage to do it so naturally?

Dismay settled in my chest. “I don’t have him in any of my classes this term.”

“Don’t you see him all of the time in the Arts building?” Alex asked.

All of the time. Being a Fine Arts major, James spent the majority of his days in the studio. Sometimes I’d catch him in the hallway, a freshly cup of brewed dark roast in his hand. It was all he drank last semester. A medium dark roast coffee. No sugar, no milk, and two pumps of hazelnut syrup.

I wanted to slap myself. Of course I’d know James’ coffee order without having said more than a dozen words to the guy.

As I was stewing, Veer entered the room pulling oven mitts off his hands. “I thought I heard my favourite twin come home.”

“I thought I was your favourite twin,” I said with a flat tone.

Veer wrapped his arms around Alex, placing a chaste kiss on her cheek. “You are… when Alex isn’t around.”

“Traitor.”

Alex returned the hug. “Don’t be sour, Charlie.”

“What’s wrong with her?” Veer questioned as if I wasn’t still in the room.

“She’s a little upset about James being oblivious to her non-existent advances.”

“Here we go again,” Veer said, sinking into the couch and kicking his feet up on the coffee table.

“No,” I countered. “Not, ’here we go again’, because nothing is happening. I blew my chances. It’s too late now.”

“Just go up and talk to him,” Alex encouraged, now perched on the arm of the couch.

“About what?”

“It’s not like you don’t have anything to talk about with him. You’re both Visual Art majors. There’s gotta be something. Ask him how his classes are going this semester.”

Veer snapped his fingers. “Ask him if he can teach you a thing or two about pottery. Pretend you need help with a project you’re stuck on. He can sit behind you… guide your hands with his––”

I held my hand up. “This is not a romance movie.”

“Not with that attitude it isn’t.”

Alex breathed out a laugh. “If you’re just looking for an excuse to talk to him, you could always go to my French classes and pretend to be me. Lord knows I could use any excuse to stay home and use that time for anything else.”

Veer pointed a long, tanned finger at Alex. “Now that is a romance movie.”

I snorted despite the intrigue crawling up my spine. “No way. How desperate does that sound?”

“What’s desperate about it?” Veer spread his arms across the back of the couch. “You wanted more opportunities to talk to him. A small, intimate French tutorial would be the perfect opportunity.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“Alex?” I ask, regarding my sister with a probing gaze. “What do you think?”

She regarded me for a moment. Her soft features peered back at me as if she was weighing the pros and cons of having her non-french speaking twin take a class for her. What’s the worst that could happen?

“Yeah,” she said after an elongated pause. “Why not?”

“Alright,” I let out a long breath and paired it with an unsure smile. “I guess I’m officially a French student.”

Alex gave me a pointed stare. ”Tu ferais mieux de ne pas tout gâcher."

I blinked at her. “What does that mean?”

“Oh,” she said, getting up from the arm of the couch and heading to her room. “I’m screwed.”

“Participation isn’t worth that much… is it?” I called after her.

Veer laughed like he had been watching his favourite comedy special before realization dawned on his narrow face. “The samosas!”

Without hesitation, Veer hopped up onto the cushion before leaping over the back of the couch. I heard the oven door creak open seconds after he barreled into the kitchen.

And just like that I was left alone with my festering thoughts in the living room.

Before I could fixate on what I had just agreed to, a bold knock sounded on the front door.

“Veer, is Daniel coming for dinner?” I called, stepping into the open concept foyer.

Without waiting for a response, I swung the door open expecting to see Daniel’s lively, blonde curls and boyish smile. Instead I ended up face to face with one of my least favourite people on campus.

Booker Gauthier.

Booker was the centreman of our university’s elite hockey team, the Fenton Falcons. And unfortunately for me, and the rest of the block, my next-door neighbour. I didn’t know much about hockey––sports in general put me to sleep––but I was sure that Booker’s sheer size was a contributing factor as to why he received such a prominent title.

“What do you want?” I asked, blocking the entrance with my body. Not that it would have done much for me anyways. Booker’s broad build towered over me. His signature backwards cap sat on his head–-a grin plastered across his face, enunciating his sharp jawline.

He leaned on the chipped, cast iron railing with his elbow. “Can’t a guy come over every once in a while and say hi to his favourite neighbours?”

“Get lost, Booker,” I said, moving to close the door. After being his neighbour for the past two years, I was over the pleasantries.

His hand reached out and caught it, his long fingers wrapping around the edge of the faded wood. “You’re not very neighbourly, are you?”

“Being neighbourly went out the window when you decided you and the hockey hoodlums you live with were going to be throwing keggers three times a week since the school year started.”

“Consider it free entertainment?”

“Yeah, the people puking in my petunia bush are really amusing.”

The potted plant in question sat meekly at the base of the porch steps. No matter how much I watered it, the poor thing never looked the same. They were a gift our parents had brought when they had visited sometime during our freshmen year. Alex had suggested I throw them out––on multiple occasions. But I was too proud and dead set on keeping them alive.

“What do you want, Booker?” I asked, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.

His bright smile ramped up a gigawatt. “Funny you should ask. I was actually wondering if you and your roommates would be home tonight.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Are you inviting us to one of your parties?”

“Of course not,” Booker waved off the idea with his free hand. “I was wondering if you’d be around because the home opener is tonight and we’re expecting quite the turn-out. We were wondering if some of the party could make its way to your place.”

“Fuck no.” I tried to shut the door again.

“C’mon.” Booker’s large foot acted as a door jamb. “You don’t even have to be here. I know you hate the smell of weed.”

“Doesn’t stop you guys from hitting gravity bongs right outside our window.”

Booker continued to hold the door open. “What if I invited you to the party tonight?”

“It’s a Wednesday.”

A low chuckle rumbled over my grunting. “Never too early in the week to have a good time.”

“Goodbye Booker!” With one final shove I managed to get the door shut.

I pressed my back against the door, taking in a couple of deep breaths. I exerted way too much energy doing that. Maybe it was time to hit up the campus gym?

“Clearly, that wasn’t Daniel.” Veer stepped out of the kitchen, a plate of samosas in hand.

I allowed myself to sigh. “I really wish it had been.”