Will You Won't You Want Me?: A Novel

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Authors: Nora Zelevansky
anticipation of your arrival. Sorry!”
    Fred led Marjorie into a large, open living room and kitchen. Along its seams, original crown moldings bore Art Deco flourishes. Sunlight streamed in from the backyard and fell across polished wood herringbone floors. Apart from some woven tapestries, dream catchers, and pagan good luck amulets hanging about, this apartment was more lovely than any in which Marjorie had lived as an adult. She and Vera had sacrificed niceties—charm, character, space—to live among the beautiful people.
    “This is it! Where the magic happens. What do you think?”
    “It’s really pretty.” Marjorie knew she sounded stiff. She sometimes felt offbeat compared to her old friends, but next to this frenetic bohemian, she was plywood.
    Fred smiled. “Thank you. Or, I should say, my aunt Maggie thanks you. Mags bought this place back in the day, and it turned out to be a good investment. She got transferred to Pittsburgh, and now, here I am! It was paid off years ago, so the rent is mostly a formality, to pay for upkeep. Feel free to look around! By the way, I really admire your hair.” She ruffled her own. “I keep mine short because I can’t figure out how to do it, you know?”
    “Thanks. It’s not much work, once you get the hang of it.” Marjorie crossed to the kitchen window, careful not to knock over the two guitars—an old, loved acoustic and a pink electric—leaning against the sill. The backyard was abundant with hydrangea, honeysuckle, vegetables, herbs, and what looked like blueberry bushes.
    “Roberta is the original farm-to-table chef. It’s her garden.”
    Marjorie had to admit, it was beautiful. That was something, at least. “Oh, by the way, how much is the rent? I realize I never asked.”
    “It would be six hundred a month.”
    Marjorie spun around to face Fred. “Seriously?”
    “Yeah. It’s only fourteen hundred a month total, and you’ll pay less because your room is smaller.”
    “But … I hope you don’t mind me asking, but if it’s so cheap, why do you even want a roommate?”
    Fred laughed loudly, like a pirate. “Good question. I’m trying to make a real go of my music career, so I want to be responsible for as little financially as possible. Very rock n’ roll, right?”
    That explained the esoteric 1970s posters of Joni Mitchell and Harriet King. Marjorie suddenly felt depressed. Would she be obligated to attend sad coffeehouse shows, where her singer/songwriter roommate would sing in falsetto clichés about some greasy-haired, patchy-goateed guy who dumped her?
    Maybe her poker face needed work because Fred said, “We have a practice space. Don’t worry, I don’t ‘jam’ with the band here.” The air quotes suggested a sense of irony, despite the surrounding evidence of goddess worship.
    “Oh, I wasn’t worried,” lied Marjorie. “So, what’s your … day job?”
    “You name it!” Fred leaned against the kitchen island. “I’m a part-time receptionist at Cornerstone Healing down the street—it’s an acupuncture and herbal medicine clinic. I help my brother out at his film company sometimes. And I—OMG. OMG. OMG!” Fred shot up and began pacing like a mental patient in solitary.
    This is it, thought Marjorie. This is when I find out that she’s not just “quirky.” Thanks, Mom. “Are you okay?”
    “I have practice in twenty minutes!”
    “Oh, well, go ahead. I can run upstairs, see the room and I’m good to—”
    “No, you don’t understand. I double-booked. My other job is as a tutor, and I have my first session with this girl in Park Slope today! Also at ten thirty.”
    “Shit. Can you cancel either?”
    “No, we have to learn a new song for a gig this week.” Fred sank onto the tattered couch and closed her eyes, groaning, “Why am I like this?”
    It was funny to be around someone who seemed even less together than Marjorie. “Is there anything I can do?”
    “Really?” Fred sat up. “Thank you!” She leapt

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