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definitely isn’t it.

7
    Caleb
    “Ain’t She Sweet”
    —The Beatles
    W aking up in a strange place requires a weird kind of detachment, one that takes much less time to develop than you might think. Unless you’ve had your own pillow on your own bed in your own room for any stretch of your life, waking up lying across someone else’s bed doesn’t come as a surprise.
    But when it’s been awhile, when you finally have place to call home after years and years of wishing, waking up in a strange room—especially one that smells like vomit while being ironically filled with pink—can come as a shock. A setback. A spotlight accenting your worst failure.
    Funny how quickly the past revisits itself.
    My eyes blink open, though I’ve barely been asleep for two hours. I know this because the clock on the DVD player shines seven fifteen, and I didn’t make it to the sofa until after five. Sleep isn’t normally a problem for me—at home, eight to ten hours is a normal stretch. But then I’m not at home. I’m at a strange girl’s house. And I mean strange in the literal sense. In the past four hours, she’s kissed me once, tried to slap me twice, yelled at me more times than I can count, and has thrown up on me at least double that. Until two hours ago, I spent the entire night cleaning up her puke. Off her, off her bed, off me. I was covered in so much filth from the waist down that I couldn’t leave. There are a lot of things I’m willing to do—I’ve been to Skid Row, prisons, countless homeless shelters—but sitting my soggy butt in my next-to-new SUV last night wasn’t one of them.
    My gut clenches at the thought, and that’s when I remember. Looking down at the thing I snatched off her hanger and slipped on a couple hours ago, I groan. It’s tight, ugly, makes even me question my manhood, and I’ve got to get it off before—
    “Who the heck are you? And why are you wearing my robe!” A female voice I’ve never heard before unless you count wailing and retching comes from the hallway, and my head spins to find her. She’s fisting an iron candlestick in classic Clue style— the drunk birthday girl did it with the candlestick in the hallway —and looks ready to pounce. This would be a great time to die, but of course I’m not that lucky. I sit up slowly, fighting an unusual wave of embarrassment. It takes a lot to humble me. Just as quickly, my embarrassment fades into irritation. Who’s she mad at? After what she put me through all night, she owes me big time. I give her my best don’t-mess-with-me glare and settle my wrists on my knees.
    “I’m wearing it because cross-dressing is my thing, and sneaking into women’s houses on Friday night turns me on.” Like the jerk I’m being right then, I slowly look her up and down.
    For a second she looks scared. But then the fear fades, and her anger returns. With her matted hair and vomit-stained dress that used to be black but now looks like a weird shade of gray and brown tie dye—disgusting—she looks half insane. When she speaks again, she sounds it, too.
    “Get your eyes off me. And get out of my house.”
    Now I’m mad, and since my track record is way more violent than hers, I’m pretty sure I’m better at it.
    “Get out of your house? I’d love to get out of your house!” I toss my hands in the air and stand, aware that the raised volume of my voice will feel like knives to her hungover head. The fact that I’m still wearing a pink robe with ruffles at the sleeves only feeds my anger. “In fact, I wanted to leave five hours ago. But every time I moved toward the door, you started throwing up again. Did you know that when you throw up, you cry? And your nose runs like a water fountain targeting only my shirt? And you beg for strange men to stay and help you? And you whine for your mommy over and over and over? But of course you have a security code on your phone, which makes it really hard for a guy like me to find her number!” At