It’s funny seeing Laura in my room for the first time. The way she takes everything in — the books, the CDs and cassettes, my pictures and photos on the wall, the view from my window. The way she sits in my chair with a pillow in her arms and looks at me — looks at me in a way that makes me feel like a stranger in my own room, like it’s really her room.
“Tell me about yourself,” she says.
“Like what?”
“Anything.” She pulls up her leg and hugs her knee.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“Are you in love?”
What? What business is that of hers?
“No.” I’m standing somewhere in the middle of my room and I don’t know what to do. I look at Laura, then away, pull a few leaves off my fig tree. They’re yellow. I should water it more often.
“So, have you ever been in love?” she asks.
There are a couple of leaves lying on the floor. I pick them up and throw them in the wastebasket.
“Have you ever been in love?” she says again.
“I don’t know.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t, that’s why.” So there. But I should be nicer, so I turn and smile at her.
“But you’d know if you were in love,” she says.
“Okay, then, I haven’t.” I go to the bookshelf to get another CD. Laura is looking out the window. “What about you?” I ask.
“I think so, yes.”
I reach for a CD. PJ Harvey, Stories from the City, Stories from the Sea.
“But you’re not sure?”
“Who knows?” She grins.
PJ Harvey. Polly Jean. It’s a nice name.
“Laura’s a nice name,” I say.
“Miriam’s a nice name.”
“Miriam is a boring name.” I put in the CD.
“What do people call you, then?”
“Who?” My CD player always takes a while to find the song.
“Everyone.”
“Miriam.”
“Really? Not Miri?”
“Miri is dumb. What do people call you?”
“Laura. Lala. Mostly Laura.” She looks at me again. “And you...”
“What about me?”
I press Stop, Play, but I can tell from the whirring sound that it’s going to take awhile, that the machine isn’t finding the song.
“You’re a Mi, a Mimi.”
“Mimi sounds like a senile old woman.”
“And Mi?”
Mi? Sounds funny.
“I don’t know. Like what?”
She thinks about it, then she says, “Hello, Mi. How was school, Mi? Look what Mi’s done! Mi’s looking pretty good today.” She stands up, takes the CD case and looks at the photos in the insert. “So, how does that sound?”
I don’t say anything.
“So, Mi, how does that sound?”
“It sounds... nice,” I say.
“Anything can sound nice. How does it sound to you, Mi.”
“Strange.”
“Strange isn’t bad,” she says, as she starts singing along with the words.