Prose: “Bridget” by Sam Curreli

I freaking love Fridays. Not because the week is over; not because I can sleep in all I want for the next two days—no. Weekends are lonely. I never know who will be around here. This includes my roommate Rebecca, who, much like my older sister, sometimes likes to pretend I don’t exist. So, I like to pretend I’m busy, too, and make myself scarce.

     But Fridays I can always count on our group getting together for our usual dinner party. And today is no different.

     I sit at the kitchen table, watching Rebecca’s black, wild curls bounce as she whisks pancake batter. Recently, we’ve dubbed Friday as Fun, Fab, Food Fridays, where we try odd cuisines and drinks we otherwise wouldn’t think of trying. Well, since Joey got food poisoning last week from some undercooked gator, we decided to play it safe and go for breakfast for dinner.

     Hello, bottomless mimosas.

     “I mean,” Rebecca says, putting down the batter. She faces me, rubbing her face with her hands. “Maybe I’m just not ready.”

     “Maybe you like him more than you want right now,” I say. “He seems pretty cool.”

     She’s quiet, considering.

     I continue, “So, it’s possible that you like him so much more than you thought—too serious too soon?”

     Rebecca opens her mouth to say something, but the front door swings open and we jump as Joey’s voice booms through the condo.

     “Hello, hello,” he sings.

     “Kitchen,” Rebecca says, stepping out of the room. I hop off my stool and peek over at the pancake mix. It looks fine, but based on Rebecca’s experience with cooking anything other than hot dogs, omelets, and sometimes pasta with olive oil and parmesan cheese, I know better than not to question it.

     “Did you blow up the oven yet?” Jamie asks, laughing as she walks into the kitchen, almost into me. Our shoulders brush and her large, green eyes rimmed with electric purple mascara stare right at me, like she forgot I live here. She flashes a wide, warm smile and playfully says, “Hey, Bridget. How’re you doing?”

     “Not too bad,” I say, returning the smile. I pull at my bike shorts—I meant to change, but ran out of time, I guess—and step back to my place at the kitchen table. “How’re you?”

     “You’re going to laugh. But I started running for my mental health,” she says, picking up the pancake bowl. She stirs it and frowns. “This is way too thick, Becs. And you didn’t even turn on the oven.”

     “Wait, what?” Rebecca hovers by the kitchen entrance, olive skin paling. “The instructions didn’t say anything about the oven.”

     “Oh my God, I was kidding. You cook them on the stove.” Jamie giggles, her nose scrunching.

     Rebecca sighs and settles at the table beside me. Fine lines outline her frown, now accentuated as she chews on her lip. I put my hand on her shoulder and she shivers.

     “Thanks, Bridget,” she mumbles, glancing in my direction.

     “Did you make mimosas yet?” Joey asks from the dining room.

     “You make the mimosas,” Jamie says, running a hand through her platinum pixie cut. “I got the pancakes.”

     “Tyler’s here!” Tyler shouts, slamming the door. I wince and Rebecca sighs.

     “So is Melissa,” Melissa says, leaning against the kitchen doorframe. Her mousy brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail. “Hey ladies, what’s cookin’ good lookin’s?”

     “Not pancakes,” I mutter to the table.

     “We brought the bacon and scrambled eggs,” Melissa says. “Tyler put it all on the table. What can I do?”

     “Make sure Rebecca puts enough booze in the orange juice,” Jamie says.

     “So,” Melissa says, sitting across from me. She flashes a coy smile at Rebecca as she puts the punch bowl and ingredients on our tiny table. “Where’s Mark?”

     “I don’t know,” Rebecca says, cheeks flushing. “I just…”

     “Just?” Melissa says. “He didn’t go ghost on you, right?”

     “No.”

     “She’s having second thoughts,” Jamie and I say at the same time.

     “I like him,” Rebecca says, pouring in vodka.

     “Uhm, that’s not in mimosas.” Melissa pulls the orange juice closer to herself.

     “I figured screw it and go with screwdrivers.” Rebecca dumps the rest of the vodka, filling half the bowl.

     “So, you’re not feeling great about him,” Melissa says. “Right?”

     “I don’t know.” Rebecca puts her palm to her forehead. “Maybe because I like him a lot. I just hate the feeling. It’s so raw, you know?”

     “It’s natural. Those are called butterflies,” Jamie says. “If you want to talk through any of this stuff, I’m here for you, you know.”

     “Yeah. Thanks.” Rebecca smiles and the sadness breaks my heart.

     “Bring us booze!” Tyler shouts. The TV is on and I can hear the beginning of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone playing.

     Jamie snorts, finishing a batch of pancakes as Melissa dumps in the orange juice. The bowl is almost overflowing and Jamie dips in a bourbon glass, filling it, then takes a long gulp. Shuddering, she puts down the glass and smacks her lips.

     “We will be sleeping on the couch tonight,” Jamie says.

     “All of us?” Melissa asks.

     “Unless you want to be the DD,” Jamie says. “That is potent.” She stands and goes to lift the bowl. “Becs, would you please help me bring this to the boys?”

     “Sure,” she says, grabbing glasses.

     “Melissa, would you please watch the pancakes?” Jamie asks.

     “Yeah,” she pops up and heads to the stove.

     I watch them leave the room and then look to Melissa as she flips a pancake. She’ll rarely talk to me, unless Rebecca forces her to make the effort. I used to think she was just shy, but after seeing how she opens up to everyone else, I think she just has something against natural blondes or something.

     Sighing, I stand and glance into the dining room to make sure everything is ready. But, of course, it’s not.

     I head back to the kitchen and yank open the drawer where the utensils usually are, but there is an assortment of spatulas, soup spoons, and tongs instead. Frowning, I open the drawer beside it. The forks rattle slightly inside and I pull out just enough sets before returning to the dining room.

     Rebecca and Jamie walk through, returning to the kitchen, and, once finished at the table, I follow.

     “Did you need something?” Rebecca asks, standing by the drawers. I forgot to close them.

     “No?” Melissa asks. “I thought you left them open.”

     “Nope,” Jamie says. “We didn’t hit up that side of the kitchen.”

     “It must be Bridget,” Rebecca says.

     “Aw,” Jamie says. “Bridget was helping.”

     “Oh my god,” Melissa says, rolling her eyes.

     “You don’t have to talk about me like I’m not here,” I say, standing in the center of the kitchen. “Like, hello, I’m right here.”

     “What?” Rebecca says.

     “I’m sick of you guys blaming weird shit on this ghost. You do know your place isn’t haunted, right?” Melissa turns off the stove. “There’s no such thing.”

     “What do you mean ghost shit?” I ask, frowning.

     “It’s real,” Jamie says. “You don’t remember last month when I fell asleep on the couch—sans blanket—and woke up with one?”

     “That was me,” I say as Melissa speaks over me.

     “It was drunk you in a haze, forgetting you got up and grabbed one while half-asleep,” Melissa says.

     “But you can’t explain the lights and the water turning on and off. The TV channels switching.” Rebecca tugs her hair back and then lets it go, springing open like a stuffed suitcase.

     “Electricity?” Melissa says. “You know, forget it. I don’t want to anger the ghost.”

     Anger the ghost?

     “I’m right here,” I say waving. “This is getting ridiculous.”

     She picks up the pancake platter and walks right through me. She yelps, almost dropping the platter and I inhale sharply, then cough.

     “Hey!” I shout. Rebecca looks around, meeting Jamie’s wide eyes.

     “Did you hear that?” Melissa asks, goose bumps lining her arms.

     “I told you,” Rebecca says, taking the platter.

     “We totally need to get that Ouija board from my brother,” Jamie says, following them into the dining room.

     “I need a drink,” says Melissa.

     I follow them to the kitchen threshold, staring as the five gather around the table. The sixth chair is empty, except for the utensils I set out earlier—no placemat, no plate, no glass. A dark, cold realization hits and I back into the kitchen, using the table to steady myself.

     Tenants from before Rebecca flash through my mind: Bald Bill, the electrician; Nosey Nancy, who couldn’t keep her nose out of her neighbors’ business longer than five minutes; Brian and Adam, the amazing photographer couple who admired the portrait they took of me.

     Was it really a portrait? I close my eyes and all I can see is a small screen on a Cannon showing our couch with a grey smudge in the frame. They were so proud, though.

     But even those memories are hard to hang onto. I struggle to remember more than my first name—if Bridget even is my real name. Other names, random nicknames like Chloe and Betty and Jennifer and Casper and Wendy all bury what I’m really looking for. And when Rebecca inevitably moves out, Bridget will be added to the list smothering what used to make me human.

     I watch Rebecca and Jamie talk and work their way into laughing about an inside joke, forgetting what happened in the kitchen. I can’t help but wonder: Did I have friends like hers, too?

Sam is a graduate of Arcadia University’s MFA in Creative Writing program. By day, she is up well before the sun training for marathons and writing for a stairlift and vehicle lift manufacturer; by night, she is probably asleep before Dracula even considers opening his coffin. Some of her work can be found at Fiction Southeast, Flash Fiction Magazine, and Jitter Press.